Friendship is messy. Loss is constant. And men? We rarely talk about it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what we carry, what we lose, and how we show up—or don’t.
These thoughts came from listening to an episode of Offline with Jon Favreau called “Are Men Okay?” featuring Zac Seidler, a psychologist who studies men’s health for the Movember Foundation. The show opened with a startling fact: more than half of American men die before the age of 75, and that number is getting worse.
Seidler and Favreau talked about how men often misunderstand what wellness means, especially in a digital world that celebrates performance over vulnerability. His words struck a chord. I’m no longer a young man, but I have sons who are—and I recognized the quiet ways men of every age hide what hurts.
Among my own circle of old friends, I can see that same silence. We’re all facing losses—some recent, some long ago—and each of us is trying, in our own way, simply to survive them. You don’t conquer loss; you learn to live beside it.
Childhood Friend
One of my oldest friends is someone I’ve known since childhood. We grew up together, went to the same schools, drifted apart for years, and eventually both returned to town—he to teach college, I to teach younger students.
We still crossed paths occasionally, mostly through our shared obsession with staying fit: he ran, I biked. Once, during a casual conversation in a grocery store line, he surprised me with, “You were always an underachiever.” I never knew exactly what he meant. Maybe teasing, maybe judgment, maybe even a sideways compliment. It stuck with me.
Years later, at our fortieth high school reunion, he sat alone at a table that included me and a few mutual friends. Once known for his easy charisma, he seemed withdrawn, almost impatient with the sentimental tone of the evening. When a slideshow of classmates who had passed played to soft music, he muttered something about sparing him the “maudlin sentimentality.” I understood the impulse. Grief sometimes makes cynics of us all.
Not long ago, his partner died. I reached out simply to say I was sorry and that I was here if he needed to talk. He thanked me, but I keep thinking about him—loss isolates even the most social among us.
Teaching Colleague and Musician
Another friend is a former teaching colleague—someone I shared a wall, a schedule, and twenty years of classroom chaos with. We both taught math and science to sixth graders, juggling equations, experiments, and preteens on the verge of self-destruction.
We also shared a love of music: he played bass; I played drums in our staff band, proudly called Staff Infection.
When he retired, a few years after I did, he and his wife seemed to embrace the good life—travel, golf, family. Then, suddenly, she was gone. I saw him at her memorial and later sent a note, offering an ear if he ever needed one. He thanked me, but we haven’t talked since.
I think about him often—even deep friendships can slip into silence, especially after loss. Maybe it’s time to call again.
Cycling Companion
The last friend I want to mention is someone I’ve known almost entirely through bicycling, going back nearly forty years, with a few shared backpacking trips in the Sierra. Recently, he suffered two strokes, days apart, which threatened the thing he loved most: riding at a high level, even as he approached eighty.
When I checked in a couple of months later, I saw both his pride and his quiet embarrassment—the strokes had shaken him, but not his determination. He is slowly recovering, taking long walks and gentle rides, and refusing much of physical therapy because, in his words, it was “just balance work.”
His setback isn’t only physical. Since retiring from his photography business—a career largely erased by the digital era—he’s been more isolated. Cycling remains his anchor, the thing that keeps him connected to a small community of fellow riders. I just reached out again and will be picking him up tomorrow for a local ride.
Reflections on Friendship and Loss
Loss changes everything. Silence isolates. Connection saves us.
Thinking about these friendships, I see a common thread: loss reshapes our lives in ways both visible and quiet. And yet, it also reminds me of the enduring power of connection. Reaching out—even when it feels awkward, belated, or uncertain—matters.
The podcast Are Men Okay? reminded me that men rarely talk about how they’re truly doing, and I recognize that pattern in myself and in the friends I’ve written about. But in spite of—or perhaps because of—our losses, we can choose to persist in connection. A shared ride, a text, a moment of music, or simply showing up can make the difference between drifting apart and surviving together.
I don’t claim to have all the answers, and grief has a way of reminding us that life rarely unfolds as neatly as we wish. Still, I believe there is grace in reaching out, in extending empathy, and in sustaining the bonds that have shaped us.
So here’s my invitation: call the friend you’ve been thinking about. Send the note you’ve been putting off. Show up.
We survive loss better when we survive it together. And sometimes, survival is simply showing up—on a bike, on a walk, or in a conversation that refuses to be postponed.
10/22/2025
Sisyphus and Associates 