"Actor Andrew McCarthy's new book, "Who Needs #Friends," explores #male #loneliness in America. As a member of the infamous "Brat Pack" of young actors from the 1980s, McCarthy starred in such popular films as "Pretty in Pink" and the coming-of-age melodrama "St. Elmo's Fire." Now he's taken a 10,000-mile road trip across 22 states to reconnect with old friends. McCarthy tells us what he learned about human connection along the way."
'DTF St. Louis' Finale: A Devastating Unraveling of Male Loneliness and Betrayal
The DTF St. Louis finale on April 12 2026 revealed Floyd Smernitch's death was caused by emotional neglect, not crime. Learn how loneliness and betrayal affected him.
#DTFStLouis, #FloydSmernitch, #MaleLoneliness, #TVFinale, #April122026
https://newsletter.tf/dtf-st-louis-finale-floyd-death-loneliness-betrayal/
The final episode of DTF St. Louis on April 12, 2026, showed Floyd Smernitch's death was due to loneliness and betrayal. This is different from a typical crime story.
#DTFStLouis, #FloydSmernitch, #MaleLoneliness, #TVFinale, #April122026
https://newsletter.tf/dtf-st-louis-finale-floyd-death-loneliness-betrayal/
The Empty Leaderboard
2,530 words, 13 minutes read time.
Mark Holloway felt the heat of the stage lights on his neck, but for the first time in his life, it didn’t feel like a spotlight of judgment. It felt like a cleansing fire. He stayed in that embrace with Chris for a long moment—long enough for the silence in the room to turn from awkward to heavy, and finally, to something holy. When he pulled back, he saw that Chris wasn’t the “Lakefront King” he had built him up to be in his mind. Chris looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that no Instagram filter could have hidden if Mark had been looking for them instead of looking for reasons to feel inferior.
“Mark,” Chris whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans in the ceiling. “That lake photo? That was the only ten minutes of that entire weekend we weren’t screaming at each other. My oldest son told me he hates me on the drive home. I spent the last three nights sleeping on the couch because I don’t know how to talk to my wife anymore. I saw you walk in every Sunday and I thought, ‘There’s Holloway. He’s got that quiet, steady strength. I wish I was that composed.'”
Mark felt a dry, ironic laugh bubble up in his chest. “We’ve been haunting each other, Chris. We’ve been living in each other’s shadows, and the shadows aren’t even real.”
The pastor, a man named Miller who usually kept a tight grip on the “order of service,” didn’t move toward the microphone. He stayed in the front row, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking slightly. The “program” had officially died, and in its place, something raw was breathing. Mark looked back at the stage—the mahogany lectern, the expensive lighting, the 4K screens. It all looked like cardboard now. It was all just scaffolding for the real work happening on the floor.
Mark turned toward the rest of the men. He didn’t go back to the microphone. He didn’t need the ten thousand watts anymore. “I used to think that being a ‘Man of God’ meant being a man of answers,” he said, his natural voice carrying through the hushed rows. “I thought it meant having the firmest grip and the most certain spirit. But look at us. We’re a room full of experts on things that don’t matter and novices on the things that do. We know the stats of players who don’t know we exist, but we don’t know the fears of the man sitting six inches away from us.”
A man in the back, someone Mark recognized as a high-powered attorney named Steven, stood up. Steven was known for his sharp suits and an even sharper tongue in committee meetings. He wasn’t wearing a suit tonight. He was wearing a faded polo shirt, and he looked smaller than Mark remembered.
“I’ve spent forty thousand dollars on a kitchen remodel I didn’t need because I wanted my brother to be jealous,” Steven said, his voice cracking. “And my daughter hasn’t looked me in the eye in six months because I’m never home to eat in that kitchen. I’m a success in the courtroom and a stranger in my own hallway. I look at all of you and I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”
One by one, the “Holloway Effect” began to ripple through the pews. It wasn’t a landslide; it was a slow, steady breaking of a dam. These weren’t the polished testimonies you hear on a Sunday morning—the ones where the struggle is safely in the past tense and wrapped in a neat bow. These were “present tense” confessions.
Mark sat down on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the side. He felt a strange sense of peace watching the hierarchy of the church evaporate. The “Alpha” guys, the “Quiet” guys, the “Success” stories, and the “Struggling” cases were all bleeding into a single, unified color: human.
