What Kept Me Here

I got really good at pretending I was okay.

Men are taught many things growing up.

Work hard. Be dependable. Protect the people around you. Keep your word. Stay strong when things get difficult.

None of those are bad lessons.

The problem is that somewhere along the way, many of us also learn another lesson-one that is rarely spoken aloud but is reinforced constantly:

Carry your pain quietly.

Don't complain.

Don't burden anyone else.

Handle it yourself.

For a long time, I believed that.

When life became difficult, I convinced myself that the answer was simply to keep moving. Work harder. Train harder. Stay busy enough that I didn't have to think about what was happening beneath the surface.

The truth is that pain doesn't disappear simply because we refuse to acknowledge it. It waits. It settles in the background. It follows us into our relationships, our work, our sleep, and the moments when we finally find ourselves alone with our thoughts.

I've experienced seasons of life where the weight felt unbearable.

One of those seasons happened during my time at Randolph College.

Before I go any further, I want to make something clear.

I love Randolph.

I loved it then. I love it now. It gave me friendships, opportunities, and experiences that helped shape the person I became. It will always feel like home.

But even home can contain difficult chapters.

During my time there, I endured 58 different incidents directed at me. Some were threats. Some were attempts at intimidation. Some were designed to make me feel isolated, afraid, and alone.

I received photos of my mother.

Messages about my father, who was already navigating a disability.

Plush heart toys left behind to mock a heart condition that had already changed the course of my life.

And more times than I can count, I was told that someone was going to kill me.

For a while, the fear became part of my daily life.

There were nights when I would sit alone in my dorm room and cry for hours. Not minutes. Hours.

I was young.

I was scared.

And I was trying to make sense of things that no college student should have to navigate.

Eventually, I would wipe my face.

Straighten myself up.

Walk out the door.

And go about my day.

I'd go to class.

I'd show up to practice.

I'd laugh with friends.

I'd tell people I was okay.

Most days, nobody would have known what was happening behind the scenes.

That's one of the things I've learned about mental health.

The people who appear to be carrying it the best are often carrying the most.

Many of us become experts at survival.

We learn how to function while hurting.

How to smile while struggling.

How to convince the world we're okay when we're anything but.

I've been that man.

The reality is that too many men are carrying things nobody knows about.

They show up to work.

They coach.

They lead.

They provide.

They answer "I'm good" when someone asks how they're doing.

Meanwhile, they're fighting battles nobody can see.

They're grieving.

They're anxious.

They're exhausted.

They're overwhelmed.

And they've convinced themselves they have to figure it out alone.

What ultimately got me through wasn't toughness.

It wasn't pretending everything was okay.

And it wasn't some grand act of resilience.

It was people.

I still remember members of the Randolph community standing in solidarity with me. I remember friends who checked in when they didn't have to. I remember classmates who became brothers.

At the time, I probably didn't fully appreciate what they were doing.

I do now.

Because when life becomes heavy, the presence of another person matters more than we often realize.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that nobody was designed to carry life's burdens alone.

We need community.

We need friendship.

We need people who notice when something isn't right.

We need people willing to ask the second question after "How are you?"

And we need spaces where men understand that vulnerability is not weakness.

It's courage.

For me, running eventually became part of that journey.

Not because it fixed everything.

It didn't.

The miles never erased fear, uncertainty, disappointment, or pain.

What they gave me was space.

Space to think.

Space to reflect.

Space to process things I wasn't yet ready to say out loud.

There is something powerful about putting one foot in front of the other when life feels overwhelming. Every step becomes a reminder that progress doesn't always have to be dramatic. Sometimes survival itself is progress.

Years later, life continued to test me.

Age 18: Coded.

Age 20: Death threats.

Age 22: Attempted suicide.

Age 28: Heart attack.

Age 30: Unemployed.

Every chapter brought its own challenges. Every chapter brought moments when it would have been easier to quit.

Yet here I am.

Not because I was the toughest person in the room.

Not because I had all the answers.

But because people showed up.

Friends.

Family.

Brothers.

The people who reminded me that my story wasn't over.

That's why men's mental health matters.

Not because awareness is trendy.

Not because it's a campaign for a month.

Because there are men reading this right now who are carrying more than anyone around them realizes.

If that's you, hear me clearly:

You are not weak because you're struggling.

You are not failing because you're overwhelmed.

And you do not have to earn support before asking for it.

There are people who care.

There are people who will listen.

And there are people who would rather have an uncomfortable conversation today than attend your funeral tomorrow.

The things we carry become lighter when they're shared.

Not because the burden disappears.

But because we no longer have to carry it alone.

The miles eventually end.

The races eventually finish.

The finish lines come and go.

But the people who walk beside us through our darkest moments leave footprints that last forever.

Never let anyone write your ending.