Men Are Dying From Shame

I have been through both a divorce and a long custody battle. It is grueling and terrifying and expensive, and it wears you down in ways that are hard to explain to anyone who has not lived it. I spent half my time paralyzed by the fear of losing access to my child, and the other half furious that I was being forced to defend myself as a father when I had already been the primary caretaker.

Everything that felt obvious to me was dismissed. My parenting time. Her absence. My contributions to the household. The hostility I endured. The compromises I made to my career and my life. None of it mattered. I was put in the position of fighting to keep parenting the child I had already been raising most of the time. I cooked every dinner. I handled every bath and every bedtime. I did the shopping. I structured my entire life around being present for my daughter while her mother organized her life to do as little parenting as possible.

Still, I was the one on defense. I was the one at risk of losing custody. I was the one who went bankrupt trying to protect my relationship with my child, until I was forced to defend myself pro-se. In court, her claims were taken at face value, with no proof required. I was a handyman trying to stand up against a seasoned attorney and a system that assumed I was guilty by default.

There were days that felt unbearably dark. There were stretches where I questioned my value as a human being and as a father. I wondered if I would ever get what I wanted, if my daughter would be turned against me, if I would lose everything. I lost focus. I became depressed. I made bad decisions. I started to spiral.

I was lucky. My family carried me longer than they should have had to. I hated needing that help. I hated feeling like a failure. I had thoughts I am not proud of. I understand now how easy it is to want the pain to stop in the fastest way possible. In those moments, it can feel like your absence would make everything easier for everyone else. That thought feels real when you are drowning in shame and exhaustion.

Looking back, I wish I had asked for more help sooner. But I also had no idea where to get it. I did not want to sit in therapy for a year talking about my childhood. I needed practical help. I needed to learn how to parent alone. How to talk to my kid. How to defend myself. How to find enough peace to show up as a father, as a worker, and as a functioning human being. I needed to be reminded that I mattered and that I was still connected to the world.

A few days ago, my daughter and her friend were talking about a boy in their class who has behavior issues. He gets in trouble a lot and does not have many friends. Another child mentioned that his father died by suicide when he was in fifth grade and that he was never the same afterward. I was driving, listening from the front seat, and I felt my chest tighten and my eyes fill with tears.

I cannot stop thinking about that boy. Or his father. I keep wondering what it would have taken to change that man’s mind. What someone could have said. What kind of support could have helped him understand his value and the impact his life had on people he may not have even realized he mattered to. I do not know his story. I do not know what led him there. But I know the damage did not stop with him. It never does.

Men make up the overwhelming majority of deaths of despair. A significant portion of male suicide is tied directly to divorce, separation, and loss of custody. We understand the movie version of the man who loses his family and becomes self-destructive. We even empathize with it on screen. But in real life, when it happens in courtrooms and kitchens and empty apartments, men are expected to just deal with it.

They are expected to absorb the loss of their family, the collapse of their future plans, the destruction of their identity, and the shame that comes with all of it. Quietly. Alone. Without asking for help.

Men retreat into substances, risky behavior, gambling, isolation, and depression. Not because they are weak, but because they are overwhelmed and unsupported. Because they do not know where to go. Because shame tells them they should be able to handle it on their own.

That is why I got into coaching. Telling a man to “get therapy,” “join a gym,” or “start dating again” does not help when what he actually needs is to figure out how to make dinner, pack lunches, get kids to school, get to work on time, and survive financially while paying lawyers. It does not help when calling an attorney costs thousands of dollars and fixes nothing. It does not help when schedules are being violated in small, constant ways and he is burning out trying to hold his life together.

Sometimes people need practical solutions. Sometimes they need to vent. Sometimes they just need someone to tell them they are not broken and that they still matter.

We need to do this differently. As men. As fathers. As a culture.

I was fortunate. I had support. I had family. I had people who saw I was drowning and helped pull me back. I lost friends. I lost my old life. I lost my identity. But I survived and rebuilt. Not everyone gets that chance.

I did not even know divorce coaching existed when I needed it most. When I found it, I realized it was the missing piece. Not therapy. Not legal advice. Not empty motivational talk. Real support. Practical guidance. A human being in your corner.

That is why I got certified and started District Divorce Coaching. Not because I had it all figured out, but because I know what it feels like to be lost, ashamed, scared, and alone. And I know how dangerous that place can be.

Men are not dying because they are weak. They are dying because they are silent. They are dying because they think they have no value once their family falls apart. They are dying because they think asking for help means failure.

Fathers matter, and we need to do better.