He thought about his house—the one with the mortgage that felt like a collar around his neck. He thought about the SUV with the French fry in the seat crack. He thought about the regional account he didn’t get. For years, those things had been the metrics of his soul. If the account was up, Mark was up. If the house needed a repair he couldn’t afford, Mark was “broken.” He had tied his identity to a set of moving targets, and he was exhausted from the chase.
“You know,” Mark said, catching the attention of a younger guy in the front row who looked like he was about to bolt for the exit out of sheer vulnerability-overload. “The hardest thing I ever had to do wasn’t admitting I failed. It was admitting that even if I succeeded, it wouldn’t be enough. We’re all trying to fill a canyon with pebbles. We think if we just get a bigger pebble—a faster car, a better title, a more ‘spiritual’ reputation—the hole will go away. But the hole is infinite. And the only thing that fits in an infinite hole is an infinite grace.”
He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a middle-manager. They were soft in some places, calloused in others. They weren’t the hands of a warrior or a titan of industry. They were just Mark’s hands.
“I spent my whole life wanting to be David,” he mused, referring to the biblical king. “But I think I’m actually just one of the guys in the army who was hiding in the trenches because Goliath looked too big. And the irony is, I was hiding from you guys too. I thought if you saw my fear, you’d leave me behind. I didn’t realize you were in the trench next to me, just as terrified, watching me to see if I’d run first.”
The atmosphere in the room had shifted from a “conference” to a “hospital.” The fluorescent hum of the lobby seemed miles away. Here, under the dimming stage lights, there was a sense of heavy, honest brotherhood that Mark had spent forty years looking for and forty seconds finding once he stopped lying.
He stood up again, but this time he walked toward the back of the room. He wanted to get away from the “Main Stage” entirely. He wanted to be on the level ground. He passed David, the man with the truck, who reached out and gripped Mark’s forearm. David didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was a silent “thank you.” It was the look of a man who had been given permission to stop holding his breath.
Mark reached the back doors, the heavy oak handles cool to the touch. He turned back one last time to look at the room. The men were no longer sitting in neat rows. They were gathered in small clusters, talking, some with hands on each other’s shoulders, some just sitting in a shared, comfortable silence. The “Leaderboard” was gone. The “Highlight Reel” had been edited down to the raw footage.
“I’m going home,” Mark whispered to himself.
But home didn’t feel like a place he had to perform for anymore. Home was just the next stop on a journey where he didn’t have to be anyone but Mark Holloway. He pushed the doors open, the cool night air hitting him like a physical blessing.
The cool night air was sharp, smelling of rain and the distant scent of pine mulch from the church’s landscaping. Mark stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the silence of the parking lot wash over him. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked toward his SUV—the silver crossover he had spent so many years despising because it wasn’t something else.
As he reached for the door handle, he heard the heavy thud of the sanctuary doors opening behind him. He turned to see Jim, the group leader with the booming charisma, stepping out into the light of the entryway. Jim looked different without the pulpit in front of him. He looked smaller, his shoulders slightly hunched against the chill.
“Mark! Wait up,” Jim called out. He jogged down the concrete steps, his breath blooming in the air like small, white ghosts. When he reached Mark, he didn’t offer a handshake or a pat on the back. He just stood there, looking at the silver SUV.
“I’ve lived in this town for fifteen years,” Jim said softly. “I’ve led this group for five. And tonight was the first time I felt like I wasn’t the only one in the room who didn’t have a clue what he was doing.”
Mark leaned against his car door. “You too, Jim? I figured you had a direct line. You always look like you’ve got the next five years mapped out.”
Jim let out a short, hollow laugh. “Mark, I spend my Tuesday afternoons rehearsing my ‘spontaneous’ prayers in the shower so I don’t sound like an idiot. I stay up until two in the morning wondering if I’m just a professional Christian who’s lost the plot. When you got up there and talked about the leaderboard… I realized I’m the one who built the leaderboard. I thought that was my job. To keep everyone climbing.”
“It’s a long way down,” Mark said, not unkindly.
“It is,” Jim agreed. “But the air is better down here, isn’t it?”
They stood in silence for a minute, two men in a parking lot, no longer defined by their titles or their perceived successes. Jim reached out and squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “See you Sunday, Mark. And hey… don’t worry about the parking spot next to David’s truck. He told me he’s selling it tomorrow. He’s going back to a sedan so he can start paying off his kid’s tuition.”
