It is the middle of Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month, and I am late.
Not because I forgot.
Not because I do not care.
Not because the issue is unimportant.
I am late because I have spent weeks searching for the right words to capture what I am feeling and want to share.
That realization alone says more than anything I could have written on June 1.
For many men—and particularly for Black men—finding the words is often the struggle.
We know how to work.
We know how to endure.
We know how to provide.
We know how to persevere.
We know how to keep moving when everything inside us says stop and the world around us devalues our humanity.
But many of us were never taught how to talk about what hurts.
We were taught to survive it.
From an early age, many Black boys learn that vulnerability can be dangerous. We learn to project strength even when we feel weak. We learn to control our emotions because displaying them can invite judgment, misunderstanding, or consequences. We learn that our value is often tied to what we produce, how much we achieve, and how well we manage adversity.
So we become experts at carrying things.
Stress.
Disappointment.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Grief.
Trauma.
Responsibility.
We carry them quietly.
We carry them professionally.
We carry them successfully.
And because we carry them so well, people often assume the weight does not exist.
Yet beneath the titles, accomplishments, promotions, and responsibilities are men who are tired.
Men who are worried.
Men who are grieving.
Men who are struggling.
Men who are wondering whether anyone would truly understand if they told the whole truth and that manifests in myriad ways.
As a Black man, I have come to understand that mental health is not simply about crisis. It is about humanity.
It is about having permission to be something other than strong.
It is about recognizing that resilience is not the absence of pain.
It is about acknowledging that leadership does not eliminate anxiety.
Success does not erase trauma.
Achievement does not heal every wound.
And strength does not mean carrying every burden alone.
Throughout my life and career, I have known extraordinary Black men who have carried immense responsibilities. Fathers. Grandfathers. Educators. Pastors. Coaches. Business leaders. Public servants.
Many of them served others faithfully while quietly neglecting themselves.
Many were praised for their endurance while suffering in silence.
Many were celebrated for their strength while longing for support.
The tragedy is not that they struggled.
The tragedy is that too many believed they had to struggle alone.
That belief continues to cost us.
It costs us relationships.
It costs us joy.
It costs us peace.
Sometimes, it costs us our lives.
The statistics tell part of the story. The lived experiences tell the rest.
Behind every number is a man who once believed he had to keep it together.
A man who thought asking for help was weakness.
A man who convinced himself that tomorrow would somehow be easier if he simply pushed through today.
This month reminds us that there is another way.
A healthier way.
A more honest way.
A more human way.
One where therapy is not shameful.
One where vulnerability is not weakness.
One where checking on a friend becomes routine.
One where conversations about emotional well-being are as normal as conversations about physical health.
One where Black men understand that seeking help is not surrendering strength—it is exercising it.
Perhaps that is why this post took me so long to write.
Certainly not because I lacked thoughts.
But because this subject deserves honesty.
The truth is that even those of us who speak publicly, lead organizations, manage crises, and guide others are not immune from struggle.
We have moments when we question ourselves.
Moments when we feel overwhelmed.
Moments when we carry more than we share.
Moments when finding the words takes time.
And maybe that is the message.
Maybe Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month is not about having all the answers.
Maybe it begins with having the courage to tell the truth.
So if you are a man (or woman) reading this—and especially if you are carrying more than anyone knows—I hope you hear this:
You do not have to earn the right to be human.
You do not have to prove your worth through suffering.
You do not have to carry everything by yourself.
And you do not have to wait until you find the perfect words.
Sometimes the most important thing you can say is simply:
“I’m not okay.”
Because healing often begins the moment silence ends.
