Male Grief and the Orpheus Myth: The Pattern Men Live
In understanding male grief, we need to recognise that men often hide their grief in high performance and being dependable. Many men keep working, solving problems, and showing up while carrying a weight that is often unexpressed. This article uses the Orpheus myth as a map of that pattern and of what happens when a man cannot accept finality.
A quick map for the reader:
Male grief often shows up as doing, fixing, and pushing on. In the Orpheus story, the pattern is clear: love meets loss, the mind refuses finality, and the man keeps walking into darkness trying to reverse what cannot be reversed.
In modern life, that can look like over-functioning, bargaining, withdrawal, or a “backward glance” moment when reality lands. This article gives a four-territory map and practical steps for carrying grief without disappearing.
In Perth and across Western Australia, I often see this pattern: men carrying grief through work, family, and duty, while the inner world goes largely unspoken.
Analytical psychologist Terence Dawson names this recurring pull “the Orpheus complex”: a mythic pattern in which loss, unconscious yearning, depression, and a drive to reverse what has happened keep a person circling the same ground rather than moving forward. His paper in the Journal of Analytical Psychology traces how this pattern appears in modern narratives as well as in the original myth.
Orpheus shows how love can turn into a refusal to accept reality. His descent into the underworld is driven by devotion that has nowhere clear to go. That devotion powers his courage and also sets him up to relive the loss in a harsher form.
“The backward glance” is the moment where denial gives way and reality lands with full force. Orpheus turns around, sees Eurydice pulled back into the dark, and faces a second loss. After that, life no longer returns to what it was, and the mind cannot pretend the old future is still available.
Beverley Zabriskie describes the Orpheus–Eurydice story as a depth-psychological passage that captures the “creative agony” of trying to hold on to love across the boundary of death, with repeated sequences of approach, retreat, and loss.
When grief never finds a place in a man’s everyday life, it often turns into withdrawal, over-functioning, or a quiet absence from himself. Men keep fulfilling roles while drifting away from their inner world and from the people who matter to them.
The work after loss is learning how to live forward with grief inside the story. The person who died still matters. The love remains. At the same time, the rest of a man’s days deserve shape, purpose, and connection. This article offers a four-territory map and simple practices to help men navigate grief without disappearing into it.
From the outside, male grief can look like reliability. On the inside, it can feel like walking through the day with an extra gravity that no one else can see.
Why the Orpheus Myth Still Matters for Understanding Male Grief
Grief demands language, and language often falls short. It pushes us to speak and, at the same time, reminds us that no sentence can fully carry what has happened.
Myth is one of the oldest ways humans have found to talk about experiences that go beyond plain speech. Before psychologists and diagnostic manuals, people relied on stories because simple words couldn’t carry the weight. Orpheus is one of those stories.
He is remembered as the musician whose song could soften stone and calm wild animals. In one of the oldest versions of the myth, his grief for Eurydice sends him down into the underworld itself. He walks into the realm of the dead with nothing but his music and persuades Hades to do something unthinkable: allow a dead woman to walk back toward daylight.
Inside that single image sits a pattern that still lives in many men:
- A man cannot bear the reality that death will not be reversed. Like Orpheus, he pours his energy into trying to undo what has already happened. He throws his energy, skill, and willpower at the loss, trying to reverse it by effort.
- He bargains with forces far beyond his control.
- He would rather walk through darkness with a small chance of reversal than remain in a world where the loss stands as an unchangeable fact.
Modern psychoanalytic writers use the term “Orpheus complex” to describe a recurring masculine pattern: a man who loves deeply, a man who cannot tolerate the reality of death, and a man who risks experiencing the loss in an even more searing form.
The myth does not sit in a museum case. It echoes in hospital corridors, empty bedrooms, family courts, accident sites, and in the quiet of men’s minds late at night. It offers both recognition and caution.
This Orpheus article sits alongside a four-part series on fathers and grief in Greek mythology, built around the 4R Framework™ – Reclaim, Rebuild, Reconnect, and Re-Create.