Mark watched Jim walk to his own car, then he climbed into the driver’s seat of his SUV. He didn’t turn on the radio. He didn’t check his phone for notifications. He just sat in the dark. He reached down and picked up the lone, shriveled French fry from the console—the tiny, greasy monument to his “mediocre” life. He looked at it for a second and then tossed it into the small trash bag hanging from the dash. It was a small act of cleaning, a minor order in the chaos.
The drive home felt shorter than usual. He wasn’t racing the phantom cars of his imagination. He wasn’t rehearsing the speech he’d give his boss to explain why the regional account was better off with the younger guy. He just drove. He noticed the way the streetlights reflected in the puddles, the way the neighborhood houses looked warm and yellow in the dark.
When he pulled into his driveway, he saw the light in the living room was still on. He saw the shadow of his wife, Sarah, moving past the window. Usually, this was the moment the “Mask” went on. He would straighten his posture, wipe the exhaustion from his face, and prepare to be the “Standard-Issue Husband.”
But tonight, Mark Holloway stayed in the car for a moment longer. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw a man who was tired, yes, but he also saw a man who was finally, undeniably real. He thought about his son, Leo, and the bike chain that needed fixing. He thought about the daughter who was becoming a stranger and the wife who deserved to know the man she actually married, not the one he was trying to be.
He opened the garage door, the motor groaning with a familiar, domestic rhythm. He walked through the mudroom, kicking off his sneakers. The house smelled like laundry detergent and the taco seasoning from dinner.
Sarah was on the couch, a book open in her lap. She looked up as he walked in, her eyes searching his face with that intuitive, terrifyingly accurate “wife-radar.”
“How was the meeting?” she asked, her voice soft. “Was it the usual? Coffee and a ‘be a better man’ lecture?”
Mark walked over to the couch. He didn’t stand over her. He sat down on the floor by her feet, leaning his back against the cushions. It was a position of vulnerability, of being “less than” in a way that felt entirely right.
“No,” Mark said, reaching up to take her hand. “It wasn’t that at all. I think… I think I finally quit my job today.”
Sarah’s eyes widened, her hand tensing in his. “The firm? Mark, we can’t—”
“No, not the firm,” he interrupted, turning to look at her. “I quit the other job. The one where I try to be everyone else. I’m just going to be me for a while. Is that okay? It might be a little messy. I might not have the best truck in the lot or the most polished prayer in the room.”
Sarah looked at him for a long beat, her expression softening into something Mark hadn’t seen in years—a look of pure, uncomplicated relief. She reached down and ran her fingers through his thinning hair.
“Mark Holloway,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for that guy to come home for a decade.”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Leo was probably awake, sneaking a book under the covers. Tomorrow, there would be bills to pay. Tomorrow, the younger guy would start the regional account. Tomorrow, the world would still be full of leaderboards and highlight reels.
But as Mark sat there on the floor, his wife’s hand in his and the weight of the world finally off his shoulders, he knew he wasn’t afraid of tomorrow anymore. He had found the one thing that no amount of competition could provide: he had been found out, and he was still loved.
The leaderboard was gone. The race was over. And for the first time in his life, Mark Holloway was exactly where he wanted to be. He was home.
Author’s Note
This story is for the man sitting in his driveway with the engine idling, staring at the garage door and wondering when the hell he’s finally going to feel like he’s “arrived.”
We’ve all been sold a lie. We’ve been told that manhood is a ladder, and if you aren’t climbing, you’re suffocating. We walk into our churches, our offices, and our gyms with our chests out and our secrets locked in the basement, terrified that if the guy next to us sees a single dent in our armor, we’re finished. We spend our lives comparing our raw, unedited internal disasters to the polished, high-definition highlight reels of everyone else.
Mark Holloway is the guy in the mirror. He’s the man who realized that the “Leaderboard” he was killing himself to climb was actually a gallows. He finally understood that you can’t be loved if you refuse to be known, and you can’t be known if you’re too busy pretending to be a goddamn superhero.
Stop looking at the guy in the next lane. Stop measuring your worth by the badge on your grille or the title on your door. As it says in Galatians 6:4:
“Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.”
This story is a punch in the mouth to the “Sunday Morning Mask.” It’s a reminder that the most masculine thing you will ever do isn’t winning a fight or closing a deal—it’s having the stones to drop the shield and tell the truth.
The race is a scam, brothers. Step off the track. The only person you’re supposed to outrun is the fake version of yourself you’ve been dragging around for years. Go inside. Be real. Be home.
Call to Action
If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.
