By Dan Weddle

For the vast majority of my life, I was a professional at "sucking it up."

If you had asked me ten years ago how I handled stress, trauma, or heartache, I would have told you that I just handled it. I knuckled down. I did what needed to be done. I viewed myself as a utilitarian—if an emotion or a reaction didn't have a clear, immediate purpose to help me get through the day, why bother with it?

I developed a habit early on of packing away feelings in favor of just moving forward. I’m not going to say it was an easy way to live, but for a long time, it made living possible. It allowed me to function. It allowed me to build a career. It allowed me to be the "strong one" for my family.

But I eventually learned a hard lesson that I want to share with you today: Survival mode is a temporary state. It isn't a life. And if you stay in it long enough, you will suffocate.

The Architecture of Survival

My training in survival mode started when I was just a kid. My parents divorced when I was four, and I grew up with a father who, while high-functioning in some areas, was an alcoholic. I spent my childhood managing his unpredictability, growing up way too fast, and assuming adult responsibilities when I should have been playing. I didn't have time to protest my circumstances or unpack how they made me feel. I just had to get through them.

That architecture got reinforced with steel and concrete when I entered law enforcement at age 18.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, we didn’t have "wellness checks" or mandatory debriefings. If you saw something horrific—a decapitation in a car wreck, a suicide, or the violent aftermath of a crime—you didn't go see a therapist. Your counseling service was your buddies at the end of a shift in the parking lot with a 12-pack of beer.

You drank, you laughed it off, and you went back to work the next day. You put the horror in a box, taped it shut, and shoved it into the back of your mind.

I carried that same mentality into the business world. When I became an executive and later a business owner, I treated stress the same way I treated crime scenes. I internalized it. All the fear, the anxiety, the frustration, the feelings of inadequacy—I stuffed it all inside, put a smile on my face, and got to work.

I thought this was strength. I thought this was what it meant to be a man, a leader, and a father. I thought my value to my family and my employees was intrinsically tied to my ability to be resolute and unshakeable.

But the problem with stuffing things down is that they don't disappear. They accumulate. For years, I felt like an elephant was standing on top of my chest. I felt like I was going to explode at any moment. I was successful on paper—CEO, great family, nice home—but inside, I was barely breathing.

The Breaking Point

Then came the day that shattered the boxes I had so carefully taped shut.

In 2016, my son Peyton was killed in a car accident. He was less than an eighth of a mile from our house.

There is no "knuckling down" through the death of your child. There is no utilitarian purpose that can make sense of that kind of loss. The "suck it up" strategy that had served me for decades completely failed. For the first year and a half after Peyton died, I was a zombie. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t care about my business. I didn't care about golf. I was physically present, but emotionally, I was gone.

It took that absolute breaking point for me to realize that "survival mode" wasn't actually living. It was just a slow way of dying.

The Courage to Crash

I had to be broken completely before I could admit that I needed help. And for a guy like me—a Southern, conservative, former cop—admitting I needed therapy felt like admitting defeat.

But I finally went. And it saved my life.

I went through an intense grief and PTSD program, and it was nothing like I expected. I thought therapy would be just sitting around complaining about the past. Instead, it was like an investigation into my own operating system.

We did a timeline of my life, starting at the earliest point I could remember. We looked at the trauma with my dad. We looked at the things I saw as a police officer. We looked at the stress of the business.

After just a few sessions, I got a diagnosis: PTSD and OCD.

For years, I would have viewed a diagnosis as a weakness or a label. But in that moment, it was freedom. A doctor can't fix a problem until they know what it is. As soon as I understood that my "uptight" nature and my need for control were actually symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder stemming from my childhood and career, I could stop blaming myself and start fixing it.

I realized that the anxiety I felt wasn't a character flaw. It was a physiological response to decades of unprocessed trauma.

From Surviving to Thriving

I learned that it is okay not to be okay.

That sounds like a bumper sticker, but when you really internalize it, it changes everything. Admitting that I was broken didn't make me weak; it gave me the tools to actually become strong.

I learned to communicate. I learned to tell my wife, Mikki, what I needed. I learned to talk to my employees and my sons about how I was feeling. I built what I call my "lifeboat"—a small circle of trusted friends and colleagues who I can be completely vulnerable with.

I also realized that my faith played a huge role in this. Jesus said, "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10).

Living with PTSD, living with that elephant on my chest, living in constant survival mode—that was the thief. That was stealing my life. Getting help, processing the pain, and learning to breathe again—that is living life to the full.

A Challenge to the Men

I want to speak specifically to the men reading this.

I know the pressure you feel to be the rock. I know the pride that keeps you from walking into a counselor's office. I know you think, "I’ve got this. I’m the man of the house. I’ll deal with it."

But look at where that got me. It took a tragedy to wake me up, but you don't have to wait for a tragedy.

I wish I had been more vulnerable earlier in my life. I wish I had these tools twenty years ago. I would have been a better father, a better husband, and a better leader.

If you are walking around feeling like you are going to explode, or if you are numbing yourself just to get through the week, please hear me: That is not living. You don't have to carry that weight alone.

There is no shame in getting a tune-up for your mind, just like there’s no shame in going to a doctor for a broken leg. In fact, I’ve found that when I share my struggles with other men, they don't look down on me. They usually exhale and say, "Me too."

Survival mode got you this far. But you were made for more than just surviving. You were made to live.

Dan Weddle is the author of Earned Wisdom, a memoir about resilience, leadership, and finding hope after tragedy. He is the CEO of ProTech Services Group and the founder of the PEYitforward Foundation.

Get the full story and the tools Dan used to heal in his new book: Earned Wisdom on Amazon