Part 1 – Reclaim, I use the Daedalus and Icarus story in “Father Grief After Child Loss: What the Daedalus Myth Reveals About Paternal Rupture” to map what happens inside a man when a child dies and his sense of competence and responsibility fractures.
In Part 2 – Rebuild, “Rebuilding the Father You Still Are: Masculine Grief, Identity, and the Narrowed Life,” I turn to Laertes as a picture of a father whose world has narrowed around grief rather than been rebuilt. Rebuilding Father Identity After a Child Dies: Laertes
If your grief centres on the death of a child, those companion pieces speak more directly to that terrain.
Why draw on a Greek myth instead of just talking about male grief directly?
Myth creates enough distance for men to look at experiences that feel overwhelming. Many men struggle to say, “This is what is happening in me.” It can feel easier – and safer – to look at myth, in this case Orpheus and what he did, and then ask: Where does my own story rhyme with his? Myth gives precision because it allows men to see patterns without feeling exposed straight away.
Why Men Hide Grief: Culture, Control, and Competence
To understand male grief, we have to look beyond individual personality and name the training men have absorbed from early on.
Many boys grow up praised for being useful, self-controlled, and tough. They notice that tears earn disapproval, while achievement earns recognition. Bit by bit, they absorb a script that links their worth to two main pillars: competence and control.
In Male Grief in Australia, I map how these expectations play out across work, family, and community for men here.
When life tracks along as expected, this training can look impressive. At work, it shows up as reliability and problem-solving. In families, it shows up as responsibility and “holding things together.” The same training becomes costly, however, when death or major loss enters the picture.
Grief moves in a direction that clashes with that script. It introduces a different set of realities:
- Feelings that resist effort.
Some emotions do not shift just because a man works harder, explains them, or tries to reason them away. The sense of weight and longing does not respond to discipline in the way a work challenge might. This mismatch confuses men who are used to seeing effort change outcomes.
- Situations that ignore control.
A man can schedule meetings, manage risk, and plan projects. He cannot reorder time or rewrite what has happened. In grief, the usual tools of planning and control hit a hard edge. That can feel like failure, even when there is none.
- Waves of emotion that do not follow logic.
Grief often comes in surges. A smell, a song, a school uniform, or a random date can trigger a surge of feeling that makes no sense to the rational mind. Men who value order and predictability can feel defective when their inner life does not follow the rules.
- A body that carries the strain.
Sleep changes. Appetite shifts. The chest feels heavy. Muscles clench. Energy drops or swings. The body begins to carry the story even when words do not. Men might notice restlessness, tension, or exhaustion and treat it as a weakness rather than a natural response to impact.
Research on grieving styles describes more “intuitive” patterns, where people tend to cry, reach out, and speak, and more “instrumental” patterns, where people tend to think, plan, and act. Many men lean toward the instrumental side. They process through doing and thinking rather than through direct emotional expression. On the outside, that looks functional. On the inside, they often feel cut off from their own pain.
From the outside, people see competence. They see a man who keeps working, drives people around, handles paperwork, and “holds up well.” Inside, something has shifted into a darker space. A part of him has already gone underground.
When a man has no permitted way to grieve, the grief rarely disappears. It moves into corners of his life where no one else can reach it.
Orpheus and Masculine Strength: Feeling Without Armour
In much of Western culture, the image of a “strong man” is still wrapped in armour. We see it in movie heroes who walk away from explosions without flinching, in sports commentary that praises men for “playing through the pain,” and in family stories where the father is described as “the rock” who never wavered. Strength gets linked to silence, self-containment, and the ability to keep going without showing strain. He is praised for self-containment, toughness, and the ability to keep moving without complaint. Orpheus offers a different picture.
He enters the underworld with a lyre instead of a sword. His influence rests on vulnerability rather than aggression. The gods and the dead listen because his music carries truth and beauty. His strength lies in his capacity to feel, to express, and to keep moving forward.
For many men, that combination feels both attractive and deeply uncomfortable. To imagine walking into emotional darkness without armour triggers alarm. The questions rise quickly: If I allow that much feeling, will I fall apart? If I let myself care this much, will I ever come back?
