There’s no getting around it. This winter is already horrible, and it’s going to get worse.

Not sure how much more I can take. The constant death, the social isolation, the widespread unemployment, the closing of my favorite small businesses.

What’s hardest, though, is watching people I love struggle. Seeing them cope in unhealthy ways. Worrying about their increased drinking and drugging, their fake “I’m fine’s”, their unraveling relationships, their closing off and going inward.

Sometimes it’s like I’m all that’s keeping them from jumping into a black hole.

Sometimes I just want to shake them, yelling “Wake the fuck up!”

Sometimes I’m annoyed that it seems like no one’s helping me help them.

Sometimes I’m pissed at the government for leaving so many of my friends and neighbors hanging.

Sometimes I beg the Universe for mercy. I’ve got a regular meditation practice, a therapist, a good job, a stable family, and plenty of close friends. And I’m barely staying halfway sane.

Sometimes I want someone to hold me and pet my hair and tell me everything’s going to be alright.

What I’ve come to notice is that my friends who are struggling the most are men.

Which is not to say that others aren’t struggling too. It’s just that men tend to experience depression in ways tailor made to leave us hanging in a pandemic.

We often hide our vulnerability in fear of being less “manly.” We tend to have more “shoulder-to-shoulder” interactions — like playing or watching sports — than deep, connected, face-to-face friendships. We tend to avoid doing anything that would make us seem “needy.”

This causes all the toxic shit that gives so many men a bad rap: isolation, emotional numbness, angry outbursts, binge drinking.

No wonder some 80 percent of people who die of suicide in the U.S. are men.

This isn’t to say that men deserve attention more than anyone else. Women have been taking care of men’s emotional needs — without acknowledgement, without reciprocity, without pay — for way too long.

I’m just saying most of the men in my life are depressed right now. And I don’t know what to do.

Mostly, I’m exhausted. We’re in the middle of this thing, and who knows when it ends?

I also wanted you to know that if it feels like you’re holding everyone else up right now, you’re not alone. I see you.

Maybe the Serenity Prayer will resonate with you like it does with me?

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

If the word “God” turns you off, just take it out.

The point is, I can’t save my friends. What I can do is make sure they know that I’m here for them, that I’m curious how they’re doing, and that they aren’t “weak” for struggling during the biggest crisis of our lifetimes.

Everything else, I just have to let go of. There’s no way around it. Maybe letting go just isn’t supposed to feel good.

I’m a writer, meditation teacher, and host of the Meditation for the 99% podcast. My weekly emails will help you bring mindfulness to work, relationships, and politics. Subscribe here.

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Photo by Jerónimo Roure

I witnessed something sad at a D.C. street fair recently. A smiling boy, all of six or seven years old, asked a face painter to turn him into a blue and purple butterfly.

“No, you’re not going to be a butterfly,” said his mother.

“But why?” the boy asked, his smile fading into confusion.

“Because,” she said. “Why don’t you be a tiger or a pirate?”

It wasn’t exactly abuse, but it was a glaring example of so-called “toxic masculinity.” Presumably, the mother thought her son should want to be fierce and aggressive rather than radiant, harmless, and feminine, like a butterfly.

Like all ideology, toxic masculinity is not natural but socialized —we learn it from other people. Many children—especially boys— receive messages from adults that lead to behaviors such as suppressing emotions, acting tough no matter what, and anti-femininity (“No, you’re not going to be a butterfly.”)

If that doesn’t resonate with you, think of your conditioning. Maybe you have body image issues or you’re a perfectionist or you’re addicted to work. We all have patterns of behavior that we learned from others or developed to cope with challenging situations when we were children.

Mindfulness wakes us up by making us conscious of this unconscious conditioning. It drives a wedge between our thoughts and the thinker of those thoughts, our awareness.

When we witness thoughts from a distance, we no longer have to identify with them. They’re no longer me—they’re stories forced on to me or that I took on to protect myself.

Awhile back, I visited my grandfather who was in the hospital with pneumonia. A nurse walked into his room and began to remove a breathing tube taped behind his ears.

“What are you doing? You’re hurting me,” he yelled. “Idiot!”

I’d never seen him scold someone outside the family. The nurse, a young Latino woman, was being gentle, yet confident. I wanted so bad to tell him to shut up and appreciate that she was trying to help.

Instead, I decided to let the situation play out to see what happened. I watched what thoughts and emotions were coming up inside of me. There was anger—a baseball-sized fireball in the center of my chest—but I also realized how lonely and afraid he must feel, having been plugged into machines for days.

I also admired the nurse. She stayed calm through what must’ve been a two-minute temper tantrum. I pulled her aside as she left the room to apologize for his behavior and ask if there’s anything I could do.

“No problem,” she said, smiling. “I’m used to it.”

As my grandfather had become angrier, I’d tensed up with my own anger. My mind tried to put out the fire by flooding with reactions and stories about being a “real” man, i.e., toxic masculinity: why can’t he ever calm down? He’s such a dick. I’m weak for not defending the nurse.

But mindfulness allowed me to see that telling my grandfather to shut up would’ve just made things worse. We would’ve gotten in an argument. I would’ve left the hospital feeling horrible for yelling at an old, feeble man. The nurse might’ve felt that I was questioning her professional ability.

Instead, I was able to let the judgments and emotions pass. I released the mental chatter and relaxed my body. The fireball in my chest was just another phenomenon alongside the medical device beeps, boops, and swooshes—it wasn’t overwhelming. This allowed deeper, more skillful thoughts and emotions to appear in my mind, thoughts and emotions more aligned with who I really want to be.

I’ve still got a long way to go in becoming conscious of my toxic masculinity, but I’m grateful to have found a practice—meditation—to help me along the path.

I’m sure the mother at the street fair was just trying to protect her son from bullying—perhaps unconsciously. But that’s the point.

Like most unhealthy behavior, toxic masculinity is an attempt to protect ourselves when we feel vulnerable. Anyone would feel uncomfortable in front of an old man yelling at a nurse. It’s just that, because I have a male body, I’ve been socialized to handle discomfort by being a “real man,” by expressing my anger, taking charge, and fixing things.

The point is, we all have these types of behaviors. Habits. Addictions. Things we don’t like about ourselves. Unhealthy ways of relating to partners, parents, children, and friends.

What we’re responsible for is trying to become conscious of them. Otherwise, we hurt people—including ourselves.

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