This reflection was written in response to the passing of Lamar Wilson.
When a man dies, the world rushes to explain him.
We build stories quickly—causes, warnings, neat conclusions—because uncertainty makes us uncomfortable. But the truth is simpler and harder to sit with: the only person who can fully name the reasons someone leaves this life is the person who left it. Everyone else is guessing in the dark.
Still, the darkness teaches us things if we’re willing to look.
There is a place where it’s just you.
No audience.
No applause.
No performance.
Just you, alone with your thoughts, listening to them pace the room.
That place is where the real battle lives.
Some people look like they have everything. Visibility. Momentum. Laughter. A life that seems full from the outside. But sometimes, all of that is scaffolding for a private war. Sometimes success isn’t peace—it’s camouflage.
Especially for Black men.
We are taught early how dangerous honesty can be. How pain is read as weakness. How softness is punished. How exhaustion is moral failure. The world prefers us sharp or silent—never tender, never unsure.
So we learn to armor ourselves. We learn how to smile through weight. How to carry pressure without complaint. How to translate suffering into something palatable.
And then we pass that lesson to each other.
“You good?”
It’s a small question, almost polite. A check-in that lasts no longer than a breath. We ask it in passing—at work, in hallways, in group chats, at cookouts. And the answer is almost always the same.
“I’m good.”
Sometimes it’s true.
Often it’s not.
“I’m good” keeps things moving. It protects the room. It spares everyone the discomfort of slowing down. It’s the answer you give when you don’t know how much space your truth would be allowed to take.
Because telling the truth can feel dangerous.
There is a particular loneliness in being surrounded by people who know your face but not your fight in being visible and unseen at the same time. In realizing that the strength as it’s been taught to you requires a kind of daily self-erasure.
This is the quiet violence no one names.
Not sirens.
Not headlines.
Just the steady pressure of swallowing yourself because the world has never been kind to men who admit they are drowning.
And so the battle stays private. Fought every day. From the moment you wake up to the moment sleep finally loosens its grip. A war without witnesses. A war without language.
What if we stopped answering too fast?
What if, instead of reflex, we allowed the question to linger long enough for honesty to find its footing?
“No. I’m not good.”
That sentence is not weak. It is a risk.
It is opening a door without knowing who will stay. It is admitting you are human in a world that has asked you to be indestructible. It is naming pain without packaging it as motivation, humor, or grit.
And it is a beginning.
Not a solution.
Not a cure.
A beginning.
Because once the truth is spoken, the battle is no longer invisible. It becomes something that can be shared, witnessed, and held. And being witnessed—truly witnessed—is not nothing. It is not a platitude. It is a form of care.
We won’t save everyone by asking better questions. We won’t fix despair with the right words. This isn’t about heroics.
It’s about presence.
So we could change the ritual. Maybe we should
“How are you really holding up?”
And then we stay quiet long enough for the answer to breathe.
No fixing.
No rushing.
No telling someone how strong they are.
Just staying.
If you’re reading this and you have been answering too fast—if you have been saying “I’m good” when you’re not—please hear this clearly:
You do not have to fight the entire war alone.
Say it once.
To one person.
To someone safe.
“No. I’m not good.”
That sentence will not solve everything. But it can keep you here long enough for something else to begin.
And if someone says it to you—if a brother finally lets the truth slip—don’t reach for wisdom. Don’t reach for advice.
Reach for presence.
“I’m here.”
“I’m listening.”
“You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”
We don’t need perfect answers.
We need rooms where the truth can survive being spoken.
The battle is real.
And it is daily.
But it should not be silent.
And it should not be solitary.
Kyle J. Hayes
kylehayesblog.com
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Resources
If this reflection brings up more than you expected, and you’re in the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re elsewhere, local crisis resources are available in many countries. You don’t have to hold everything alone.
Salt,Ink, & Soul 