In that tension, Orpheus becomes more than an ancient hero. He becomes a mirror for men who live under the pressure to manage appearance, responsibility, and control, while knowing there is a deeper music in them that rarely reaches the surface.
He also becomes a warning. There is a risk in going underground purely to reverse the loss rather than to face reality. The myth suggests that courage without acceptance carries its own danger.
Reflection: What Does Your Life Revolve Around After Loss?
Think about an ordinary week: where you spend your time, who you see, and what you put your energy into.
If someone asked, “What is the central story of your life right now?” what would you say?
If the only answer that comes to mind is a death, a betrayal, or a rupture, notice that. Then ask yourself: Is there anything I keep wanting to do, say, or pay attention to that I keep pushing to the side?”
Write one sentence that begins, “My life is more than…” and see what surfaces. You are not erasing the loss. You are allowing room for the rest of you to exist beside it.
When Men Withdraw After Loss: Denial, Over-Functioning, and Silence
In the myth, Orpheus’ descent is dramatic. He crosses rivers of the dead, faces monsters, and confronts Hades. In many men’s lives, the descent is almost invisible.
It often starts with denial, though not in the caricatured sense of saying, “Nothing has happened.” Denial in men frequently appears as:
- Staying in motion.
The calendar fills. Tasks multiply. A man keeps moving so that there is no space for emotion to catch up. Activity quiets the fear of what might break loose if he slows down. - Taking charge of logistics.
He organises funerals, manages finances, arranges travel, and makes sure everyone else has what they need. People praise his steadiness, while inside, he feels as if he is running on borrowed strength. - Returning to work early.
Work feels familiar. There are targets, timetables, and clear expectations. Returning quickly allows a man to lean on the part of his life where competence still makes sense. - Avoiding conversations that might crack the surface.
He keeps things light, changes the subject, or jokes when talk veers toward what happened. Silence protects him from the impact he does not feel ready to face.
Each of these moves has a logic. They preserve enough order for life to continue. They also hold impact at arm’s length. The longer a man relies solely on these strategies, the heavier the unspoken weight becomes.
When my son Matthew died in 2009, I did not collapse visibly. I kept leading, kept working, and kept doing what needed to be done. On the outside, I looked like a man who had “handled it well.” On the inside, I felt as if I were standing beside a fault line. I carried a quiet fear that if I stopped, something inside me would shatter.
Functioning on the outside while fractured on the inside is a common male pattern. It is a survival response to an impact that feels unbearable. It also comes at a cost. The longer reality stays unspoken, the deeper the underground pressure grows. I explore this buried, over-functioning pattern in more depth in The Buried Life of Men.
Orpheus’ decision to walk into Hades marks a different move. He finally stops trying to outrun his grief and turns toward it, even though his aim is still reversal. Many men recognise that turning point in less dramatic forms – in the night, they realise distraction no longer works, in the moment they walk into a support group, or in the first honest sentence they speak.
Is Staying Busy After Loss Always Avoidance?
I kept working and handling tasks after the death. Was that wrong?
Activity itself is not the problem. Many men need structure and movement to get through the first weeks and months. The question is: what is the activity doing for you? If staying busy gives you brief breathing space and helps you survive, it is serving a purpose. If it becomes the only way you cope, and you never allow any room to feel or speak about what happened, the same strength that helped you can start to strip away the foundations under your feet.
Bargaining in Male Grief: The Urge to Fix the Unfixable
Men are often given problems to solve. They repair machinery, manage crises, negotiate deals, and keep systems running. When death tears through their life, that reflex does not fade. It simply meets a reality that will not bend.
Grief resists repair. It must be carried, moved through, and woven into a life that continues.
In the underworld, Orpheus tries to do what has always worked for him. He sings, persuades, and negotiates. For a moment, it appears that influence and skill have worked even in the realm of the dead. Hades grants Eurydice’s release on one condition: Orpheus must walk ahead and trust that she follows, without looking back, until they both stand in the light.
