Why don't men talk about prostate cancer? Breaking my silence

I have started writing about my journey now that I am dealing with this for the second time in one year: “Let’s Talk About It (Because No One Else Will)” This story’s been building in my head for a while now. I’ve gone back and forth about whether to share it, but I’ve realized the silence isn’t helping anyone, not me, not the next guy, not the people who love us. So this is me finally saying it out loud. This is the first chapter of my story, and maybe someone else’s too. Men don’t talk about prostate cancer. Hell, we barely talk about feelings, let alone something that tries to kill us from the inside out, and takes aim at the very parts of us we’ve been taught define what “being a man” means. We’re raised on “walk it off,” “rub some dirt on it,” and “don’t cry.” That might work on a job site when you smash your thumb or pull a muscle, but it doesn’t work when a doctor looks you in the eye and says cancer. When I first got the news, I handled it like I handle everything else — like a construction problem. Something’s off? Find it. Fix it. Patch the hole, reinforce the wall, move on to the next job. I told myself I’d be fine. That’s what strong men do, right? My PSA was 7.6. Not great, but not panic yet. They said, “We’ll monitor it for a year.” Like it was some misbehaving dog that might wander off if I stayed calm. Six months later, it jumped to 19.8. And I didn’t need a doctor to tell me something was wrong — I could feel it. There’s this deep-down sense when something’s growing inside you that doesn’t belong there. They called it a tumor. I called it a bad joke. Next thing I knew, I was signing papers, counting breaths, and promising myself not to Google anything past page one. They took it out. Said it went well. Said I’d done the hard part. And for a while, I believed them. Every follow-up felt like an exhale, like maybe I’d already paid my dues. Then the numbers crept back. .05 to .07. Then .12. That’s when the whisper started again: You’re not done yet. And the worst part? The prostate’s already gone. It’s like tearing down a building and still hearing footsteps inside. Now it’s radiation, seven weeks. And hormone therapy — four months of blocking testosterone. The doctor called it “treatment.” My wife called it “welcome to menopause.” Hot flashes, mood swings, fatigue — the whole damn package. So yeah, I guess now we’ll finally have something in common. But here’s the thing — nobody talks about this. Not the fear. Not the side effects. Not how it screws with your confidence, your head, your sense of who you are. We joke about colonoscopies, but we don’t talk about the real stuff — the scars, the sleepless nights, the quiet moments where you wonder if it’s growing back. Men are dying quietly — not just from cancer, but from pride. We think silence is strength, but all it does is keep us alone. We don’t want to look weak. We don’t want to talk about crying in the dark or feeling like a stranger in our own skin. Well, screw that. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not ashamed. I’m a 54-year-old man who’s swung a hammer his whole life, a recovering addict, on my third marriage, and now apparently going through manopause. If I can talk about it, so can you. This disease doesn’t get to own our silence. Cancer doesn’t get the last word — we do. But only if we stop pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t. So let’s talk about it. The fear, the dark humor, the tears, the tiny victories. Let’s make it normal. Because silence doesn’t make you strong — it just makes you alone. And I’ve learned the hard way: there’s no medal for suffering quietly. There’s just the chance to help someone else speak up before it’s too late. Why I’m Speaking Up For a long time, I thought being strong meant keeping my mouth shut. I grew up around men who didn’t cry, didn’t complain, and definitely didn’t talk about prostates. You worked hard, paid your bills, kept your pain to yourself, and carried on. But cancer changes the math. You start realizing what silence costs — not just you, but everyone around you. The people who love you can’t help if you won’t let them in. And the guys who are walking this same road? They need to see someone talking about it, so they know they’re not the only ones. I’m speaking up because I wish I’d heard another man talk about this before it was me. Someone who could’ve said, “Yeah, it’s scary. Yeah, it messes with your head. But you can get through it.” I didn’t have that voice — so I decided to become it. If my story makes one guy go get checked, or helps one man realize that crying doesn’t make him weak, or gives one wife the words to ask her husband how he’s really doing, then it’s worth every uncomfortable sentence. Cancer might take pieces of me, but it doesn’t get my silence. It doesn’t get my sense of humor. And it sure as hell doesn’t get the last word. So yeah, let’s talk about it. Because the strongest thing any of us can do is be honest — especially when it hurts. If you’re going through this — or love someone who is — you’re not alone. Reach out. Message me. Talk to someone. Because the moment we start sharing the truth, that’s when we start taking our power back.