D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
#authenticBrotherhood #beingKnown #biblicalManhood #breakingSilence #breakingTheMask #ChristianBrotherhood #ChristianLiving #ChristianMenSFiction #ChristianMenSGroup #ChristianMentalHealth #ChristianResilience #churchBasementStories #churchCommunity #churchCulture #churchFellowship #churchSmallGroups #churchStageStories #competitiveSpirituality #emotionalHonesty #faithAndFamily #faithBasedStorytelling #fatherhoodAndFaith #FatherhoodStruggles #findingSelfWorth #Galatians64 #graceVsPerformance #healingThroughHonesty #heartOverAppearance #honestFaith #identityInChrist #lettingGoOfPride #livingWithoutComparison #maleComparison #maleLoneliness #malePeerPressure #MarkHolloway #menSGroupTopics #menSMinistryResources #mentalHealthAndFaith #mentalHealthForMen #modernChurchStory #modernDiscipleship #modernManStruggles #overcomingInadequacy #redemptionStories #relationalHealth #religiousFiction #religiousMenSStories #religiousShortStories #socialMediaComparison #spiritualBurnout #spiritualFreedom #SpiritualGrowth #spiritualIdentity #theComparisonTrap #TheEmptyLeaderboard #toxicMasculinityInChurch #vulnerabilityAndLeadership #vulnerabilityInMen
A story from Sepp Forscher on Medium
Read “Male loneliness epidemic is real but in a way your didn’t think about.“ by Sepp Forscher on Medium: https://medium.com/@seppforscher/male-loneliness-epidemic-is-real-but-in-a-way-your-didnt-think-about-f8f00a204f36
Can we just call the "male loneliness epidemic" what it actually is...the process of natural selection asserting itself? #Evolution is a wondrous thing.
Dudes with under-developed social skills, playing video games in their Moms basement into their 30s bring very little to the DNA table.
The Unfinished Blueprint
2,160 words, 11 minutes read time.
The diesel engine of Marcus Read’s F-150 rumbled in the driveway at 5:15 AM, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the steering wheel and into his calloused palms. In the gray, pre-dawn light of a Tuesday in November, Marcus sat in the cab, his breath fogging the glass as he scrolled through a backlog of work orders. He was the lead foreman for Miller & Sons Residential, and he was currently three weeks out from finishing the “Ridgeview Estates” project—a luxury subdivision that had become his entire world.
If he brought this project in under budget and ahead of schedule, the year-end bonus wouldn’t just be a paycheck; it would be a rescue boat. It would wipe out the credit card debt from last Christmas, cover the rising property taxes, and finally put away enough for the kitchen remodel Sarah had been talking about for three years. He told himself this was his duty. A man works. A man provides. He held onto that mantra like a religious text, using it to shield himself from the quiet guilt that gnawed at him every time he saw his family through the rearview mirror.
If he wasn’t on-site by sunrise, the subcontractors slacked off, the framing stayed crooked, and the margins slipped. To Marcus, those margins were the measure of his worth. As he backed out of the driveway, his truck’s headlights swept across the garage door. He didn’t notice the “Good Luck, Dad” sign his daughter, Mia, had taped there. It was decorated with glitter and a drawing of a blue ribbon for her science fair. He was already miles away, calculating the board footage for the white oak flooring.
By 10:00 AM, the job site was a cacophony of circular saws and pneumatic nail guns. Marcus moved through the skeletal structures with a clipboard in one hand and a thermal carafe of black coffee in the other. He was a king in this kingdom of sawdust and mud. Here, people listened to him. Here, things made sense. If a beam was off, you shimmed it. If a pipe leaked, you tightened the fitting. There was a direct, satisfying correlation between his effort and the result.
“Read! We’ve got a problem in Unit 4,” shouted Miller, the owner’s son. “The inspector is saying the HVAC clearance isn’t up to code. If we don’t fix this by tomorrow, the whole closing schedule shifts. We’ll lose the Q4 window.”
Marcus felt the familiar surge of adrenaline—the “fixer” high. “I’ll handle it,” he snapped. “I’ll stay late and re-run the ducting myself if I have to.”
“Good man,” Miller said, clapping him on the shoulder. “This is why you’re the best we’ve got, Marcus. You’re a machine.”
Marcus felt a swell of pride that tasted like ash. A machine. It felt better than being a husband who couldn’t remember where the extra trash bags were kept. It felt better than being a father who didn’t know the names of his daughter’s teachers. He leaned into the work, the sweat stinging his eyes as he climbed into the cramped, sweltering attic space of Unit 4.