Many men recognise the pressure in that condition. They are comfortable when they can monitor outcomes and adjust in real time. They are less comfortable when asked to move forward on faith, with no visible proof.
In everyday grief, bargaining often sounds like:
- “If I had been there that night…”
The mind replays scenarios where presence might have changed the outcome. It searches for a version in which vigilance or action would have saved the person. - “If I never make that mistake again…”
A man promises himself he will correct every perceived failure. He believes that perfect behaviour from this point on will somehow rebalance the universe. - “If I stay strong for everyone…”
He convinces himself that constant strength will secure the well-being of those who remain. Softness begins to feel dangerous. - “If I sacrifice my own needs…”
He cuts away rest, joy, and connection as if they were indulgences. He treats deprivation as a form of loyalty.
These bargains aim to restore a sense of agency. They also place an impossible load on a man’s shoulders. He becomes responsible for events that were never in his control and for outcomes no one can guarantee.
A more rebellious stance toward this pattern takes a different form. It begins with a quiet refusal to let grief turn into a lifelong punishment. It names the limits of human power and refuses to participate in the story that says, “If I had been a better man, this would not have happened.”
The Backward Glance: When a Man Faces Finality
The central hinge in Orpheus’ story is the moment he turns. He has walked most of the way back to the surface. The condition is clear. However, as he moves toward the light, doubt grows louder than trust.
He begins to wonder: What if no one is behind me? What if I am walking alone? What if Hades has tricked me? His fear outweighs his agreement. He looks back. Eurydice is dragged away, and he faces the same separation in a harsher form.
In many men’s lives, there is a version of this backward glance. It is the point where the last internal bargain breaks.
It can look like:
- Reading the final report and realising there is no further appeal.
- Signing divorce papers and understanding that the relationship has really ended.
- Hearing a doctor say, “There is nothing more we can do.”
- Listening to a partner say, with complete clarity, “I am not coming back.”
- Standing in an empty bedroom and feeling in your bones that the person will never walk through that door again.
After that point, the mind can no longer hide behind possibilities. The old future dissolves. The first loss is the event itself. The second is the collapse of every scenario that depended on a different outcome.
I write more about this grief for the future-that-won’t-happen in The Grief of an Unlived Life.
Neuroscience research shows that in some forms of enduring grief, reminders of the person who died can still activate reward-related areas of the brain, particularly the nucleus accumbens, which helps explain why yearning can feel like a powerful pull back toward them (O’Connor et al., 2008).
What a man does in the months after his own backward glance shapes the rest of his life. Some men get stuck replaying the last moment, searching for the move that would have reversed it. Others slowly move toward a life in which trust no longer rests on guarantees but on a different understanding of what it means to keep faith with the dead and the living.
Reflection: Your Own “Backward Glance” Moment
Think back over your own story of grief and loss.
Was there a moment when the last strand of hope gave way, and you knew, at a level deeper than thought, that life would never return to how it was?
If you can identify that moment, notice how you reacted in the days and weeks that followed. Did you throw yourself into work? Did you reach for alcohol, sex, or distraction? Did you withdraw? Did you reach for someone?
Write a short paragraph beginning with: “After I realised there was no going back, I…”
You are not grading your response. You are simply describing the shape it took.
Then ask yourself one more question: “What decision did I make about myself in that season?” The answer often reveals the story you have been carrying about your own worth and capacity ever since.
Living Forward After Loss: The Work of Male Grief Integration
One detail in the Orpheus tradition matters deeply for men. After he loses Eurydice a second time, he does not step into the river and follow her into death. He returns to the surface.
Later retellings show him withdrawing, pouring his energy into music, and turning away from new relationships. In those versions, his inner life remains intense, but it no longer opens toward the world. His devotion turns in on itself.
Contemporary grief research speaks of “continuing bonds” – the ways people carry an ongoing inner relationship with those who have died. The aim is to allow that bond to find a new form and to grow a life in the present alongside it.
For many men, this means:
- Making room for a range of feelings about the person who died.
Love, anger, relief, regret, and gratitude can sit in the same heart. A man learns to stop treating painful emotion as disloyalty. He allows himself to remember the person as they were, with complexity rather than perfection.
