There are seasons in life when one word keeps circling back into every conversation. Lately for me, that word has been death. Not because I’ve gone looking for it, but because it’s been showing up uninvited, sitting across from me at gatherings, buzzing on the phone at night, even arriving in the eyes of strangers I just met. A father in a coma. A father with ALS. A father whose love was felt but never said out loud. A sister murdered. A friend crushed by loss. The heaviness of it has been relentless. And beneath every story I’ve heard these past weeks, there’s been the same silence pulsing through: men carrying pain they won’t show. Men bottling up tears. Men playing the role of “the strong one,” even when it’s killing them inside.
One of my closest friends called me to tell me his dad had been in a coma for seven weeks. The family was preparing to pull the plug. We talked for hours. He told me he finally understood the saying, “You’re not a man until you bury your father.” And I flipped it on him saying that also , “You don’t realize how much of a kid you still are until you bury your father.” Because that’s the truth nobody admits. No matter how old you get, how many responsibilities you juggle, how far you think you’ve come — there’s something about those final moments with your parents that strips you down and reminds you that deep down, you’re still someone’s child.
He also told me something that hit me in the gut. In 36 years, his dad never once said the words “I love you.” He felt the love, sure, in actions, in presence, in the roof over his head. But the words never came. And after his first stroke, when words were no longer his to give, he simply reached his hand out. That single gesture carried a lifetime of unsaid love. My friend tried to explain how it felt but couldn’t. He broke down mid-sentence, and I told him, “That hand carried 36 years worth of I love yous.” It clicked in his soul. We sat in silence, and in that silence there was grief, but there was also release.
Then there’s another friend, who recently found out his father has ALS. He told me it’s like mourning a man who’s still alive. Every day he watches pieces of his father disappear, and it eats him alive. But instead of sharing the weight, he hides it, because he feels he has to be the strong one, the glue, the protector. He told me he hasn’t cried in front of anyone, hasn’t opened up, because he doesn’t want to “bring the mood down.” That night we hugged, and we cried, and I just listened. And in those tears, I saw again how badly men need permission to simply be.
And then there was the stranger I met, a man whose life reads like tragedy stacked on tragedy: brain tumors, two strokes, the death of his father, the murder of his sister. He’s survived everything, and he still stands with a kind of quiet resilience you’d think could only be born in movies. But when he spoke, it was the same words again: “I have to be strong for my mom and my family.” And I wanted to ask him, “But who is strong for you?”
These stories are heavy, but what’s even heavier is knowing they aren’t rare. They’re everywhere. They’re universal. I’m willing to bet that every man reading this either knows someone who has lived these silences, or has lived them himself. The culture we were raised in — whether Latino, American, African, European, doesn’t matter — repeats the same lie: men must be pillars, men must be tough, men must swallow pain so others don’t see it. And here’s the truth that shatters me: it’s killing us.
And here’s where I need to be personal. To me, it’s an honor when people open up to me about these things. It humbles me every time. I’ve always felt like part of my calling is to create that safe space, to be the person people can cry with, confess to, unload on. People I’ve just met will sometimes tell me their darkest thoughts or biggest fears. I don’t take that lightly — it’s not a burden, it’s a blessing. In my heart I truly believe God put this in me, and this blog, Beyond the Narrative, was born from that same space. It’s where I process the weight people trust me with, where I write so others might feel seen, and where I balance out everything I absorb from these conversations.
I was lucky to be raised in a family where emotions weren’t forbidden. My mom, especially, always allowed me to express myself. She never told me to swallow my tears or “man up.” And at the same time, I watched her and my family suffer from anxiety, nerves, and fear. Seeing that up close at such a young age taught me how real and consuming mental health struggles can be, and it instilled in me a respect for the work it takes to cope. My relationship with God deepened that understanding in ways that go beyond words. Faith gave me language when I didn’t have it. It gave me strength in the moments I felt like collapsing. Between that spiritual foundation and the emotional permission I had at home, I grew up believing feelings are not weaknesses — they are truths to be honored.
Globally, suicide takes more than 700,000 lives every year. It’s one of the leading causes of death worldwide, and men make up the majority of those deaths (Romero-Pimentel et al., 2018). In Mexico, men are over three times more likely than women to die by suicide (González-Orozco et al., 2023). In the United States, men die by suicide at nearly four times the rate of women (CDC, 2023). Different countries, same outcome. Silence is universal, and so is its cost.
What makes it worse is that while women are statistically more likely to attempt suicide, men are more likely to die by it, often because they choose more lethal means and because they delay reaching for help until it’s too late (Puig-Lagunes et al., 2024). And why do they delay? Because we’ve taught them since birth that asking for help is weakness. That vulnerability is shameful. That a man’s worth is measured by how much he can endure without breaking.
