The Loneliest Drive: Worth the Drive

For the first time, the passenger seat is empty.

In this deeply personal solo episode of Worth the Drive, Michael opens up about a conversation that too many men never have—mental health.

As Men's Mental Health Month comes to a close, he reflects on the lessons boys are taught growing up: don't cry, be strong, walk it off. He explores how those messages shape fathers, husbands, sons, and friends, often leaving them to carry pain in silence.

Through stories from his own life, his relationship with his father, and the perspective he's gained raising two sons, Michael shares what he's learned about vulnerability, loneliness, masculinity, and the courage it takes to ask for help.

This isn't an episode about having all the answers. It's about starting the conversation.

Whether you're a man who's been carrying more than anyone knows, or someone who loves one, this episode is a reminder that strength isn't found in suffering alone—it's found in connection, honesty, and the willingness to say, "I'm not okay."

Because every person has a story, even the ones they never tell.

And every story is worth the drive.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:31

No, your Wi-Fi's not down. Your cell service is working fine. Today's episode's gonna be a little different. You may notice there's no one sitting next to me today. It's just all of you and me. And that's for a reason. It's the end of June. It's actually the last day of June. And June is men's mental health month. Yeah, it's also Pride Month. But I think that's very fitting. That a lot of men are out there celebrating pride. Some know it's men's mental health month, but I think that's very manlike to do. I'm gonna focus on everyone else celebrating, not on myself. If you're a man, you know exactly how what I mean. We tend to celebrate others before we've given ourselves the inkling of credit on anything. But men's mental health is important. This episode is for all you men out there, as well as all the other people that LoveMet. We need to understand them. And frankly, need to see some signs of a man in distress. When it comes to men's mental health, we kind of ignore it. Kind of from an inside perspective, say I'll be okay. From an outside perspective, not show our weakness to anybody. Because a man's not supposed to be weak. We're taught this at a very young, young age, that men aren't supposed to be weak. We're told boys don't cry. We're told walk it off. Put some dirt on it. You're alright. We're never told let's talk about it. How does that make you feel? And that started from a young age. Very young age. When our grandfathers and our fathers would talk to us like this. And not only that, our mothers. Because I think the stigma on men's mental health not only flows through men, it flows through women. It's something that we're taught from our parents. Dad's a provider. Mom's the comforter. Mom's the one that shows us love. As a child, when I thought of a man, I had shiny examples. I had superheroes. I had literal he-man. This larger than life, buff, strong man that feared nothing. I had Superman, an invincible man that could stop bullets, that could leap tall buildings, that could do anything. We had G.I. Joe who would fight for what was right. The same thing that all these characters had was this invincibility, this pure, true heart. As we got older, we realized we didn't have those things. We had fear. We had loneliness. We let people down. We're never taught to recover from that. We're taught to be tough. We're told not to cry. That's what we learned as children when it came to being a man. What I found out when I got older was what it truly meant to be a man was to love, to forgive. To let people know when you're hurting. Let people know when you need help. I'd like to say these stigmas were always taught and only taught by my father or my grandfather or by men in general, but they weren't. And to this day, though they're solidified by women in our lives. Well, that's a man's job. Be a man. I don't think the women in our lives realize how painful some of these statements could be. How they use them as weapons to cut down our armor. Armor that we shouldn't even have with the people we love. But the stereotypes and stigmas were taught to them by their parents, so their mothers and their fathers, and it keeps going and going. But it's something we don't talk about. I never got hugs from my father. But my mother, she'd give them. My grandmother, she'd give them. So we learn very quickly that as boys, our mental health is supposed to be taken care of by ourselves. And frankly, that's sad. That's not the way it should be, but that's the way it was. And that's what's led us to where we are today with men's suicide rates being astronomical. Eighty percent of suicides are men. That's four out of every five people. We're driving right now. I can see four people. One of them might not be here tomorrow. They don't talk about their issues or understand their problems, are able to communicate. Men's mental illness shows up in different ways, too. Depression doesn't show up as just sadness. It shows up as overworking, working eighty hours a week. It shows up as detaching themselves from their loved ones. It shows up as anger. It solidifies its health and alcoholism and drug use. And what happens when you ask a man if he's okay? When he's doing these things, he says constantly, fine. Or I'm just tired. I think more often than not, we isolate. Isolate to recharge what's left of our batteries. Isolate so we don't let our families down. Isolate so we don't have to think, and I think that's why this car is the perfect place to have this conversation. You're driving your car, you can be alone with your thoughts. You try to figure stuff out. You can have the conversation you need to have with others, but by yourself. How many of you have gotten home from work and have just sat in your car in the driveway? Sat in your car on the street, building up the courage, the energy, the words just to go in and be with your family. That's depression. It's depression in men. I'm not saying that mental health is all a man's issue, but it's the one that doesn't get talked about enough. I think a car is the perfect place to have this conversation. There's so many metaphors when it comes to a car. I mean think about it if you get a crack in your window, right? Get a crack in your window. Let's say that's our mental health. We start to start to feel something. That crack stays when we start to feel stuff, but we we don't do anything about it. And that crack grows. That crack grows. Maybe it grows right across where we're trying to