Dear Men,
Let us talk.
My social media feed has recently been full of messages directed at men. Keep going. Stay strong. Never quit. Build yourself. Take care of your family. Be a man.
There is nothing wrong with any of that. But sometimes I wonder whether we have spent so much time teaching men how to endure that we forgot to teach them what to do when they are breaking.
A few years ago, a close friend of mine seemed to have the kind of life many people would consider successful. A good job, a loving wife and children who adored him. Then, one night, everything changed.
A domestic argument escalated. Words became anger, and anger became violence. Before he knew it, he was fighting for his life after being stabbed. One of the wounds came dangerously close to a vital organ. Somehow, he survived.
That night, he packed a few belongings and left.
When I visited him a few weeks later, he was living in a single room. There was a mattress on the floor, a few utensils in one corner and a shared bathroom somewhere down the corridor.
But what I remember most was his face.
There was still something in his eyes. Not happiness. Not yet. Something quieter. Determination.
He had lost almost everything, but he had not lost the desire to start again.
And he did.
More than a decade later, he owns a home, has a new family and carries a quiet peace that only someone who has survived a storm can truly understand.
He rebuilt his life, one decision at a time.
But not every story ends that way.
I once worked with a man who appeared to have everything under control. He held a senior management position, lived comfortably and had children in one of the city's top schools.
Then came an opportunity at a rival company.
Some colleagues were leaving for better salaries, and he saw his chance. He resigned, expecting his employer to make a counteroffer.
They did not.
They accepted his resignation.
He eventually asked for his job back and was reinstated, but things were no longer the same. The perks disappeared. The confidence disappeared. Somewhere along the way, so did his sense of worth.
The pressure became unbearable.
He eventually took his own life.
That story has stayed with me because it raises a difficult question: How much of a man's identity is tied to what he earns, provides or achieves?
For many men, perhaps too much.
We are raised to believe that a man must provide. He must protect. He must have answers. He must be dependable. Even when he is drowning, he is expected to look like he knows how to swim.
And when the job disappears, the business fails, the marriage ends or the bills pile up, the loss is not always just financial.
Sometimes, a man begins to wonder whether he is still a man at all.
I understand that feeling more than I would like to admit.
There have been seasons in my own life when things fell apart and the stability I thought I had could no longer be taken for granted. Those experiences changed me. For a long time, I carried questions about my worth that had very little to do with who I was and everything to do with what I thought I was supposed to be.
I eventually learnt that rebuilding is not always dramatic.
Sometimes it is simply getting out of bed.
Sometimes it is making one difficult phone call.
Sometimes it is admitting that you are not okay.
And sometimes it is asking someone to sit with you while you figure out what comes next.
We need to make that normal for men.
A man can be tired. A man can be afraid. A man can cry. A man can go to therapy. A man can ask for help without surrendering his dignity.
Because silence is not always strength.
Sometimes silence is simply pain with nowhere to go.
So, dear men, if life has knocked you down, perhaps you do not need to have everything figured out today.
Start with tomorrow.
If you have lost the job, you can rebuild.
If the relationship ended, you can heal.
If the business failed, you can try again.
If you have disappointed yourself, forgive yourself.
And if the weight has become too heavy, tell someone.
There is no prize for suffering alone.
Perhaps that is the thought I want to leave with you.
Your worst season is not necessarily your final season. You may not be able to return to the life you had, but that does not mean you cannot build a life you are proud of.
Sometimes the reset button does not erase the past.
It simply gives you permission to write what comes next.
And as long as you are still here, there is still a next chapter.
