The curse of the modern man—or maybe just the strange experience of being privileged but unsuccessful in today’s society.

First, I don’t want to discount the struggles of women, minorities, or anyone facing obstacles I have never had to face. I know that I move through the world with privileges other people don’t have.

But privilege does not mean a person cannot be lonely, lost, ashamed, or deeply disappointed in himself.

A lot of men my age were raised to believe we were special and could become anything we wanted. Then we entered a world that had not prepared us particularly well for taxes, debt, bills, relationships, responsibility, or the psychological weight of trying to build an adult life.

We were told to go to college, get married, buy a house, provide for a family, and become successful. Meanwhile, student debt exploded, housing became increasingly unaffordable, stable careers disappeared, and many of the people giving us advice had secured their own lives in a very different economy.

That doesn’t mean we have it harder than everyone else. It means that many of us feel the distance between the life we were promised and the life we actually built.

I have lived through a lot of disappointments. I have also managed to build some meaningful things. But the constant feeling of not being good enough is hard—especially when I also feel as though I have been given every opportunity and therefore have no right to struggle.

And sometimes I look at my fellow men and think: What the ever-living fuck are we doing?

So many of us feel overwhelmed. So many feel unsuccessful and unappreciated. So many were told we should become something great, and now privately believe we have become disappointments instead. Yet we are still supposed to be strong, lead, provide, and never show weakness.

Some men respond by becoming angry. Some blame women, minorities, immigrants, younger generations, or anyone else they can find. Some disappear into work, alcohol, politics, pornography, games, or social media. Some simply disappear.

None of that makes us better.

I am narrating this post into ChatGPT, something I use regularly to organize my thoughts. I provide a thought, listen to what it gives back, and then provide another. There is something useful about that—but also something sad about talking to a device because I don’t always know which person to call.

In many ways, I’m basically a shut-in. I sit in my office. I write. I do schoolwork. I make art when I can. I keep myself busy so I don’t have to sit too long with the horror that can sometimes take over my thoughts. I try to remain aware of the beauty and possibility in life, but I am overwhelmed more often than I want to admit.

I do have men I care about and keep up with. But I don’t know that I have a best friend I can call whenever I need to talk about something—or nothing—so instead I talk to ChatGPT, my dog, and my cat.

I don’t think I’m alone in that.

We have social media, dating apps, group texts, and countless ways to contact one another, but very little real community. We used to have more places where people gathered simply because gathering was part of life. I’m not saying we need to revive square dancing specifically, but maybe we need whatever square dancing used to provide: somewhere to go, people who expected us to appear, and a reason to belong.

Men especially need to build community again—not a community organized around resentment or reclaiming dominance, but one built around friendship, accountability, vulnerability, usefulness, and genuine care.

I am 47 years old and rebuilding my life in middle age. I am not as successful as I expected to be. I don’t always feel proud of myself. But I am trying—really trying—to become healthier, create meaningful work, and eventually help other people understand themselves and their relationships.

Maybe that effort has to count for something.

Maybe rebuilding is not proof that I failed. Maybe rebuilding is what success looks like after the life I expected did not happen.

I don’t have a solution to the so-called male loneliness epidemic. But I think it begins with men admitting that we are lonely without turning that loneliness into hatred. It means asking for help before pain becomes anger. It means measuring ourselves by something other than money, status, marriage, or whether we became the impressive person we imagined at eighteen.

And it probably means calling another man and saying, honestly, “I’m having a hard time. Do you want to talk?”

So maybe I’ll start there.