The Silence My Father Carried

Before many boys learn to spell the word “depression,” they have already learned another lesson.

Don’t cry.

Don’t complain.

Don’t ask for help.

Be strong.

For generations, boys and men have been taught to swallow pain rather than share it. They are told to work harder, tough it out, keep moving, and handle it alone. Man up. Sometimes that message is spoken directly. More often, it is absorbed quietly at home, in school, at work, on ballfields, in locker rooms, and around kitchen tables, where men are expected to carry the weight without naming it.

That silence can be deadly.

A recent article published by The New York Times and shared in The Press Democrat reported that men are less likely than women to seek mental health care, more likely to drop out of treatment, and often take longer to feel better. It also noted that men are more than twice as likely as women to misuse drugs and alcohol and that men died by suicide in 2023 at nearly four times the rate of women.

Those numbers are painful.

For me, they are also personal.

I grew up in a poor farmworker family. My father worked hard all his life so his children could build a future he could only imagine. He labored in orchards, shouldered responsibility, and measured love by sacrifice. He was not a man who talked easily about pain. He was a man who provided.

For many immigrant fathers of his generation, that was the language of love.

Work was dignity. Work was identity. Work was how a man told his family, “I am here. I am doing my part. You will have more than I did.”

But age has a way of taking from people the things they once used to define themselves.

As my father grew older, his body slowed. His health declined. The work that had once given him purpose grew harder. By the time he was 70, my brother had moved back home to help him manage the prune orchards my father had tended for so many years.

Then came the summer of 1988.

By then, I had been living in Santa Rosa for nine years. I was no longer living at home, no longer part of the daily rhythm of the orchards in the way I had been growing up. But the prune harvest still carried deep meaning for our family. It was the season that had shaped so much of our lives. The heat, the dust, the sound of machinery, the smell of drying fruit, the long days in the orchard — all of it was familiar to us. Harvest was work, but it was also a family rhythm.

That year, my father could not lead the harvest.

He was home alone. He was deeply depressed. And while the family was out working the harvest, he took his own life.

I have carried that sentence for decades.

I do not share it lightly.

I share it because my father was not weak. He was not selfish. He was not a failure.

He was a man in pain. He was a man whose body had betrayed him, whose purpose had been shaken, and whose depression may not have looked like what many people expect it to look like.

At the time, we did not have the language we have today. We did not understand how depression can hide behind silence, irritability, isolation, fatigue, shame, or the feeling of becoming a burden.

We knew he was hurting.

We did not know how close he was to the edge.

That is one of the cruelties of depression. It can convince a person that their pain is permanent, that their family would be better off without them, and that seeking help would bring shame rather than support.

It lies.

And too often, men believe the lie alone.

Depression does not always look like sadness

When many people think about depression, they picture someone crying, withdrawn, or unable to get out of bed. That can be true. But depression in men can also look different.

It may show up as anger.

It may look like irritability, risk-taking, drinking more, sleeping less, working too much, pulling away from family, or complaining of headaches, stomach problems, or exhaustion.

A man may not say, “I am depressed.”

He may say, “I’m tired.”

He may say, “Leave me alone.”

He may say nothing at all.

That silence can be especially dangerous for older men, including those facing retirement, illness, disability, grief, or the loss of work. When a man has spent his life being needed, the fear of no longer being useful can become overwhelming.

This is not about blaming families.

Families often do the best they can with what they know at the time. Many of us grew up in homes where mental health was not discussed. We knew how to respond to a broken arm, a fever, or a bad cough. We did not always know how to respond to despair.

We also did not always know how to ask the right questions.

Are you sleeping?

Are you drinking more?

Do you feel hopeless?

Do you feel like a burden?

Have you thought about hurting yourself?

Those are hard questions. But silence is harder.

The stigma is real in Latino families

Mental health stigma is not unique to Latinos. But in many Latino families, it carries its own history and language.

Many of us grew up with some version of the saying, “La ropa sucia se lava en casa” — dirty laundry is washed at home.

At its best, that saying reflects privacy, loyalty, and family protection. It tells us not to expose one another unnecessarily to judgment or gossip.

But when it comes to mental health, that same belief can turn into a locked door.

Too many people still fear that seeking counseling means they are “crazy.” Too many worry about bringing shame to the family. Too many men believe that admitting pain makes them less of a man. Too many immigrant families carry additional fears about language, cost, legal status, discrimination, or whether a provider will understand their culture.