But bottling up doesn’t make you strong. It makes you sick. Studies show that suppressing emotions raises stress hormones, increases risks for depression and anxiety, weakens the immune system, and shortens life expectancy (Davila-Cervantes et al., 2024; Valencia et al., 2023). Chronic stress literally rewires the brain, making it harder to regulate emotions, harder to cope, harder to see a way forward. You think you’re holding it together, but inside your body, silence is already burning you alive.
The science is sobering. Research has shown that long-term suppression is linked with higher mortality, especially from cardiovascular disease and cancer (Chapman et al., 2013). Chronic anxiety and unprocessed trauma drive inflammation, raise blood pressure, and increase the risk of heart attacks and strokes (Henein & Munir, 2020). Stress and grief that are hidden don’t just disappear — they carve grooves into your nervous system, changing the way your body responds to every challenge. It’s not just a metaphor when we say silence kills. It’s biology.
And still, we keep pretending. We keep saying, “I’m fine.” We keep swallowing tears when our kids are watching, thinking it will protect them. But here’s what I believe: the most important lesson we can teach our kids is not how to hide, but how to rise. When your daughter sees you cry and then sees you stand back up, she learns that pain is survivable. When your son watches you admit fear and then watches you keep going anyway, he learns that courage is not the absence of tears but the presence of truth. Strength isn’t pretending—it’s letting yourself break and still choosing to rebuild.
I know some people think opening up means letting pain consume you. But it’s the opposite. The only way to move forward is through. That means feeling every emotion fully: sadness, anger, confusion, exhaustion, joy that feels out of place. Whatever it is, you’re allowed to feel it. You must feel it. And then talk it out. With a friend. With a partner. With a therapist. With a stranger. With God. Just talk, bro. Because silence doesn’t heal—it corrodes.
Therapy isn’t a luxury. It isn’t weakness. It’s survival. Research shows that talk therapies like CBT, counseling, or problem-solving therapy don’t just reduce symptoms of depression and anxiety, they save lives (Valencia et al., 2023). Talking gives you tools. It takes pain that feels unnameable and gives it language. It takes grief that feels infinite and turns it into something you can carry one step at a time.
I also know not everyone can afford therapy, not everyone has access. But even then, small things matter. Honest conversations with friends matter. Journaling matters. Support groups matter. Talking to one person who will really listen matters. Finding communities—whether faith-based, cultural, or simply a group of men who meet once a month and drop the bullshit—matters. These things are protective factors. They literally reduce suicide risk (Puig-Lagunes et al., 2024).
And let me say this clearly: if you are a man reading this and you are hurting, you are not alone. If you feel like the darkness is winning, I promise you there is another way forward. If you are in the United States, dial 988 right now. If you are in Mexico, call Línea de la Vida at 800 911 2000 or SAPTEL at (55) 5259-8121. If you’re somewhere else, find the number in your country. Put it in your phone today, before you think you’ll ever need it. Because you never know when you—or someone you love—might. And if you know me personally (or not), know this: it would be my honor to be that someone you call. It doesn’t weigh me down — it reminds me of my purpose.
This isn’t about being dramatic. It’s about survival. And survival doesn’t come from silence. Survival comes from being human. From admitting we don’t have it all together. From crying, raging, laughing, breaking, rebuilding. From telling the truth out loud.
So here’s my plea: Just talk about it, bro. Before it’s too late. Before silence becomes the last word. Because you are still here. And the world is infinitely better with you in it.
If you don’t know where to start, here’s a simple guide: reach out to one person today and tell them how you really feel. Write down the things you’re afraid to say out loud. Block off one hour a week just for yourself. Let your kids see you struggle and get back up again. And most of all, remember that asking for help doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you alive.
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Crisis Contacts
United States:
– Dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
– Text HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line)
– SAMHSA Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Mexico:
– Línea de la Vida: 800 911 2000 (24/7)
– SAPTEL: (55) 5259-8121 (24/7, free)
– Instituto Nacional de Psiquiatría: 800 953 1704
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References
Chapman, B. P., et al. (2013). Emotion suppression and mortality risk over a 12-year follow-up.
Henein, M. Y., & Munir, L. Z. (2020). Chronic stress, cortisol, and cardiovascular disease risk.
Davila-Cervantes, C. A., et al. (2024). Suicide attempts in the adult Mexican population.
Puig-Lagunes, Á. A., et al. (2024). Resilience, emotions, and suicidal ideation in Mexican adolescents.
González-Orozco, J. C., et al. (2023). Incidence of depression and suicide rate in Mexico.
Valencia, P. D., et al. (2023). Depression, suicide attempts, and exposure to violence among Mexican adults.
Romero-Pimentel, A. L., et al. (2018). Completed Suicides in Mexico City 2014–2015.
CDC (2023). Suicide mortality by sex, United States.
WHO (2021). Suicide worldwide in 2019: global health estimates.