I went to school to be a journalist, not realizing just how unstable the industry had become. Ever since I was a kid, writing had been my way of making sense of the world. I never cared for fiction because reality was more than enough to unpack. I filled pages with my experiences, trying to understand why things happened the way they did. It gave me purpose and a sense of connection. My parents were my first readers, and the pride I felt when they read my words was unmatched.
That passion carried me through school papers, into a communications degree, and straight into the reality of adulthood. My first job was in financial services, a field I hated, but I needed it to start paying off my student loans. Then a break came. A friend found an ad for a newswriter position at a weekly paper. I applied immediately. Three interviews later, I walked into a real newsroom, and for the first time, I felt like I had arrived. I cried when I got the job.
Covering general news, I dove headfirst into the community, reporting on everything from local festivals to the heartbreaking loss of an officer in the line of duty. Every story made me feel like I was part of something bigger. I had purpose. I belonged.
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, the Executive Editor called me into her office and laid me off. The paper was being sold. I should have seen the signs, but I was so focused on the work that I ignored the instability looming over the industry. The job I had built my identity around was gone.
At first, I felt numb. Then angry. Then lost. The last two weeks at the paper were brutal. Writing, which had always been my solace, became unbearable. Every word felt like dragging broken glass across my fingertips. When I finally walked out of that office for the last time, I swore I was done with journalism.
I tried to pivot, but no one wanted to hire a journalist with no experience in other fields. It felt like I had spent four years in prison instead of college. Unemployment barely covered my bills. Desperation set in, and I started applying to journalism jobs again, even though the industry had already burned me once. But no one was calling back.
I did not realize how much I was spiraling until my friends staged an intervention. They lured me to a barbecue with the promise of good beer and grilled steaks. When I arrived, they were all waiting for me, sitting in a circle, looking serious. One by one, they told me they were worried. No, they were scared. I had become withdrawn, cynical, sleepless. One of them admitted he feared I was heading toward suicide.
That word hit me like a punch to the chest. Was I really that bad? Sure, I was pissed off and exhausted. But suicidal? I did not think so. Or maybe I just had not noticed how far I had slipped.
That night, they offered to take turns staying with me. At first, I resisted. It felt humiliating. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered what they saw that I did not. So I let them stay.
And slowly, I started to feel human again. Even with the job search still looming, I was not drowning in it alone. They helped me look for opportunities, reached out to their own contacts, and, more importantly, made sure I was not isolated.
A month later, I landed a job in marketing. It was not journalism, but it was writing. And it was stable. I have built a career in this field, and I have worked for companies that make a real difference in people’s lives. But I do not let my job define me anymore. Losing a job is not the end of the world, and it sure as hell is not the end of me.
What saved me was not a new career or a paycheck. It was my friends. They saw me drowning before I even realized I was underwater. And that is something men do not talk about enough. Society teaches us to handle our problems alone, to be strong, to tough it out. But strength is not suffering in silence. Strength is knowing when to lean on your people.
If my friends had not pulled me out of my own head, I do not know where I would be. Now, I make damn sure to be there for them the way they were there for me.
Brotherhood is a lifeline. Use it.