It is late November here in Eastern Ontario. A very traditional month for the roots of a seasonal depression that will last for the next few months. November through March are hallmarked not only by early sunsets — allowing for commutes on either end to be in the dark — but also by sunrises and sunsets connected only by vast expanses of grey sky that blur the horizon into nothingness.
So, what better time to launch a creative project in an attempt to quell the midlife brain’s desire for, well… more.
Where do I start? At the beginning? I don’t think the world needs another blog that blames childhood for the outcome of a life. Besides, I don’t think the reason behind the bulk of our problems is how we were raised. At some point, we need to confront who we are and who we want to be.
So let’s start there.
I was 50. It was my birthday when I first heard the whispers — gentle voices telling me I was not happy. They were not specific, though. I could hear what they were telling me, but I did not want to listen. It was like a breeze — not strong enough to rustle the leaves — but it had begun.
I had no idea I was ignoring what would eventually become a tornado ripping through my mental health. I had no idea that sometimes, whispers cannot be ignored. Sometimes, we have to learn these lessons from rock bottom.
The thing is, about most human beings — especially men — is that we try to drown out the inner voice that is desperately trying to guide us with any noise we can find. The midlife male is, when viewed from afar, quite a pathetic creature. Even the most confident, pumped-up version of a middle-aged man, I would argue, is in the middle of an inner civil war.
Argue that point amongst yourselves if you wish. It is purely my opinion, backed up by absolutely nothing. Perhaps it is just my experience, but I am starting to see patterns among my compatriots. Many, if not all of us, have forgotten the dreams we once held closely. The adventures that, in our youth, had loomed around every corner — replaced with long shorts, Reeboks, and trips to Costco.
For me, I was able to successfully mute the whispers until I turned 55. I had five years of finding the noise to squelch the warnings. Then, without warning, the whispers turned to screams.
I can tell you the moment. My wife asked me a question. A single, fairly innocuous question that isn’t worth repeating, but it inadvertently broke the dam that was holding back 55 years of repressed emotions. It wasn’t pretty.
I had gotten so good at repression that it took another couple of years of denial — while I was drowning in depression and anxiety — before I actually sought help. What is even more fascinating is that no one knew. I was able to wear a mask of sanity and calm that was immovable. I functioned.
Only once, while speaking with a good friend, did the mask slip. As she turned to leave, the exhaustion of roleplaying caused my face to fall — completely. My expression emptied. The desolation replaced the false animation I had mastered. She saw it. She understood, but she had to turn away. It was too much to witness.
So I waited. Until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My wife thought I was fine. Or rather, she believed what I performed. The performance had been Oscar-worthy.
But when I finally said the words — “I don’t think I’m okay” — they didn’t come out like I imagined strength sounds. They came out like surrender.
My wife didn’t gasp, or panic, or fix me. She didn’t rush to assure me everything would be all right, because I think she knew I wouldn’t have believed her anyway. She just sat down across from me at the kitchen table and let silence do the heavy lifting. There was a grace in that silence — the kind given to someone on the edge, but who hasn’t quite admitted what they’re falling from.
She quietly asked, “Do you want me to book the appointment?”
Not Do you need help?
Not What’s wrong with you?
Just that. Clear. Direct. Without judgment.
It was, in retrospect, one of the most loving things she ever did. There was no rescuing. Just witnessing.
Men often believe that being seen in their brokenness is worse than breaking. We can handle failure, fatigue, debt, divorce — but to be seen while not okay? That feels like annihilation. So we perform. We power through. We over-function. And we build entire fictional lives carefully designed to distract everyone — including ourselves — from the truth.
The truth was simple: I was not okay. And I had not been okay for a long time.
When I finally tried to say it out loud, it didn’t come out with clarity, or conviction, or even sadness. It came out like defeat.
“I don’t think I’m okay.”
That was it. The bravest sentence I’ve ever spoken sounded nothing like strength. It sounded like surrender.
And that’s the paradox: sometimes surrender is the strongest thing we ever do.
The next morning, there was a printed sheet on my dresser. My doctor’s phone number. A scheduled time. She didn’t ask if I wanted to call. She knew that wanting doesn’t matter when you’re drowning. Action does.
She left the house. No ceremony. No pep talk. She just left the lifeline on the dresser and trusted me to pick it up.
That moment — that simple, quiet act — marked the beginning. There were no fireworks. No dramatic music. Just a phone vibrating in my hand as I tried to find the courage to say it again, this time to a stranger.
“I don’t think I’m okay.”
I didn’t know it then, but this was not the moment I fell apart.
This was the moment I began.