The Lonely Road: Why Men Need Other Men

There’s a song I’ve been playing on repeat lately. To Be a Man by Dax. Not because I live in that headspace all the time, but because I have lived there. And I think most men, if they’re honest, have too.

It's a song about the weight of being a man in a world that asks for your strength but never your feelings. A world that celebrates your output but shrugs at your inner storm. And it cuts deep. Because we don't always talk about that, not to our wives, not to our children, and often, not even to ourselves.

I played it for Amy, my fiancée. Her reaction? She laughed. “It’s ridiculous,” she said.

And I don’t blame her.

Amy has stood beside me in ways few ever have. She’s been a rock in my life and a mother figure to my children when I was running on empty. She didn’t just support me, she showed up when it mattered most. And I’ll never forget that.

But here’s the paradox: even a good woman, a loyal woman, a woman who loves you deeply... will rarely be the right person to receive your full vulnerability.

Because the moment you hand over that burden, the fears, the doubts, the broken pieces, they stop seeing you the same. Not because they’re cruel. But because, instinctively, they want to feel safe too. And when the man in their life stumbles, it shakes the foundation more than it should.

Women love strength. Not necessarily muscles or status, but stability. The sense that no matter what happens, you’ll handle it. That you won’t fold. That you’ll carry the load when no one else can.

So what happens when you can’t?

You go quiet. You clench your jaw, smile for the kids, and pay the bills. You push through. Because that’s what we were taught to do. And to be fair, it works. Until it doesn’t.

The Unspoken Weight

There’s a line in the song that hits like a hammer:
"Don’t nobody give a damn about our broken hearts."

And it’s true. The world will console a weeping woman, wrap its arms around a grieving child, and lift up a struggling friend. But a man? Especially one who looks like he has it together? People assume you’re fine. You must be fine.

But what if you're not?

What if you’re breaking inside, screaming on the inside, wondering who you are without the things you do?

We don’t get a lot of space to ask those questions. And when we do, we often ask them in silence.

That’s why I’ve come to believe something that I didn’t always know how to say:

Men need other men.

Not in competition. Not as drinking buddies. Not just to watch the game or talk shop.

We need brothers.

The Brotherhood We Lost

There was a time when men had tribes, literal or spiritual. We built barns together, fought wars together, held each other’s secrets, and taught each other how to carry the weight of life. But something shifted. Maybe with modernity. Maybe with pride. Maybe with the slow erosion of spiritual life. Whatever the cause, it left many of us alone, with a silent scream no one could hear.

I’ve seen it in my own life.

After my divorce, I was in a fog. Angry. Numb. Trying to be a father, a provider, a leader, when I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I didn’t talk about it with my kids. And I couldn’t talk about it with my partner at the time. But then, one night over whiskey and a Texas firepit, I did talk.

With a man. A friend. Loud, brash, not particularly selfless, but he listened. He didn’t try to fix me. He didn’t flinch. He just nodded. Because he knew.

There’s a kind of understanding that only passes between men who’ve been to the bottom and climbed out. No judgment. No weakness. Just recognition.

Why Our Wives Can’t Carry It

You can love your woman deeply. And she can love you. But she can’t carry your cross for you. That’s not what she signed up for. That’s not what she’s built for.

Some truths are hard to say out loud. Here’s one:
When a man shows too much vulnerability to his woman, it often backfires. Not because she’s shallow. But because biologically, emotionally, and culturally, most women crave security from their man, not burden.

That’s the harsh truth Dax is singing about. And it's why so many men choose silence. Because the moment they open up, they risk losing the one thing they thought they could count on - respect.

So we bottle it up. Until one day the bottle breaks.

The Spiritual Director, the Friend, the Brother

I’ve come to learn that the answer isn’t to stay silent.

The answer is to find the right ears.

A wise friend.
A spiritual director.
A brother who’s walked through fire.
Someone who won’t panic when you tell the truth. Who won’t run. Who won’t lose faith in your masculinity when you admit your fear.

Because men are forged in struggle, but they’re healed in brotherhood.

This is why every man needs a circle. A safe space. A few men he can call at 2 a.m. Not to fix things. Just to listen. To remind him that he’s not crazy. That this pressure is real. That it’s okay to feel.

Not Just Casual Companionship: The Crisis of Male Friendship

Too often, men confuse casual companionship with real friendship. Watching a game together, cracking jokes at the bar, playing a round of golf, those are good things. But they’re not the same as real, soul-bearing friendship.

As Father C. John McCloskey III wrote in his powerful article "The Friendship-Deficit Syndrome", there is something missing in the way American men relate to each other. He described a lunch in Rome, where a table of Italian men gathered, not to watch a game, but to talk, laugh, and share life. It struck him as something rare and beautiful. In contrast, American men tend to gather around distractions, a screen, a sport, an event, rather than each other.

Friendship, as McCloskey reminds us, is not about utility or entertainment. It’s about mutual affection, trust, and the exchange of hearts. It is a good in itself, and it has immense spiritual potential. It’s also the way Christianity spread: man to man, heart to heart. Real friendship is one of the greatest forces of evangelization.

But it’s becoming rare. The average American male has one good friend - his wife. That’s not enough.

We need a few good male friends. Not many, just a few. As Aristotle said, deep friendship can only be felt toward the few. And McCloskey adds: the inability to form and maintain real friendships is one of the deep wounds of modern man. A man without real friends is not only lonely, he’s vulnerable to despair, temptation, and spiritual stagnation.

A practical tip: Men open up best when they are doing something together. A walk. A road trip. A shared project. Something with motion. Because sitting across from another man, staring into each other's eyes, feels awkward for many, and even threatening. In nature, direct eye contact between males often signals a fight. Human males haven’t evolved all that far.

So invite a friend for a long drive. Go fix a fence. Take a hike. Sit around a campfire. It’s in those moments of shared purpose that the walls fall down and the words finally come.

Our Sons Are Watching

The last verse of the song shifts gears. It says:
"Don’t give up, keep fighting. As a man, our son is our horizon. And our fathers' actions play a role, and we end up like him."

That one gutted me.

Because I’ve got sons. And they’re watching everything.

How I treat their mother. How I respond to setbacks. Whether I bury my pain or face it head-on. Whether I isolate or reach out.

They will model what I do more than what I say. And if I don’t show them how to deal with the weight of manhood, they’ll carry it alone. Just like I did.

But maybe they don’t have to.

Maybe the cycle breaks when we learn to open up, not in weakness, but in strength. When we teach our boys that it’s okay to feel and still be fierce. That being a man means more than providing; it means enduring. And yes, it means connecting.

To Be a Man

I don’t think Dax wrote a perfect song. But I think he wrote an honest one.

And honesty is rare in a world of masks and curated lives.

Being a man today means walking a road that’s often invisible to others. It means being judged not by who you are, but by what you provide. It means hiding your storms so others can feel safe.

But it doesn’t mean walking alone.

Find your people. Build that circle. Be that friend to someone else.

Because if we want to survive this road, and teach our sons to walk it too, we can’t do it in silence.

We were never meant to.