Introduction: I Thought Silence Made Me a Stronger Man
The one thing I do completely differently from how I was raised is this: I’ve learned to open up and talk about my problems and feelings.
To understand where I’m coming from, you first have to understand that I grew up in the great state of South Carolina.
Now, what does that mean?
For me, it meant growing up around the idea that, as a man, you were supposed to be a man about everything. You handled your problems. You kept your emotions under control. And whatever you were feeling, you figured it out.
You didn’t talk about it.
According to CENTIA Health in 2026, 40% of men surveyed said they had never spoken to anyone about mental health issues they were going through. Some said embarrassment or fear of how others might react kept them quiet.
If There is A Problem, You Handle It Yourself!
For me, though, it goes deeper than that.
I’m a big believer that we are products of our environment. We pick up habits from the people we spend the most time around, sometimes without even realizing it.
Growing up, I saw this constantly from the men around me.
Not to bore you with my entire backstory, but I grew up around some tough uncles, some hard-core male cousins, and men I knew from the streets. They were all different, but many of them seemed to have one thing in common:
If there was a problem, you handled it yourself.
There wasn’t much complaining. There wasn’t much crying. The mentality was basically, “Okay, there’s a problem. How do I fix it?”
Before I knew it, I had adopted the same mentality.
Something happened? Handle it.
Something hurt? Keep moving.
Something was bothering me? Figure it out.
Because if there was one thing I believed growing up, it was that as a man, and especially as a Black man from the South, talking about your feelings could make you look weak.
And I carried that belief for a long time.
Then I started looking at what the research actually says.
A 2025 study available through PubMed Central interviewed 15 Black men who had experienced suicidal thoughts or behavior. The men described expectations of toughness, emotional suppression, and self-reliance as barriers to being vulnerable and seeking support during a crisis.
Now, that’s a small and very specific group, so I’m not going to pretend those 15 men represent every Black man in America.
But their experiences caught my attention because parts of them sounded familiar.
That’s when I came across a term I found interesting: John Henryism.
In simple terms, John Henryism describes a way of responding to chronic adversity by continually working harder, pushing through, and relying heavily on yourself.
And when I read that, I thought:
So that’s what this is?
Because all this time, I thought, No. This is just what makes a man a man.
You’ve heard some version of it before:
“Buck up, Bart!”
Keep going. Handle your business. Don’t complain.
And to be fair, there can be something valuable in resilience and self-reliance. One study of 627 Black Americans even found that higher John Henryism was associated with fewer depressive symptoms.
But at the same time, it was associated with higher allostatic load, basically, the physical wear and tear that can build up in the body from chronic stress.
That part hit me.
The Path To Openness
Eventually, I had to look at what this way of living had done in my own life.
First, there was the stress.
When I was going through something difficult, I wouldn’t talk about it. I would keep carrying it until I reached my limit. And once I reached that limit, the stress didn’t only affect me.
It affected the people around me.
My loved ones.
My friendships.
My relationships.
Second, nobody really talks about how much living this way can harden you.
At one point in my life, I went through something so difficult that I cut myself off from family and friends. I even disappeared from social media for more than 10 years.
Why?
Because I thought I needed to fix everything by myself.
And eventually, I realized I kept repeating the same cycle:
Something hurts → I don’t talk about it → I rely completely on myself → people assume I’m fine → I receive less support → I keep functioning → everyone continues believing I’m fine.
Then something changed.
I met someone along my journey who helped me realize that the way I was handling things wasn’t healthy. I needed to learn how to talk. Not because I was weak, but because I wanted to become better.
Better for myself.
Better for my life.
And ultimately, better for us.
That doesn’t mean I suddenly believe men need to tell everybody their business. I don’t.
And the research isn’t saying that either.
What I’ve learned is something much simpler:
Strength and silence are not the same thing.
I can still be resilient.
I can still be disciplined.
I can still be responsible.
I can still be private.
But I can also have somewhere to take the armor off.
Maybe that’s with your partner. Your brother. A trusted friend. A pastor. A mentor. A support group. A therapist.
Whoever that person is, I’ve learned that carrying everything alone isn’t what makes me a man.
Sometimes, being strong enough to say, “This is what I’m dealing with,” takes a different kind of strength.
And that is something I do completely differently from how I was raised.
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