Frank D.

Photography by Luther Bells

If you’re reading this, there is good in you.

Not potential. Not someday. Not the kind of people people clap for.

The real kind. The kind that can change, or even save, a life.

I know that because mine was saved by it.

I’ve lived two very different lives.

The first was the loner kid.

The kid who could sit in a crowded room, music playing, people laughing, phones lighting up, and still feel empty and invisible. The kid who perfected a half-smile and a head nod. The kid who said “I’m good” so automatically that it felt rehearsed. The kid who went home shut his bedroom door, and the silence became deafening.

You probably know that silence. When your phone stops buzzing, the house is asleep, and you’re staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. Your chest feels heavy. Not dramatic or chaotic. Just heavy.

The kind of weight that makes you sigh without realizing it. The kind where you scroll through your camera roll or social media just to feel something. The kind where you replay conversations in your head, wondering if you sounded stupid. The kind where you think, “Why do I feel this way when everything looks so fine?”

I learned to smile and laugh at the right moments, keeping it together in public so no one would ask. Privately, I was falling apart.

I turned inward in the worst way. I turned to self-harm. It wasn’t about attention. It wasn’t about wanting someone to notice. It was about control. When everything else felt overwhelming, it was something I could manage. When I felt numb, it made me feel something, even if that something was painful.

Physical pain felt clearer than emotional confusion. It was tangible. It made sense. And the most terrifying part? Most people had no idea.

I still showed up. I still joked around. I still sat in classrooms. I still made plans. I still looked “fine.”

That’s the part we as men don’t talk about. We don’t talk about driving around alone at night just to clear our heads. We don’t talk about staring at the mirror a little too long. We don’t talk about

the pressure to always be the strong one. We don’t talk about how exhausting it is to carry it quietly.

We talk about sports betting. Weekend plans. The gym. Wins and losses. We debate stats and relive big plays. But we rarely talk about the weight on our chest at 2 a.m. when the distractions are gone, and it’s just us and our thoughts. Overthinking. The self-doubt. The quiet question, “Would anyone even notice if I wasn’t around?”

Mental health isn’t talked about enough, especially among young men and in communities like ours. But every single man experiences it. Each of us fights battles that no one sees. Some battles look like anger. Some look like withdrawal. Some look like they are constantly busy. Some look like the loudest guy in the room.

Too many fight them alone. I almost did. Until someone sat down with me. Not in some dramatic intervention. Not in a perfectly timed movie moment. Just a simple conversation. A chair pulled up next to mine. Eye contact that didn’t feel rushed. A voice that said, “Talk to me.”

They didn’t try to fix me. They didn’t give me a speech. They didn’t tell me to toughen up. They stayed. They asked questions and actually waited for the answers. They made space for silence without trying to fill it. And for the first time in a long time, I felt seen, not for the version of me I performed, but for the version that was exhausted. That conversation didn’t just help me. It saved me, and he left me with this verse I still live by to this day, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” - Psalm 34:18.

It taught me something I will never forget. You never know what someone is carrying. The strongest-looking guy in the room might be barely holding it together. The loudest guy might go home to silence. The leader might lie awake wondering if he’s enough.

Which brings me to the second life I’ve lived. The life people see now.

I came to Clemson knowing no one. No built-in friend group. No safety net. Just hope and a dorm room in McCabe. And slowly, conversation by conversation, handshake by handshake, I found something I didn’t even know I was searching for.

Brothers who showed up. Mentors who believed in me before I fully believed in myself. Friends who checked in without being asked.

Now I stand in a leadership role. IFC President. The guy is speaking up. Setting standards. Talking about bettering the Clemson Man.

But here’s the hard truth. Titles don’t remove struggle. Leadership doesn’t eliminate loneliness. Confidence doesn’t cancel insecurity. You can stand in front of a room full of people and still have nights where your thoughts are louder than the applause.

There are always two sides: the public image and the private battles. And I’ve lived both.

That’s why I advocate for “leaving no man behind”. This can’t just be something we throw in a caption or put on a flyer. It means noticing when someone’s laugh sounds forced. It has to mean recognizing when the guy who’s always there suddenly isn’t. It means asking a second question when the first answer is “I’m good.”

Brotherhood is easy when things are fun: game days, formals, big wins. It is proven when things are heavy. When someone misses class three times in a row. When someone’s not acting like himself. When someone gets quiet. Your values are just hobbies if you don’t stand by them in hard times.

Bettering the Clemson Man isn’t just about pushing each other in the gym or competing academically. It’s about sitting next to someone when they don’t have the words. It’s about texting, “You good?” and truly meaning it. It’s about running the second mile with them, not just cheering from the sideline. Don’t just help him start. Help him finish. Don’t just celebrate him when he’s strong. Sit with him when he’s struggling.

Because I didn’t look like someone who needed help. But I did. And someone chose not to walk past me. That’s what strength really is. Strength isn’t silence. Strength isn’t pretending. Strength isn’t handling it alone. Strength is staying. Strength is asking. Strength is saying, “I’m here. I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Every man wants belonging. Every man wants to feel seen. Some just don’t know how to say it out loud.

So I say let’s go first. Let’s check in first. Let’s sit down first. Let’s care first. Because somewhere near you right now is a guy sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, phone in his hand, debating whether anyone would notice if he stopped showing up.

Prove him wrong. Be the conversation that interrupts the silence. Be the man who leaves no one behind. Be the one who runs the second mile. We are the generation of men who speak up. We are the generation that redefines strength. We are the men who show up, especially when it’s uncomfortable.

And it starts with you. The good in you.

Frank D., Clemson University

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