The suicide rate among men often spikes between the ages of 50 and 54. This trend sadly continues well into their sixties and seventies. It’s shocking to think that these years, often seen as the golden phase of life, can hold such darkness.
Just last week, I saw a man in his sixties sitting alone in a coffee shop. He ordered black coffee but didn’t open his laptop. Instead, he stared out the window for twenty minutes before leaving. His slow, heavy walk revealed a weight he carried inside.
This situation isn’t unique. While we often discuss midlife crises—like buying sports cars or having affairs—there’s a quieter, more lethal crisis that emerges after 55. It involves a gradual loss of purpose as retirement approaches and the realization that life’s script has no clear next chapter.
Rudá Iandê’s book, “Laughing in the Face of Chaos,” highlights this struggle. He suggests that our personal identities are tightly linked to our physical forms. For men, a changing body can trigger feelings of inadequacy as their long-held identities are challenged.
Let’s consider how men are socialized. From a young age, they learn that showing vulnerability is seen as weakness. This lesson sticks with them. For instance, I watched my second husband deal with Parkinson’s disease. For years, he insisted on doing everything himself, refusing help. The effort to maintain this facade drained him more than the illness itself.
Men have been conditioned to be providers and protectors. As they retire, these roles fade, leaving a void. Conversations I’ve had in grief support groups reveal how men grapple with identity loss after significant life events. One man shared that losing his wife was hard, but what hurt more was feeling unsure of himself without someone to care for.
Interestingly, many men over 55 lack close friendships. Sure, they have acquaintances and social networks, but meaningful connections where they can voice deep emotions are rare. Unlike women, who often share fears and feelings over coffee, men bond through activities. When those activities dwindle, what remains?
After losing my husband, I joined a support group, which became essential for me. It was striking to see how few men stuck around after their losses. Many felt uncomfortable talking about their struggles, reinforcing the idea that they must endure alone.
Men often harbor unexpressed grief, accumulating sorrow from lost parents, careers, and dreams. In a previous piece, I discussed how grief can mount over time. For men, unprocessed losses can fester, leading to despair masked as strength.
But there’s hope. Strength can include the courage to admit confusion and emotional vulnerability. It doesn’t mean abandoning their identities; rather, it means growing beyond them. Men can reinvent themselves in small, quiet ways. I’ve seen former executives teach literacy, engineers take up painting, or widowers start walking groups. These transformations aren’t dramatic; they are about taking small risks and embracing imperfection.
The silent crisis facing men after 55 is very real, but it doesn’t have to be. It thrives in isolation and outdated beliefs about masculinity. The solution requires bravery—the bravery to reach out, admit struggles, and redefine strength to include self-compassion.
If you’re a man feeling pressure or loneliness, know that your feelings are valid. And if you love a man navigating this journey, remember that change takes time. Sometimes, the best support is simply being there for him, allowing space for feelings to surface.
The crisis may be silent, but we can change the narrative together.
