June is Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month. While everyone’s mental health matters, this topic is deeply personal to me not just because I am a man, but because of the men I’ve loved, lost, and learned from throughout my life.
I’ve been blessed with contrast and given many opportunities to learn from both extraordinary examples and heartbreaking lessons.
My father, Barry Masters, died by suicide in 2007. My brother, Tyler, died by suicide in 2014.
Both were good men. At times, they had larger-than-life personalities and a contagious zest for life. They were the kind of men people gravitated toward. But they also carried heavy burdens in silence. The belief that real men don’t complain, don’t ask for help, and don’t show weakness was a common theme.
I learned so much from both of them, and they continue to influence who I am and the work I do today.
I’ve also been fortunate to have a stepfather who has had an immeasurable impact on my life. He taught me how to show up consistently, reliably, and with strength. Sometimes quiet strength. Sometimes not-so-quiet strength. He modeled responsibility, commitment, and resilience in a way that I still carry with me today.
There have been many other men throughout my life who have shaped me as well. Each taught me something different about what it means to be a man.
Unfortunately, much of what I see online about masculinity today is presented in black-and-white terms. The conversation often centers on toughness, stoicism, dominance, and fighting through adversity. While masculinity can and should include those qualities in the right context, that narrow definition is incomplete.
True masculinity is balanced.
Researchers have begun using terms like “integrated masculinity” and “courageous masculinity” to describe men who can be stoic when the situation requires it and emotionally open when growth requires it. Men who can do both are not weaker. They are often more resilient, more effective, and more deeply respected by the people who matter most.
My greatest lessons about masculinity, however, didn’t come from research. They came from becoming a father.
I got my first experience as a father when my stepson, Logan, came into my life. He was five years old then and is now eighteen. Time flies.
In 2020, my wife and I welcomed our son, Maverick. The definition of a maverick is someone who thinks independently and isn’t afraid to walk their own path. I’m proud to say he has lived up to the name from day one.
At five years old, he is also one of the most courageous people I know.
Before Maverick was born, he was diagnosed with Down syndrome. If you’ve never had the opportunity to get to know someone with Down syndrome or any disability, for that matter I encourage you to. They are often among the most loving, joyful, resilient, and authentic people you will ever meet.
That diagnosis challenged many of my beliefs about life, strength, and masculinity. Then life became even harder.
When Maverick was just one year old, he was diagnosed with myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS), a pre-leukemic condition that required immediate treatment. What followed was one of the most difficult chapters of my life.
At the time, I was serving as Group CEO for Discovery Behavioral Health, overseeing multiple inpatient and outpatient mental health programs. My family was still processing Maverick’s Down syndrome diagnosis, and my mother who I was incredibly close with was battling Stage 4 lung cancer.
I remember sitting in the hospital after receiving Maverick’s diagnosis. I was visibly upset. One of the nurses approached me and said, “I know. Your whole world can change in a single moment.”
She was right.
For the next eight months, life called for fight.
At least that’s how it felt.
Maverick underwent six rounds of chemotherapy at Johns Hopkins. Each round required approximately a month of inpatient hospitalization, with only short breaks between treatments.
My wife the real hero of this chapter essentially lived in the hospital with him. Meanwhile, we still had another son who needed parents who showed up for him. School events, sports, time with friends, family experiences those things couldn’t simply stop because life had become difficult.
If I wasn’t at work, I was at the hospital.
One moment from that time has never left me. Early in treatment, the medical team recommended I wear gloves when changing my son’s diapers because the chemotherapy drugs were so toxic.
No parent imagines hearing those words.
But when you’re in the middle of a battle, you do what needs to be done.
Looking back, I realize that chapter required a certain type of masculinity. It required resilience. It required composure. It required showing up day after day despite exhaustion, fear, and uncertainty.
The weight wasn’t gone. I simply didn’t have the luxury of fully processing it. There was work to do.
There was a family to support.
There was a little boy fighting for his life.
To support Maverick physically and emotionally, we focused on creating moments of joy wherever we could. We made nutrient-packed smoothies. We played great music. We had epic dance parties in hospital rooms. We looked for reasons to laugh, even on difficult days.
I’m incredibly grateful to say that Maverick has been in remission since 2022 and is doing wonderfully.
I also don’t know where my family would be without the people who stepped up during that season our friends, family members, coworkers, medical teams, and support systems. Their kindness carried us through some of our darkest days, and I will be forever grateful.
Throughout all of this, my mother remained one of our biggest supporters despite everything she was facing herself.
There were times when she needed encouragement, and I always did my best to fill her with hope whenever we talked.
What I refused to accept at the time was that she was dying.
Not long after Maverick was discharged from the hospital, my mother lost her battle with cancer. And that’s when something shifted.
The stoicism that had served me during years of crisis was no longer enough.
It wasn’t until after my mother passed away that I finally allowed myself to become emotionally open to everything that had happened. In many ways, I’m still in that process today.
As men, many of us understand the stoic side of the equation. We’ve been taught it our entire lives.
And to be clear, stoicism has value.
There are moments when your family needs you to be steady. There are moments when leadership requires composure. There are moments when life demands that you put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.
But stoicism alone is not enough.
It must be balanced with something equally important: openness.
Growth can only happen when we’re willing to face the parts of ourselves we’ve buried whether intentionally or unconsciously. It requires us to confront grief, fear, disappointment, trauma, and pain. That process isn’t comfortable. In fact, it can be terrifying.
Perhaps that’s why some researchers call it courageous masculinity.
Because it takes courage to look inward.
It takes courage to admit you’re struggling.
It takes courage to ask for help.
And it takes courage to continue showing up while doing that work.
The latest research supports what many of us are beginning to realize. Men die by suicide at significantly higher rates than women. One of the strongest predictors isn’t simply depression itself it’s restrictive emotionality: the belief that men shouldn’t express sadness, fear, vulnerability, or need.
When men learn to engage in healthy vulnerability, outcomes improve. Relationships become stronger. Substance use decreases. Mental health improves. Treatment becomes more effective.
Yet we are living in a time when many boys are growing up without fathers consistently modeling this kind of balanced strength.
That creates a gap.
And when that gap exists, it must be filled by mentors, coaches, peers, men’s groups, communities, and other men willing to lead by example.
There is a time to fight.
There is a time to be stoic.
And there is a time to feel, process, heal, and grow.
Real strength isn’t choosing one or the other.
It’s knowing when each is required.
The strongest men I know are not the ones who never struggle. They’re the ones who can say, “I’m not okay right now,” and still continue showing up for the people they love.
That’s the example I want to set for both of my sons.
It’s also the example I wish my father and brother had been given permission to live.
At The Mood Center, we see this every day. Men walk through our doors carrying years sometimes decades of pain, grief, trauma, and responsibility that they’ve never fully allowed themselves to process. Treatments like Spravato and ketamine can be powerful tools, not only because they help relieve symptoms of depression, but because they often create space for a different kind of healing to begin. Many patients describe feeling less guarded, less trapped by the weight they’ve been carrying, and more able to connect with themselves and the people around them. While no treatment does the work for you, ketamine and Spravato can help open the door. And once that door opens, many men find they are finally able to allow themselves to be seen, to confront what they’ve been avoiding, and to begin the deeper healing that vulnerability makes possible.
If you’re carrying something heavy, you don’t have to carry it alone.
Reach out.
Talk to someone.
Get the assessment.
Do the work.
The gray area between toughness and vulnerability is where real strength is forged. Men’s mental health matters.
And the courage to be vulnerable while still showing up as a man, a father, a husband, a son, a friend, or a leader may be one of the most powerful forms of strength there is.