see. And it blocks our sight. And as it grows, that window crack splinters out, becomes more and more. Just like mental health. If we don't fix the issue, it's gonna continue to grow. I do have to say this is probably the most vulnerable I've ever felt in this car. I guess you could say I I use I'm used to hiding behind someone in the passenger seat. I can ask them questions and they can tell me their thoughts. It's not just mine alone. But again, I think this is a good lesson. Being vulnerable is important. If we can't be vulnerable, we can't open up. And we can't open up, we can't fix our problems. I spent years hiding behind anger, behind violence. Not violence to the general public, but violence in forms of wrestling and fighting, and that became my outlet to express myself. It wasn't the best thing to do, but it was something that worked for me. And I think we all find that little bit of help. But I think stuff like that doesn't fix. It just puts a band-aid on it. A band-aid will eventually lose its stick. It'll eventually be flooded. We'll have to apply another band-aid instead of fixing the issue. Having sons has really made me come to terms with my own mental health. It's made me want to show them a better way than the way my father and grandfather and even I do it, or have done it. I asked them how they feel. I asked them when something happens, how did that make you feel? I asked them if they're okay. I catch myself from time to time saying don't cry. When it's okay to cry. I think what I mean when I tell them, don't cry, I think I mean I don't want to see you cry. But I think that's my own issues. Because I don't want to feel. And seeing them hurt is the worst feeling ever. I think when it becomes becoming a father, it's it puts another weight on your shoulders as a man. Because we saw our dads be providers, we saw them be tough, we saw them be men. And when we took on that crown, that mantra of who we thought men were supposed to be, I think we slide back a little bit. I was gifted with two boys, two amazing children. But they they've gifted me with so much more. They've gifted me with more of an understanding of who I am and how much better I want to be. I guess I ask myself, what kind of father do I want them to remember? And when I think about that, I think about how I remember my father. My father was cold, strong, protector, but absent. He wasn't there. I feel he wanted to be there. I just don't feel he was able to be there. Maybe because him and my mother didn't get along. Or maybe because, just like I feel with my sons, we made them feel. And that wasn't okay. Especially because we weren't well off. We're very poor. I'm sure my father held that guilt of not being able to provide everything we he wanted for us. I can see that now with my own sons. I want to give them the world, I want to give them everything, and that weight is on my shoulders. The key is who do I want them to remember? I want them to remember a loving, kind man who was always there for them. And always ask them how they were and how they were feeling. I swear, by the time I was thirteen, I maybe heard I love you from my father twice. I try to tell my boys every day, multiple times, whenever I feel it, I say it. I want them to remember that. My father provided, my father protected, my father was there. My father was always concerned about my well-being and how I felt. I want him to remember me being supportive of their decisions and their choices and to trust them and who they are. I want them to be better men than I will ever be. There's courage and vulnerability. I fight every day to be vulnerable. Stuff like this is really hard. But I think in that vulnerability we find truth. Truth in who we really are. We take down those shields of the people we want everyone to see and pretend that's who we are. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I want us to be better. Men go through struggles many don't see. And it leads to different things. I personally think it's led to where we are as a country right now. I think finding community in men is very important. Think about this. This is a question for the men. How many friends do you have? How many friends can you call right now and say, hey, I need help with this? And I'm not talking about your wife's friends. Or friends through your wife. I'm not talking about your wife, who a lot of us men use as our best friend, our lover, our confidant, our accountant, everything. Men throw this on their wives. I'm talking about a true friend. Who could you call right now and say, I need help? For a lot of us, there aren't anybody. Men tend to isolate. And I think that's where we are in a country right now. I think a lot of men had no one. And we joke, we call them basement dwellers, we call them all these things. But I think what happened with our politics is certain men found a camaraderie with others. Even though that camaraderie was around hate or anti-LGBTQIA or anti-women. They found someone to communicate with, to talk to. And these people open their doors. I heard one of the main things with MAGA is hey, I have someone to confide in, to talk to about my beliefs and my belief structure. And I think that has to go hand in hand with men's lonely, men's loneliness. And I think that goes hand in hand with men's mental illness. They were given a place, they were given a tribe, they were able to say what they felt and what they believed, how bad it was. But I think it's because they were shut out by everyone else and they found a home somewhere. Whereas if we men weren't so damn stubborn in cutting people off because they have a different view, maybe we could have talked them off the ledge and back to the side of good. Being decent men. Loneliness is an amazing driver. It pushes us in directions we would never think we would go. But I think if we just opened our eyes, saw the people we could confide in, we'd be better at people. We always just do that simple how you doing. And that simple how you doing always gets the same response. I'm fine. I don't know how many times I've been down and someone asks me how I'm doing, and I say I'm fine, I'm just tired. Because they know something's wrong. But everyone could everyone can relate to being tired. Little do they know that that I'm tired means I'm struggling. I'm not doing well. I got tons on my chest. Stuff they need you need to get out, but you're afraid to because you don't want to be that weight around someone else's neck. We've been taught our whole lives just to deal with it on our own. I guess we go back to the window reference. That crack doesn't mean I'm okay. That crack means I I took a hit and it's spreading.