His phone buzzed in his pocket at 3:30 PM. It was Sarah. He ignored it. He was elbow-deep in galvanized metal and foil tape. It buzzed again at 4:00. Finally, he pulled it out, his thumb smearing drywall dust across the screen.
Marcus, the science fair starts at 5:00. Mia is asking if you’ll be there for the awards. She’s been crying because the volcano model is still gray. You promised you’d help her paint it tonight. Please.
He looked at the unfinished ductwork. If he left now, he’d lose the momentum. The inspector was coming at 7:00 AM. If he stayed, he could guarantee the win for the company. He could guarantee that bonus. He typed back: Stuck at the site. Emergency with the inspector. Tell her I’m so proud and I’ll make it up to her. I’m doing this for us.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and picked up his snips. I’m doing this for us, he whispered to the empty attic. It was the lie he used to cauterize the wound of his own absence.
By 9:00 PM, the job site was a graveyard of discarded lumber and silence. Marcus was the last soul there, his headlamp cutting a lonely arc through the dark as he packed his tools into the gang box. He was exhausted, his lower back screaming, but the ductwork was perfect. He had won. He had saved the schedule. He climbed into his truck, the heater blasting against the November chill, and headed home.
As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed the house was unnaturally dark. Usually, the porch light was on, or the glow of the television flickered through the living room curtains. Tonight, the windows looked like empty sockets.
He unlocked the front door, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the foyer. “Sarah? Mia?”
Silence greeted him. It wasn’t the peaceful silence of a sleeping household; it was the heavy, hollow silence of a vacuum. He walked into the kitchen. The air felt cold. There was no smell of dinner, no stray shoes by the door, no hum of the dishwasher.
He saw a stack of papers sitting on the granite island, held down by his wedding ring.
Marcus picked up the top sheet. His hands, thick and steady enough to frame a skyscraper, began to shake. At the top, in stark, formal lettering, were the words: PETITION FOR LEGAL SEPARATION.
His eyes skipped down the lines, catching fragments that felt like shards of glass. Irreconcilable differences… habitual absence… abandonment of emotional duties. He looked toward the stairs, his boots thudding heavily on the hardwood as he ran up to the master bedroom. He threw open the closet doors. Sarah’s side was a cavern of empty hangers. Her jewelry box was gone. The photo of them on their honeymoon in Cabo was missing from the nightstand.
He sprinted to Mia’s room. Her bed was made with a chilling, final precision. He looked toward the corner where the science fair project had sat for weeks. The volcano was there, but it wasn’t gray anymore. It was painted a vibrant, fiery red—but the brushstrokes were all wrong. They weren’t the careful, guided strokes he had promised to teach her. Beside it, the presentation board was filled out in a neat, feminine script that wasn’t Sarah’s. It was the neighbor’s handwriting. Someone else had stepped in to be the father he refused to be. Someone else had held the brush. Someone else had heard her excitement.
He stumbled back down to the kitchen and collapsed onto a barstool, the legal papers crinkling under his weight. He looked at the high-end appliances he had worked eighty-hour weeks to afford. He looked at the designer backsplash he’d stayed up until midnight installing. He looked at the vaulted ceilings and the expensive flooring.
He had built a palace of “stuff,” convinced that every hour of overtime was a brick in the wall of his family’s security. He had justified his pride, his workaholism, and his avoidance of the messy, vulnerable parts of being a man by calling it “sacrifice.” He had gained the whole world—the Ridgeview project was a masterpiece, the bonus was coming, his reputation was ironclad.
But as he sat in the dark, clutching the document that signaled the end of his life, Marcus Read finally understood the math of his own soul. He had traded the only people who actually loved him for the approval of men who would replace him by Monday.
He reached for his phone to call her, but he realized he didn’t even know where they had gone. He didn’t know the name of Mia’s science teacher. He didn’t know what Sarah needed when she was lonely. He knew how to build a house, but he had no idea how to live in one.
The “machine” was finally alone. Marcus put his head in his dust-covered hands and let out a sound that wasn’t a foreman’s command or a provider’s boast. It was the sound of a man standing in the ruins of a kingdom he had built for nobody. He had won the promotion, but in the silence of the empty house, he realized he had lost everything else.