The result is that many people suffer quietly.

Federal data show that Hispanic and Latino adults remain less likely than adults overall to receive mental health treatment. The Office of Minority Health reported that in 2024, Hispanic and Latino adults were 28% less likely than U.S. adults overall to have received mental health treatment in the past year.

That is not because Latino families do not love each other.

It is because barriers are real.

Stigma is real.

Language matters.

Trust matters.

Culture matters.

And sometimes the hardest part is convincing someone that seeking help is not shameful.

Seeking help does not dishonor a family. It protects the family.

Therapy is not a rejection of faith, family, or culture. It can be another tool to help a person stay alive, connected, and whole.

This is also a community safety issue

After more than 45 years in public safety and violence prevention, I have learned that a crisis rarely begins when someone calls 911.

It often begins much earlier.

It begins when pain goes unnamed.

It begins when a father stops talking.

It begins when a young man hides his anxiety behind anger.

It begins when an older man starts drinking more and sleeping less.

It begins when a family senses something is wrong but does not know what to say.

Untreated mental health struggles can affect families, workplaces, schools, neighborhoods, and public safety systems. They can manifest as substance use, domestic conflict, homelessness, isolation, self-harm, or calls for emergency response.

That does not mean every person in distress is dangerous. Most are not.

It means we must stop waiting for a crisis before we care.

Real prevention means building communities where people can seek help before their pain becomes an emergency.

That requires more than a hotline. It requires trusted local organizations, culturally responsive services, trained community messengers, and families willing to have uncomfortable conversations with love and care.

Help is closer than many people think

The launch of 988 was an important step. Anyone experiencing emotional distress, suicidal thoughts, a substance use crisis, or concern for someone else can call or text 988 or use online chat to access trained support.

But 988 is only one part of the safety net.

In the North Bay, Buckelew Programs has been doing steady, compassionate work in mental health care, substance use treatment, supported housing, service navigation, and suicide prevention. Buckelew also provides education and outreach to schools, workplaces, nonprofits, and community groups to help people recognize warning signs and reduce stigma.

That matters because people often seek help from someone they trust before they reach a clinic.

Latino Service Providers is also doing essential work in Sonoma County. Through its Youth Promotores program, bilingual and bicultural young people learn about mental health, emergency preparedness, civic engagement, and health equity so they can help educate the Latino community and connect it to services.

That kind of work is powerful.

Promotores are not just handing out information. They are building trust. They are standing in the gap between formal systems and families who may not know where to turn.

Sometimes the messenger matters as much as the message.

A brochure may be ignored.

A trusted young person who speaks your language and understands your family might be listened to.

What families can do

We do not need to become therapists to help someone we love.

We do need to pay attention.

Check on the men in your life, especially those who are aging, isolated, grieving, newly retired, physically ill, unemployed, or no longer able to do the work that once gave them purpose.

Do not only ask, “How are you?”

Many men have been trained to answer that question with “fine,” even when they are falling apart inside.

Ask something more specific.

“You seem quieter lately. Are you OK?”

“I’ve noticed you are drinking more. What’s going on?”

“You haven’t been sleeping. Are you worried about something?”

“I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because I love you.”

And when needed, say the words directly.

“Have you thought about hurting yourself?”

That question does not plant the idea. It opens a door.

If the answer is yes, do not leave the person alone. Call or text 988. Reach out to a health care provider, a trusted family member, or a local mental health organization. In an immediate emergency, call for help.

The goal is not to embarrass someone.

The goal is to keep them alive.

Why This Matters Today

My father’s life was much bigger than how it ended.

He was a farmworker, a provider, an immigrant father, and a man who gave his children a future filled with hope. His hands bore the marks of labor. His life carried the weight of sacrifice.

I wish he had been able to tell us how much pain he was in.

I wish we had known how to ask.

We cannot change what happened in 1988. But we can learn from it.

We can teach boys that strength includes honesty.

We can teach men that asking for help is not failure.

We can teach families that depression is not shameful.

We can teach communities that mental health is part of public safety, family stability, and human dignity.

And we can remind everyone who is suffering in silence that they are not alone, they are not a burden, and that their story is not over.

If you or someone you love is experiencing emotional distress or thinking about suicide, call or text 988. Help is available 24/7.

Silence should not be the inheritance we pass on.

Hope should be.