- Accepting that the weight will vary.
There are days when grief feels sharp and heavy, and days when it sits more quietly in the background. The change in intensity does not measure love. It reflects the nervous system doing its work over time.
- Taking small steps back into work, friendship, and purpose.
He might return to projects, hobbies, or connections that used to matter, or he might begin new ones. These choices do not erase the person who died. They acknowledge that his own life still has chapters to be written.
- Letting a few people see more of the struggle.
Instead of presenting an unshakeable surface, he allows trusted people glimpses of what is real: the nights he cannot sleep, the flashbacks, the doubts. In that honesty, the load shares itself.
I often describe this process to men as learning to live under a new gravity. At first, every step feels heavy. Over time, the body adjusts. The weight remains, yet there are stretches of day where a man notices that he is walking, working, laughing, and loving alongside it.
There is nothing romantic about this. It is slow, uneven, and, at times, deeply painful. It is also a genuine form of courage. It becomes a way of living that includes the dead and still makes room for the living.
A Four-Territory Map to Help Understand Male Grief: A Practical Framework
Many men say they want a map rather than a list of feelings. The following four territories describe familiar landscapes men move through after a significant loss. You may recognise yourself in more than one at a time, or move back and forth between them.
These territories sit mostly in the Reclaim and Rebuild movements of the 4R Framework I use with men: Reclaim, Rebuild, Reconnect, Re-Create. They offer orientation, not a set of rules.
Territory 1: Functional Survival After Loss
In this phase, you keep moving because stopping feels dangerous.
You handle what must be handled: work, bills, family logistics, and basic tasks. You might look organised from the outside. On the inside, you feel as if you are barely holding things together. Numbness, irritability, or emotional flatness often show up. The aim here is immediate survival, not long-term meaning.
Some men stay in functional survival for months or years. The longer it continues without any honest space for grief, the more life starts to feel hollow. Functioning matters, yet when it becomes the only mode, it leaves a man cut off from the whole story of his own life.
Territory 2: Descent and Confrontation in Male Grief
Something breaks through the shell. It might be a smell, a song, a birthday, a piece of paperwork, or a sudden silence. The protective layer tears, and grief floods in.
In this territory, men can experience waves of sadness, anger, longing, or despair that feel stronger than anything they have known. The body reacts – tight chest, disrupted sleep, loss of appetite or compulsive eating, restlessness, or heaviness. Old strategies stop working. Alcohol, busyness, or distraction no longer keep the feelings at bay.
This is often the season where questions about meaning, faith, identity, and purpose intensify. A man might ask, “What kind of world is this?” “What does this say about me?”, or “Who am I now?” It is a raw and difficult place, and many men fear getting lost in it. It is also the territory where the nervous system begins to acknowledge impact and where deeper honesty becomes possible.
Territory 3: Threshold Moments and Backward Glances
This territory centres on the kind of moment Orpheus faces near the surface: a threshold that demands a choice.
It may show up as a decision about whether to stay in a relationship, continue in a particular job, pursue a court case, or hold on to a belief that no longer fits reality. It might be a single day, or it might unfold over months of small decisions.
Here, a man becomes more aware of the story he is telling himself. Thoughts like “A real man would have prevented this” or “If I ever relax, everything will fall apart” come into view. He stands between clinging to old bargains and stepping into a way of living that accepts what has happened.
Every threshold involves risk. When a man chooses to face reality without punishing himself, he steps toward a different kind of strength. When he turns back and clings to the old story, the grip of grief often tightens.
Territory 4: Integration and Living Forward
In this territory, grief has not vanished. It has been woven into a larger story.
A man begins to speak more freely about the person who died. He can remember without drowning every time. He notices that he can be present at work, in friendship, and at home, even when a part of him still aches. He honours anniversaries and dates in ways that feel right for him, instead of following scripts that no longer fit.
Integration here means recognising that the loss will always matter and that life still holds scope for growth, contribution, and connection. The relationship with the person who died continues in memory, values, and influence. At the same time, new commitments, projects, and relationships take shape.
