The Weight Beneath My Strength

 I’ve rarely talked about how I really felt through everything I went through. Most of the time, I stayed quiet—not because I didn’t feel, but because I was scared of what people might think. Would they see me as weak? Would they think I wasn’t as strong as they believed? So I kept pushing, fighting my demons in silence, trying to rise above it all. From the outside, it looked like I was winning. But inside, I was slowly falling apart. It took a huge toll on me, mentally and emotionally.

We’re told as boys to “dust it off and move on.” Like nothing ever happened. And most of us do exactly that. But looking back now, I know how important it is to have someone to talk to. Whether it's your parents, a friend, or even a stranger who listens without judgment. I didn’t do that. I carried it all alone, believing silence was strength.

When I found out I had cancer, I was shattered. I truly thought that was the end of my story. But a few people stepped in. They stood by me, gave me strength, and reminded me there was still fight left in me. Turns out, men do offer emotional support—we just usually disguise it as “bro, you good?” followed by a head nod.
Then there’s my mother. Stronger than a double shot of espresso and twice as fierce. She was by my side through every painful moment.
But the one constant was my dad. Quiet, steady, and unshakably strong. He never let me feel alone. He didn’t say much, but his presence said everything. He was the rock I leaned on, especially when I couldn’t stand on my own.

I remember my first PET scan. I was terrified. But I smiled, cracked jokes, and acted like I was fine. I thought that was brave. The truth is, people could tell something was off. I just never let them close enough to help.

The gym became my escape. And yeah, I know it sounds cliché—fighting demons with dumbbells—but it’s true. It started as a way to stay active, something my uncle suggested to combat muscle loss and weight gain from treatment. But it became more than that. I moved from a small society gym to a full-blown commercial one. I became that “gym bro” counting macros. But more than anything, I found peace in the process.
The weights didn’t just rebuild my body. They gave me back my will, my sense of control, and my strength.

I’m sharing this now because it’s International Men’s Mental Health Month. And the truth is, men’s mental health still doesn’t get the space it deserves. We’re taught to “man up” and stay silent. But silence doesn’t heal.
I spent a long time pretending I was okay, thinking that was strength. But real strength is feeling deeply and choosing to move forward anyway.

What helped me may not help everyone. For me, it was the gym. That’s where I turned pain into progress, fear into focus. For someone else, it might be music, writing, prayer, therapy, or just taking a moment to breathe.
There’s no one right way to cope. But there has to be a way to speak.

Silence isn’t strength.
To every man carrying his battles quietly:
You’re not weak for feeling.
You’re human.
And you’re allowed to feel.
You’re allowed to fall.
And you’re allowed to heal, in your own time and in your own way.