Growing up, I truly believed my father was a real-life superhero. The kind who didn’t wear a cape but showed up every single day—with strength, resolve, and unwavering love. He made a promise as a teenager to marry my mother one day, and at 22, without pressure or persuasion, he fulfilled it. Together, they raised seven children grounded in faith, sacrifice, and steady love.
He rarely missed a day of work—only illness or a layoff could keep him away. And for us, he was a constant. As a child, I thought his consistency was superhuman. But as I matured, I began to see things differently.
I remembered the “nerve pills” he took when I was a teenager—small, mysterious, and frequent. Years later, I learned they were Xanax, prescribed for the anxiety he quietly carried as the family’s sole breadwinner. What looked like unshakable strength was often his way of holding the world together without a place to fall apart.
In 2009, during my maternal grandmother’s funeral, I sensed something in him—subtle signs that only intuition could pick up. Two years later, that intuition became confirmation: my father had prostate cancer. But my mother didn’t know. Her thoughts wandered, suspecting infidelity. She didn’t see what I saw, and what I somehow knew deep down—that his secret wasn’t another woman. It was something heavier.
Quietly, my younger brother had been taking him to cancer treatments for years. It wasn’t until a holiday cold hit him hard that the truth spilled out. And in that moment, shock swept through our family. But I wasn’t surprised—just heartbroken that he’d carried it alone.
Why?
You may ask, why do men keep these things to themselves? Pride? Secrecy? I believe it’s something deeper. Men are not often given the same grace to be vulnerable. There’s no “damsel in distress” narrative for them. There’s no space carved out for them to cry without judgment, to falter without ridicule. If they do, they’re mocked—called weak or “not man enough.” This stigma is more dangerous than we realize.
This needs to change.
If we don’t take care of our men, we lose our fathers, our husbands, our brothers, our sons. We risk a generation of boys drowning in silent pain, afraid to speak up, afraid to seek help. And we can’t afford that anymore.
In 2025, let’s shift the narrative. Let’s create safe spaces. Let’s affirm that strength and softness can coexist. Let’s champion health screenings, therapy, mental rest, spiritual renewal, and the radical idea that men, too, deserve to feel, to cry, to heal.
Encourage them. Empower them. Remind them that they are needed—not just for milestones like births and graduations, but for the sacred, everyday beauty of life. We need them present—for us, and for themselves.
To my dad—thank you for being my Superman. You saved us more times than you ever knew.
Happy Men’s Health Month. 🩵
June is Men’s Health Month. And this one carries the weight of memory.
In honor of my father, Robert A. Hopson—a man of quiet strength, fierce devotion, and unwavering love—I share this story not just to remember, but to remind.
Men, your presence matters. Your health matters. You matter.
May we create the space for you to be whole—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
Rest in Heavenly Peace, Dad.
You were my Superman before I ever knew what that meant. 🕊️💙
Happy Men’s Health Month. 🩵
#MensHealthMonth #HonorHisLegacy #MentalHealthMatters #RestInHeavenDad
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