There is an interesting contradiction in my life right now. Professionally, I spend my days talking about mental health, helping healthcare organizations connect people with psychiatric care, and advocating for patients who need support. I believe deeply in the work. I believe in the providers, the resources, and the difference that access to care can make in someone's life.
But lately, I've found myself asking a difficult question: What happens when the person who understands the importance of mental health is struggling to take care of his own?
Over the past several months, life has brought more change, grief, and uncertainty than I know how to neatly organize. I'm navigating a divorce that has been heartbreaking. I've experienced the loss of my grandfather, a retired service member who served in the Korean War, and the sudden, unexpected loss of my father-in-law. I'm also trying to figure out what it means to be a father when the life and family structure I've known are changing in ways I never wanted.
And through all of it, life keeps moving.
Work continues. Responsibilities remain. People still need you to show up, make decisions, lead conversations, and be the person they have come to expect.
So you show up.
What I've been learning, however, is that showing up for everyone else doesn't necessarily mean you're taking care of yourself.
Knowing Better Doesn't Mean It's Easy
One of the hardest parts of this season is recognizing the distance between what I know and what I actually feel capable of doing.
I understand the importance of mental health support. I know there are resources available. I work alongside people who dedicate their careers to helping others navigate difficult seasons of life. I can talk about the importance of seeking care, creating healthy routines, and not allowing stigma to keep people from asking for help.
Yet knowing these things doesn't make grief disappear. It doesn't make the end of a marriage hurt less. It doesn't quiet the uncertainty that comes with rebuilding a life or make the moments away from my children any easier.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm suffering in silence—not because I don't believe in help, but because knowing where help exists and knowing how to process everything you're carrying are two very different things.
I've also had to confront something less comfortable: when I'm hurting, I don't always respond to people with the patience, kindness, or grace I want to show them. I know better.
And still, there are moments when my own frustration or sadness gets the better of me.
I'm not sharing that as an excuse. I'm sharing it because I suspect I'm not the only man who has recognized a gap between the person he wants to be and the person he sometimes becomes under pressure.
Awareness is important, but awareness alone isn't the finish line. Sometimes, the work is acknowledging where you've fallen short, taking responsibility, and trying again the next day.
The Guilt of Not Giving Them the Family I Imagined
One of the hardest feelings I've been trying to work through is the guilt I carry as a father. I have three children at very different stages of life. Sophia is 21 and in her senior year at the University of Arizona, preparing to step into the next chapter of her life. Harper is almost four, and Cooper is one. Each of them needs me in different ways, and each relationship means more to me than I can put into words.
I've always wanted to give my children the stability of a family that stays together, with both parents under one roof and the comfort of knowing what home would look like. I wanted to give them the kind of foundation that makes life feel safe and demonstrates what love looks like.
When a marriage ends, it's difficult not to question yourself. You think about the life you envisioned for your children and grieve the fact that it may look different from what you hoped it would be. With Harper and Cooper, I find myself thinking about the little moments I might miss, the routines, the milestones, and the ordinary days that become the memories you treasure. With Sophia, I think about the example I want to set as she enters adulthood and begins building a life of her own.
But I'm also learning that a relationship takes two people. A marriage cannot be sustained by one person's effort, love, or willingness to keep trying. I can take responsibility for my own choices, acknowledge where I could have been a better partner, and continue to grow without believing that I alone was responsible for the outcome.
I cannot control every circumstance or give my children every version of life I hoped they would have. What I can control is how I treat them, how consistently I show up, and the kind of father I continue to become.
I want all three of my children to know that, regardless of how our family structure changes, my commitment to them does not. I want them to see a father who is honest about difficult emotions, who takes accountability when he gets things wrong, and who continues to work on himself.
Maybe the life I give them will look different from the one I imagined. My responsibility now is to make sure that different doesn't mean less love, less presence, or less commitment.
Emotional Intelligence When Everything Is Emotional
Divorce has a way of testing your emotional intelligence in real time.
It's one thing to talk about self-awareness, empathy, patience, and accountability when life is going well. It's another to practice those things when you're grieving, frustrated, hurt, and trying to make decisions that will affect the rest of your life.
Selling the family home. Separating shared responsibilities. Rebuilding routines. Figuring out where you belong when the relationship that shaped so much of your identity is ending. These aren't abstract challenges. They're real decisions, often made while emotions are running high and the future feels uncertain.
I'm learning that emotional intelligence isn't about never getting upset or always knowing the right thing to say. It's about recognizing what you're feeling before you let it dictate what you do next.