Author’s Note
The story of Marcus Read is not a cautionary tale about a “bad” man. In fact, by the world’s standards, Marcus is an exemplary man. He is disciplined, a “top performer,” and a high-income, good provider driven by a desire to give his family the life he never had. He isn’t out at bars or chasing scandals; he is exactly what society tells a man to be: a tireless engine of success.
But Marcus fell into a dual trap that claims thousands of well-meaning men every year. The first is the internal trap: the belief that our provision is a valid substitute for our presence. The second is the external trap: a modern culture—and sometimes even those closest to us—that demands a lifestyle well above our means, silently encouraging a man to work himself into the grave to fund a standard of living that no paycheck can truly satisfy.
We see this play out in the wreckage of divorce cases every day. A man is cheered for his “hustle” and his ability to provide luxuries, only to be vilified for his absence once the relationship withers. It is a hollow cycle. We tell ourselves we are building a kingdom for our families, but as Jesus warned in Matthew 16:26, “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?”
For Marcus, his “soul” wasn’t just his eternal destination; it was the essence of his life—his connection to his wife, the heart of his daughter, and his identity as a man of God rather than a “machine” of industry. He traded the irreplaceable for the replaceable. He forgot that while Miller & Sons would have a new foreman listed on a job board within forty-eight hours of his departure, he was the only man on earth designed to be Mia’s father and Sarah’s husband.
Workaholism is often just pride in a high-visibility vest. It is the refusal to be vulnerable and the misplaced hope that our value is found in the size of our bank account rather than the depth of our character. We hide in our offices and on our job sites because, in those places, we are in control and we are “valued” for our output. But God does not call us to be “top performers” at the expense of our homes; He calls us to be faithful.
If you find yourself sitting in a truck at 5:00 AM or staring at a laptop at midnight, ask yourself: Who am I really doing this for? Is it for the family, or is it to satisfy an insatiable appetite for more “stuff” that the world—or even your household—tells you that you need? Remember that your family would rather have a father who is present for the “gray volcano” moments than a father who provides a luxury house that feels like a tomb.
Don’t wait for the silence of an empty house to realize that your greatest “win” isn’t waiting for you at the office. It’s waiting for you at the front door.
Call to Action
If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.
D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
#beingPresent #biblicalManhood #buildingALegacy #burnout #careerVsFamily #characterOverCareer #chasingPromotions #ChristianFiction #ChristianLeadership #ChristianMen #devotionalStory #domesticSilence #emotionalAbsence #emptyHouse #faithAndWork #familyFirst #familyLegacy #fatherDaughterRelationship #FatherhoodStruggles #godlyHusband #godlyPriorities #grievingFather #heartOfAFather #highIncomeTraps #homeLife #kingdomLiving #legalSeparation #livingForChrist #maleIdentity #maleLoneliness #maritalStrain #marriageCrisis #Matthew1626 #menSMinistry #menSSmallGroup #midlifeCrisis #misplacedPriorities #modernProvider #overcomingPride #parentingGuilt #parentingMistakes #prideInWork #providerRole #providingForFamily #repentance #restoration #shortStoryForMen #soulCare #spiritualHealth #spiritualLeadership #successTraps #theCostOfSuccess #toxicHustleCulture #vocationalHoliness #vulnerability #workLifeBalance #workaholism
du sollst als mann deinen freunden nicht sagen dass du sie liebst?! 😳
der grund für die #MaleLoneliness ist ein absolutes rätsel 🙃
https://www.kcl.ac.uk/news/almost-a-third-of-gen-z-men-agree-a-wife-should-obey-her-husband
Male Loneliness मर्द को दर्द नहीं होता? Men's Mental Health इस पुरानी सोच ने भारतीय पुरुषों को बनाया अकेलेपन का शिकार; जानें क्यों जरूरी है 'सेफ स्पेस' #MensMentalHealth #MaleLoneliness #MentalHealthAwareness #BreakTheSilence #IndianYouth #SafeSpace #Loneliness #MentalWellbeing #MenTalk #SelfCareForMen #BreakingStereotypes #MensHealth
https://vrnewslive.com/male-loneliness-mens-mental-health-in-india/
RE: https://tech.lgbt/@CordiallyChloe/115674143777160629
Seriously, all men, women and people that have contact to these genders should read this comic!
I just finished reading it and am sharing it now deep and wide.
#feminism #masculinity #MaleLoneliness #MaleLoleninessEpidemic #RightwingPipeline #ToxicMasculinity #EmotionalHealth #Patriarchy
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