In 1985, John Calloway sat at his office desk, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a stack of reports in the other. He was 35, a dedicated corporate manager, and a father of two. Every morning, he kissed his wife on the cheek, patted his children on their heads, and stepped out the door with the same rehearsed smile. At work, he commanded respect with his unshakable demeanor, a man who never faltered, never complained.

"Keep smiling, John," his boss would say. "No one likes a man who can't handle the pressure."

And so he did. Even when the weight of expectation settled like a boulder on his chest. Even when stress clawed at the edges of his mind, and exhaustion crept into his bones. He carried it all, just as his father had, just as every man around him was expected to. He laughed at jokes he didn't find funny, shook hands firmly, and never once admitted—never even considered admitting—that some days, the effort to keep everything together felt unbearable.

Fast forward to 2005. His son, Michael, now a young man in his late twenties, sat across from him at a coffee shop. He stirred his latte absentmindedly, the steam curling into the air.

"Dad," Michael said, hesitating before continuing, "I've been seeing a therapist."

John blinked. His first instinct was to question it, to say something about strength, about handling things alone like a real man. But he didn't. Because in the past twenty years, the world had started to change. Conversations about feelings weren't whispered in shame anymore. Words like "mental health" and "burnout" had found their way into everyday speech.

"That's... good," John finally said, though the words felt foreign on his tongue.

Michael gave a small smile, relieved. "Yeah. It's been helping. I used to think I had to deal with everything alone, you know? That showing stress or sadness was weak."

John let out a slow breath, looking down at his coffee. He remembered the years of hiding his struggles, the way society had told him to bear it all in silence. And yet, here was his son—unafraid to speak, unashamed to seek help. It was something John had never allowed himself to do.

Maybe, he thought, the world had changed. Maybe, for men like Michael, there was a way forward that didn't involve carrying the weight of the world with a forced smile.

And for the first time in a long time, John allowed himself to loosen the grip on his own mask.

"You know," he said, meeting his son's eyes, "I think I could've used something like that, too."