Robert Neimeyer’s work on meaning reconstruction suggests that the deepest work of grief is not about “getting over” what happened but about slowly rebuilding a story of one’s life that can hold the loss without collapsing around it. In his cognitive-constructivist model of complicated grief, he argues that sense-making and narrative re-authoring are central to adaptation (Neimeyer, 2006).
For many men, this territory includes a conscious decision about the kind of man they want to be in the aftermath of loss. They ask themselves: What do I want my life to say about how I carried this? What kind of presence do I want to bring to the people still around me?
Practical Ways Men Can Carry Grief Without Disappearing
These practices are not solutions. They offer structure and movement for men who want to engage with grief rather than live at its mercy.
Name the grief and loss in Plain Language
Write one clear sentence that names what happened, using concrete words.
For example: “My partner died by sudden cardiac arrest in 2022,” or “My son died by suicide when he was eighteen.” Keep it simple. Read it aloud once a day for a week. This is about allowing your nervous system and your mind to stand in the same reality, rather than circling vague phrases like “what happened.”
After a few days, notice what shifts in your body when you read that sentence. Do your shoulders tighten? Does your breathing change? Awareness here is part of reclaiming your own response.
Map Your Current Territory
Look back over the four territories and choose which one best describes where you spend most of your time right now.
Ask yourself: “What tells me I am in this territory?” Write down the signs – behaviours, thoughts, body sensations, and patterns in relationships. Then ask: “What would movement by one small step look like from here?” Focusing on the next step rather than a final destination is often more helpful than asking, “How do I fix this?”
Choose One Trusted Listener
Identify one person – a friend, a mentor, a professional, a peer in a men’s group – who has some capacity to sit with honesty without rushing to fix you.
Let them know that you are trying to put words around what has happened and how you are carrying it. Ask whether they are willing to listen now and then. When you speak, keep it simple and real rather than polished. This kind of connection can begin to shift the weight from absolute solitude toward shared reality.
Create a Small Act of Ongoing Honour
Decide on one simple, repeatable action that honours the person who died.
It might be lighting a candle on certain dates, continuing a small tradition they loved, donating periodically to a cause that reflects their values, tending a plant, or going for a walk in a place that carries a memory. The aim is to give the continuing bond a tangible expression so it does not stay trapped only in private pain.
A small act done regularly builds a sense that the relationship still has presence in your life. It provides a way to express love without clinging to the past or trying to recreate what cannot return.
Allow One Area of Life to Grow
Choose one area of your life that has been shut down since the loss – a friendship, a creative interest, a physical practice, or a study plan.
Commit to taking one modest step in that area over the next month. That might mean sending a message, booking a time, signing up for a class, or picking up a neglected project. Growth in one part of life does not cancel grief in another. It helps your system bear the weight by widening the ground you stand on.
If you repeat these practices for a month – one plain sentence, one territory check-in, one honest conversation, one act of honour, and one small step in a chosen area – you may not feel dramatically different. You are likely, however, to feel slightly less alone and more in touch with what is real in your own life.
Key Takeaways on Male Grief
- Male grief is often intense and hidden, not absent.
Many men feel more than they can easily name. They continue to function while carrying a heavy inner load. Recognising this pattern is a first step in loosening its grip. - The Orpheus myth mirrors real patterns in men’s lives.
His descent into the underworld, his attempt to bargain with death, and his backward glance reflect common ways men respond to loss, doubt, and finality. - Denial in men frequently shows up as over-functioning rather than collapse.
A man may keep working, leading, and serving while privately splitting off his grief. This approach can help him through the early weeks and months, but it becomes costly if it continues without any space for honesty. - Living on with grief is demanding masculine work.
The central task is to carry the ongoing bond with the person who died while allowing work, relationships, and purpose to take shape around it. This movement often sits in the Reclaim and Rebuild stages before Reconnect and Re-Create become possible. - Maps and practices can support men without trying to remove grief.
The four-territory map and simple practices offer structure for men who prefer orientation to emotional language alone. They give men a way to face what has happened while still building forward. - Support that understands masculine patterns in grief matters.
