In the early 1970s, I worked as a psychiatric technician in a mental hospital. I was fresh out of undergrad and I learned an enormous amount simply by watching people and listening to their stories.

One of the lessons that stayed with me was about fathers and the importance men can place on being a provider.

A man was admitted to our unit after losing millions of dollars in a business failure. As I remember it, he had largely been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Circumstances had turned against him, and through relatively little fault of his own, he had lost an enormous amount of money.

He was devastated.

He blamed himself and was deeply depressed. Most of us on the staff felt a great deal of sympathy for him.

Then came the family meeting.

What happened in that room shocked me, and I have never forgotten it.

His family consisted of his wife and two teenage daughters. It quickly became clear that they blamed him for what had happened. And they didn’t hide it.

When members of the staff tried to soften things a little—pointing out how difficult the circumstances had been and suggesting that perhaps much of what happened had been beyond his control—the family pushed back. No. He could have done this. He could have done that.

What struck me most was where their attention seemed to be.

Here was their husband and father, hospitalized with depression after watching his business collapse. But their concern seemed focused much more on what his financial failure meant for them: the money that was gone and the changes in lifestyle they were now facing.

I remember being stunned.

I was in my early twenties, and I don’t think I had ever really considered what the expectation to provide could mean to a man.

But I began to understand.

For many men, providing isn’t simply about earning money. It can become deeply connected to their sense of responsibility, their usefulness, and even their worth to the people they love.

And perhaps there is another side to it that we don’t talk about very often.

What happens to a man when he can no longer provide?

That family meeting gave me an early glimpse of the answer.

It also helped me understand something I would see repeatedly in the decades that followed: many men carry a powerful fear of failing the people who depend upon them. Their determination to work, succeed, and provide isn’t necessarily about money or status.

Sometimes it is about love.

Sometimes it is about responsibility.

And sometimes it is about the fear of what might happen if they fail.

Read more

My father died in 1994. He had spent his career as a NASA scientist, but far more important to me was the kind of man he was. He was a wonderful father, and after he died I found myself wondering how I might honor his life.

By then I had been immersed in cross-cultural grief research for several years. Again and again, I had seen examples of men honoring those they loved through meaningful action. I knew I wanted to do something rather than simply remember.

Then it came to me.

Build a website for grieving people.

I smiled as soon as the idea arrived because I knew my father would have loved it.

During his final years at NASA, he worked in a program called Technology Transfer, whose mission was to find practical ways to apply NASA’s scientific advances to everyday life. He believed technology should improve people’s lives.

Creating a website for grieving people felt like a continuation of that spirit. It would use a new technology to help people in pain.

In 1995, Web Healing was born. It became one of the earliest grief websites on the Internet and, much to my surprise, it grew rapidly. Over the years it has helped countless grieving people around the world. Social media eventually reduced its traffic, but it continues to serve people to this day.

Here’s the interesting part.

Almost no one knew that I built it in honor of my father.

Even though I dedicated the site to him, most visitors never saw the dedication. They simply saw a grief website.

The action was visible.

The grief behind it was not.

Read more

From The Way Men Heal (Second Edition)

The following excerpt is reproduced exactly as it appears in the published Second Edition of The Way Men Heal. Before each installment, I’ll share some of the stories, experiences, and newer insights that have shaped my thinking since the book was written.

Looking Back

This excerpt completes the introduction to The Way Men Heal. In it, I briefly mention the cross-cultural grief research that so profoundly changed my understanding of men and healing.

What I didn’t include in the book is that shortly after discovering those anthropological studies, I encountered someone who helped me see those findings in a much richer and more personal way.

His name was Malidoma Somé, and he remains one of the most fascinating people I have ever met.

Malidoma was born among the Dagara people of Burkina Faso in West Africa. At the age of four, he was abducted from his village by Jesuit missionaries and raised in a Western educational system. Sixteen years later, he escaped and found his way back to his people.

By then, however, he faced an extraordinary challenge. The young men of his age had already undergone the tribe’s initiation rituals—rites of passage that marked the transition into adulthood. Malidoma had received none of the needed preparation.

The elders faced a difficult decision. Should they allow him to attempt the initiation anyway?

They did.

After enduring tremendous challenges, he completed the initiation and was welcomed back as a full member of his people.

That unusual life journey gave Malidoma something very few people possess: a deep understanding of both traditional African culture and the modern Western world. He became an extraordinary bridge between those two ways of seeing life.

One story he told has stayed with me ever since.

A man from the Dagara tribe came to visit him in New York City. As they walked through the streets, the visitor looked around at the crowds rushing in every direction and quietly asked:

“Why is everyone running when no one is chasing them?”

I’ve never forgotten that question.

Read more

The Way Men Heal: Members’ Companion Edition

Part One: Before We Begin

Welcome to a new series for my paid subscribers.

Over the coming months, we’ll walk together through The Way Men Heal, one section at a time. I’ll reproduce the original text of the book just as it was published. Then, after each installment, I’ll share stories from my life, newer research, and reflections that have emerged since the book was completed.

Think of this as sitting together as we work through the book. The book remains the book. But around it, I’ll be adding some of the experiences, memories, and conversations that shaped it.

Before we begin, though, I’d like to introduce you to a remarkable man.

Father William Wendt

When I finally found my first counseling job after graduate school, I had no idea how fortunate I was.

After nearly a year of searching, I was hired by a counseling center for death and dying in Washington, D.C. The center was directed by Father William Wendt.

Bill was unlike anyone I had ever known.

Before becoming a Episcopal priest, he had been a fighter pilot during World War II. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen both life and death up close. His voice was deep, gravelly, and unmistakable.

Many mornings we would pass each other in the hallway.

Without breaking stride, Bill would look at me and say in that wonderful gruff voice,

“Permission to grieve... permission to die... carry on.”

Then he’d continue on his way.

For years I simply smiled and kept walking.

Read more