Stepping Into the Work

This month marked the moment I stopped circling the work and stepped directly into it.

Not with words.
Not with intentions.
But with action.

I put skin in the game.

I committed to a small-group process focused on depression—the real kind of work most men avoid until life forces their hand. What moved me wasn’t desperation; it was obedience. A mentor once told me: if you see an opportunity to work directly with strong leadership, take it. No overthinking. No hesitation.

When the opening came to step into the depression course and work directly with Rick Yee, I felt it immediately—that moment where courage and fear collide. And instead of backing away, I leaned in.

That decision wasn’t about fixing myself.
It was about being willing to change my life.

Facing the Fear Behind the Mask

What I didn’t realize at the time was that this choice would force me to confront a fear I’d been carrying for years.

I had elevated Rick into something more than a man—more than a brother willing to help other men walk through darkness. In my mind, he represented judgment, expectation, and the risk of being seen too clearly. What I know now is simple: his mission is exactly what it looks like—to help as many men as possible while he still has breath in his lungs.

The fear wasn’t really about him.

It was about me.

I was afraid that if I showed up honestly, I wouldn’t be liked.
That my shame would be exposed.
That the low self-worth I carried would be confirmed.

As a lifelong people-pleaser, I had learned to survive by earning approval. Validation felt like oxygen. And without it, I believed I wouldn’t be enough.

What I didn’t know then—but see clearly now—is that exposing those fears didn’t destroy me. It revealed me. And in that revelation, I began to see the patterns, habits, and internal lies that had been quietly holding me back from becoming my authentic self.

Sometimes the breakthrough doesn’t come from being built up.
It comes from being stripped down.

Learning the Skill No One Teaches: Grief

That week, I was trained in a skill most of us never learn—the grieving process.

Every man experiences loss.
Few men are taught how to grieve.

That alone should stop us in our tracks.

We teach math. We teach history. We teach physical education. But grief—the one certainty every human being will face—goes largely untouched. I can’t help but think how different life might look if this were taught in seventh or eighth grade, before heartbreak, death, and failure begin stacking up.

My own training in grief was brief and incomplete.

When my Opa—my grandfather—passed away, my father told me the truth as he understood it: people die, life doesn’t stop, and you have to move on. As a teenager, I accepted that framework without question.

And in doing so, I unknowingly learned how not to grieve.

I learned to skip the process and jump straight to acceptance. Loss became something you pushed past, buried, and ignored. Over time, those unprocessed emotions stacked up—compressed under pressure—until I no longer knew what I was feeling or what to do with it.

What I learned in this training changed that.

You don’t get to skip grief.

Denial, bargaining, anger, sadness—each stage has a purpose. Awareness is what allows you to move through them instead of getting stuck in them.

• Denial shows you where you’re lying to yourself—and why.

• Bargaining reveals what you truly wanted and what mattered most.

• Anger exposes injustice and loss, and reminds you that something meaningful existed.

• Sadness honors significance—it tells you this mattered.

Acceptance isn’t something you force.
It’s something you arrive at.

And while it isn’t simple, there is a way through. Knowing that alone gave me hope—and a skill I can now train, refine, and use for the rest of my life.

The Tar Pit of Shame

The final hammer that fell for me was awareness of the shame I’d been carrying.

Shame serves no redemptive purpose.
Its only function is punishment—of self or others.

Shame is a tar pit. Once you step into it, escape becomes nearly impossible. It doesn’t motivate growth; it builds a tomb you slowly learn to live inside.

Here’s the truth that stopped me cold:
If I told a friend to shame himself as a way to improve his life, he’d look at me like I was insane. So why had I been doing it to myself for years?

Because shame is taught.

By parents.
By siblings.
By elders.
By partners.
By coaches who confuse discipline with humiliation.

We’re taught that feeling bad equals accountability. That punishment equals growth. That saying “sorry” only counts if it hurts enough.

Now I see it clearly—shame is a system of failure.

It doesn’t build men.
It breaks them quietly.

And awareness—real awareness—is the first step out.