Mentoring, peer connection, and professional help that recognise the pressures men face – around control, competence, and responsibility – can provide a place to speak honestly without judgement or pressure to perform.
FAQs About Male Grief
How long should grief last?
There is no fixed timetable for grief. Many people notice that the sharpest intensity eases over time, especially when they have outlets for expression and support. At the same time, significant dates, reminders, and sudden waves can continue for years. The question is less “How long should this last?” and more “How is this affecting my life, my health, and my relationships right now?” If the weight feels unmanageable, or you find yourself thinking about ending your life, that is a signal to reach for support, including crisis services and specialised grief help in your area.
Researchers like Prigerson and colleagues have proposed the term “prolonged grief disorder” for situations where grief remains so intense and disabling over time that it significantly disrupts daily functioning, which is one more reason to take your own warning signs seriously and get support (Prigerson et al., 2009).
Is it a weakness to ask for help with grief?
Reaching out requires the kind of courage many men have never been invited to practise. Staying silent may look strong from the outside, but it often means carrying a load alone that would be better shared. Asking for help does not remove responsibility; it widens the support beneath it. Choosing one person to speak with can be a decisive act of self-leadership rather than a sign of failure.
What if I feel nothing now and worry it will hit later?
Numbness is common in the early stages, especially when you have stepped into organising mode or taken on extra responsibility. Sometimes impact arrives months or years later. Treat the numbness as information rather than a flaw. You can still lay groundwork now – by naming what happened in simple language, tracking your body’s signals, and building a small support network – so that when stronger emotion arises, you already have places to take it.
How do I support a man who is grieving but does not talk?
Stay present and consistent. Many men test others over time to see whether interest will fade. Invite him into ordinary connection – coffee, a walk, shared tasks – as well as deeper conversation. Offer small, specific openings such as, “If you ever want to tell me what the last week has been like, I’m here.” Make it clear that you will not rush to fix him or change the subject. Your steadiness becomes part of the ground he can eventually stand on.
Where can I get help in Australia if grief starts to feel unsafe?
If grief starts to feel unsafe, treat that as a signal to bring other people in quickly. In Australia, you can contact Lifeline, Beyond Blue, MensLine Australia, or the Suicide Call Back Service. If you’re in Perth or Western Australia, you can also speak with your GP and ask for grief support options locally. The point is simple: don’t carry risk alone.
About the Author
David Kernohan is a mentor, writer, and former CEO in the community, mental health, and legal sectors in Western Australia. He has spent more than three decades working alongside men in distress, including those carrying grief, identity strain, and the weight of leadership.
David’s work is shaped by his own experience of his son Matthew’s death by suicide in 2009, a loss that rearranged his understanding of strength, responsibility, and what it means to keep living when a core part of your world has gone. Through Mentoring Through the Maze, he walks beside men as they reclaim their inner bearings, rebuild identity, and learn to live forward with grief as part of their story. He lives and works on Whadjuk Noongar Country in Perth, Western Australia, and works with men across Perth and wider WA.
Related Articles in This Greek Myth Grief Series
If you are a father living with the death of a child, you may find it helpful to read the first two parts of my Greek myth series on father grief. In “Father Grief After Child Loss: What The Daedalus Myth Reveals About Paternal Rupture,” I look at how a father’s sense of identity and responsibility cracks beneath the surface when a child dies, even while he keeps functioning.
In Rebuilding Father Identity After a Child Dies: Laertes, I use the figure of Laertes – Odysseus’ father – to explore what happens when a man lets grief narrow his world, and what it can look like to begin rebuilding rather than disappearing.
References
Dawson, T. (2000). The Orpheus complex. Journal of Analytical Psychology, 45(2), 245–266.
Doka, K. J., & Martin, T. L. (2010). Grieving beyond gender: Understanding the ways men and women mourn (2nd ed.). Routledge.
Doka, K. J., & Martin, T. L. (2025). Grieving beyond gender: Understanding diverse grieving styles (3rd ed.). Routledge.
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