SPEAKER_01 23:10

And I need help.

SPEAKER_00 23:18

So ask. Fellow men. Ask your friends. Women, mothers. Ask your husbands, ask your your sons. Ask them how they feel. And don't just give up when they say, I'm fine. Dive a little deeper. Fathers, talk to your sons. Talk to your boys and tell them that how being their father changed you. And how you want them to be better men than you. By expressing the way you feel. Tell them you love them. Tell them how proud you are in the little things they do. Communicate. Because a lot of times people never check in. Ask that simple question. How are you really? And if you're the one who's struggling with these mental issues, people love you. People listen to you. Reach out. I know it's hard. I know it's easier to self-isolate and we all do it. But I'm here for you. Your family's there for you. Go back to eighty percent of the people who die from suicide being men. Those aren't statistics. Those are fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, friends. Check in with each other. Today was different. There wasn't a guest sitting in this seat. Maybe that's because this conversation couldn't wait. Today wasn't about having all the answers. It was about reminding ourselves that strength isn't found in suffering silently. Strength is found in telling the truth and asking for help. In allowing someone to walk beside you when the road gets heavy. There's one thing I hope you take away from this drive, it's this. You're not alone. Your pain does not make you weak. Your trauma does not define you. Your struggles do not diminish your worth. And asking for help isn't giving up. It's choosing to keep going. If you're listening today and you thought of someone during this conversation, don't wait. Call them. Check on them. Ask them how they're doing. And stay long enough to hear the answer. And if by chance that someone is you, if you've been caring more than you can bear, if today feels too heavy, please don't carry it by yourself. Reach out to someone you trust, a friend, a family member, a therapist, a pastor, a neighbor. There are people who want to help, and there is hope. In the United States, you can call or text 988 to reach the suicide and crisis lifeline any time of day or night. You don't have to be at your breaking point to reach out. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is make that call. Thank you for taking the time. Thanks for taking this drive with me. I hope the next time you find yourself alone in a car, you remember that you're part of a much bigger journey, and that there are people who want to take the next mile with you. Until next time, every person has a story, even the ones they will never tell. And every story is worth the drive.