Sometimes, I need to get quiet or remove myself from a situation when I recognize that my emotions are getting the better of me. I've found that some of my clearest thinking happens when I give myself permission to pause. I need space to breathe, identify what I'm actually feeling, and understand why I'm feeling it before I can communicate in a way that reflects who I want to be.
Am I angry, or am I hurt? Am I frustrated with the situation, or am I grieving something I can't change? Am I reacting to what's happening in front of me, or is the weight of everything else I'm carrying influencing my response?
Those distinctions matter.
Taking a step back isn't always about avoiding a difficult conversation. Sometimes, it's about making sure I can return to it with greater clarity, patience, and the ability to listen.
The goal isn't to suppress my emotions or pretend they aren't there. It's to understand them well enough that they don't make my decisions for me.
I'm also learning that there's a difference between taking space to regulate my emotions and withdrawing in a way that leaves someone else feeling shut out. When I need that space, I want to get better at communicating it, letting people know I need time to process and that I'm willing to come back to the conversation.
I don't always get it right. Some days, my patience is tested in ways I never expected. But I want to keep developing this part of myself, not just because it will help me navigate divorce, but because it will make me a better father, friend, colleague, and person.
I can't control every circumstance or how other people respond to them. I can control whether I keep working on myself.
Emotional intelligence isn't demonstrated when everything is easy. It's practiced when everything is hard.
Finding My Footing, One Day at a Time
I wish I could say I've found a perfect formula for navigating all of this. I haven't.
What I have found are a few things that help me keep moving, even when I don't feel like I have a clear destination.
Golf has become one of those outlets. Sometimes it's the competition, the concentration, or the simple act of being outside. Other times, it's the people I'm with or the people I'm missing. Golf has a way of creating space for connection without requiring you to explain everything you're going through. You can walk alongside someone, share a few laughs, talk about anything or nothing at all, and simply be there.
I've also continued to work out. It's one of the most tangible ways I can take care of myself when other parts of my life feel beyond my control. There is something grounding about making a commitment to yourself and following through, even on a difficult day.
And I've made the decision not to drink. That has been helpful, too. I want to experience what I'm feeling rather than look for ways to temporarily escape it. I want to make decisions that align with the man and father I want to be.
None of these things fixes grief or makes divorce easier. They aren't substitutes for the deeper work of healing or for reaching out when I need support. But they give me a foundation. They remind me that even when I cannot control the circumstances around me, I can still make choices about how I care for myself.
Some days, that feels like progress. Other days, it simply feels like getting through the day.
I'm learning to accept that both count.
Perhaps Healing Begins by Helping Someone Else
One thing that has remained constant through this season is my desire to mentor other people, to help them navigate challenges, and to be someone they can turn to when life becomes difficult.
I've thought a lot about why that matters so much to me. Part of it is simply who I've always wanted to be. I believe we have a responsibility to use our experiences, our relationships, and whatever wisdom we've gained to help other people move forward.
But I've also wondered whether there is something healing about it for me.
Maybe when we help someone else find their footing, we are reminded that we can find ours, too. Maybe listening to someone else's struggles helps us recognize that vulnerability isn't weakness and that none of us has to have everything figured out to be useful to another person.
I don't want to help others as a way of avoiding my own struggles. I don't want to confuse being needed with being okay. But I do want to keep showing up for people, and I want to become better at allowing people to show up for me, too.
Perhaps that is part of what this season is teaching me: that strength isn't just about carrying the weight. Sometimes, it's about being honest enough to admit that the weight is heavy.
I am still grieving. I am still learning how to navigate divorce, how to be present for my children through change, and how to find a sense of purpose in a life that looks different from the one I imagined. I still have days when kindness requires more effort than it should and moments when I feel farther from the person I want to be than I'd like to admit.
But I am still here. I'm still working on myself. I'm still choosing healthier habits, spending time with people who matter, and trying to make the next right decision.
I don't have a grand conclusion about what this season means or when it will get easier. Maybe I don't need one yet.
What I do know is that the men around us may be carrying grief, fear, loneliness, or uncertainty that we will never see. They may be successful in their careers, committed to their families, dependable to their friends, and still struggling privately to make sense of their lives.
I know because, right now, I'm one of those men.
And if sharing that truth helps another man feel a little less alone or gives him the courage to have a conversation he has been avoiding, then perhaps something meaningful can come from a season I would never have chosen.
I'm learning that moving forward doesn't always mean knowing where you're going. Sometimes, it means being honest about where you are, giving yourself permission to struggle, and choosing to take one more step.
For now, that's what I'm trying to do.
