THE REFLECTION

I didn't realize how much we needed this.

I knew there was a need.

I believed in the idea.

But after our first Fellas Wellness Night, the response made me realize that what we created was bigger than an event.

Men need spaces to just be.

That's what has stayed with me.

No stage.

No posturing.

No pressure to have everything figured out.

Just fellas sitting together, talking, laughing, listening, checking in, and having conversations that we probably don't have often enough.

And the response afterward has been overwhelming.

Men asking when we're doing it again.

People affirming the importance of the space.

Conversations continuing after the night was over.

Brothers acknowledging that they needed it more than they realized.

And somewhere in the middle of all that affirmation, I had a realization of my own:

So did I.

I'm accustomed to creating spaces for other people.

I've built a career around rooms.

I've hosted them.

Produced them.

Facilitated them.

Emceed them.

I've spent years thinking about what people need to have a meaningful experience.

But this room hit differently.

Because I wasn't standing outside of the need designing a solution for somebody else.

I was one of the men who needed the room.

That matters.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us learned a version of manhood that emphasized what we could carry.

Provide.

Protect.

Produce.

Fix it.

Handle it.

Keep moving.

Don't complain.

Figure it out.

And there's value in resilience.

But there's a danger when resilience becomes isolation.

When “I've got it” really means “I don't know who I can tell that I don't.”

When strength means everybody can lean on you, but you don't know where you're allowed to lean.

When you're surrounded by people but still carrying certain things alone.

I've been thinking about that a lot.

Who checks on the person everybody calls when something goes wrong?

Who gives the provider permission to say he's tired?

Where does the leader go when he doesn't feel particularly strong?

Where does the father talk about being afraid?

Where does the husband admit he's still figuring some things out?

Where does the brother get to take the armor off?

Maybe that's part of wellness too.

Actually, I'm becoming convinced that it is.

Wellness isn't only what we eat.

It isn't only exercise.

It isn't only going to the doctor.

It isn't only therapy.

Sometimes wellness looks like five other brothers reminding you that you don't have to carry everything by yourself.

Sometimes it's laughter.

Sometimes it's somebody saying, “Man, me too.”

Sometimes it's realizing the thing you thought you were uniquely struggling with is sitting on the shoulders of three other men at the same table.

There is healing in being understood.

There is strength in being known.

And there is something powerful that happens when men realize vulnerability doesn't disqualify us from masculinity.

It makes room for our humanity.

I also realized something else that night.

We don't always need another program.

Sometimes we need a living room.

A table.

Some food.

A little music.

A few brothers.

And enough trust to tell the truth.

That's community.

And maybe we've made community more complicated than it needs to be.

The picture from that night has become one of my favorites.

Not because everybody is dressed up.

We're not.

Not because there's some spectacular backdrop.

There isn't.

I love it because I see joy.

Grown men smiling.

Relaxed.

Present.

Together.

And in a world that gives us plenty of images of Black men in conflict, competition, crisis, or mourning, I want us to make room for these images too.

Brotherhood.

Joy.

Wellness.

Peace.

Us choosing each other while we're still here to do it.

My last few newsletters have been about fighting, moving scared, thinking bigger, and becoming who this next chapter requires.

I still believe all of that.

But I'm adding something.

You don't have to become him alone.

Maybe strength isn't proving how much you can carry.

Maybe strength is knowing when something is too heavy to keep carrying by yourself.

So, fellas...

Call your brother.

Check on the one who's always checking on everybody else.

Create the group text.

Schedule the dinner.

Take the trip.

Go work out together.

Sit on somebody's porch.

Talk about the game—and then talk about life.

Ask the second question.

Not just:

“You good?”

Ask:

“No, really. How are you?”

And be willing to stay long enough to hear the answer.

Because I'm realizing something I probably should have understood a long time ago:

Fellas, we need each other.

And there is absolutely nothing weak about that.