Growing up, I was always told that Black men had to be tough to survive. “Man up.” “Don’t let them see you weak.” “Handle it.” Those words were passed down like family heirlooms, woven into everything I was taught about masculinity, strength, and identity. But nobody ever told me what to do when the weight got too heavy.

In my early twenties, I started having panic attacks that felt like heart failure. I’d be at work, answering emails, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My hands would shake, and the world would blur. I went to the ER twice before someone finally said the word: anxiety.

Even then, I brushed it off. I didn’t want to be “that guy” who couldn’t handle life. So I kept it all inside—the pressure, the fear, the exhaustion of pretending I was okay. I lost a few relationships along the way. People said I was distant, detached, emotionally unavailable. But the truth was, I was just afraid to let anyone see the pain I didn’t have language for.

It wasn’t until my cousin died by suicide that I even admitted to myself that I was spiraling. His death shattered me. He was the one person I thought had it all together—a father, a community leader, someone people looked up to. And he was silently suffering the whole time.

I started therapy two months later.

The first session, I couldn’t even make eye contact. But somewhere between the silence and the tears, I told the truth for the first time: “I’m not okay.”

And that was the beginning.

Therapy taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s freedom. That I didn’t have to carry generations of unspoken pain on my own. That my survival wasn’t just about making it through the day, but learning how to live fully—with softness, honesty, and space for joy.

It took time, but I began rebuilding. I started writing again. I reconnected with my younger brother, who told me that my openness helped him name his own struggles. We talk every week now. I’m in a local men’s group where we talk about grief, identity, and all the things we were told to bury.

There are still days when it all feels heavy. But now, I have a place to put that weight. And I know I don’t have to carry it alone.