What Happens When Men Have No One Alone at the End: A Loneliness Epidemic

There were moments during my time working in hospitals that I still carry with me. I remember being called in to support discharge planning for an older man who was terminal. He had no visitors. No family at his bedside. When we finally tracked down a number and called a relative, the response was, “You can call when he dies.” That was it. No questions. No tears. No urgency. Just a closed door.

At first, I’d feel judgment rise up. How could someone say that? How could they turn their back on their father, their brother, their husband? But after hearing enough stories and seeing enough families hang up the phone without hesitation, I started to wonder what had really gone on in that man’s life. What kind of husband was he? What kind of father had he been? I stopped assuming that the silence meant cruelty from the family and started wondering if it was a long-delayed act of self-preservation.

And still… the loneliness was undeniable.

This wasn’t a one-off case. I saw many men like him—older, sick, and utterly alone. No visitors. No calls. No circle of support. Just a hospital bed and the quiet hum of machines. It was eerie. And it was heartbreaking. Because for many of these men, the isolation didn’t start with illness. The disconnection had been happening for years.

We don’t talk about it enough, but men are deeply lonely. It’s not just emotional—it’s cultural, generational, systemic. Studies show that nearly one in three men under 30 report having no close friends. Older men are especially at risk. Many rely on their partner as their only emotional outlet, so when that partner dies or the relationship ends, they’re left with no one. Loneliness isn’t just a feeling—it’s a health risk. Male suicide rates are significantly higher than women’s, and prolonged isolation is a major contributing factor.

What makes this crisis even more painful is that many men don’t even realize it’s happening. Disconnection has become normalized. They might not call it loneliness—they’ll say they’re just busy, focused on work, or “not the emotional type.” But beneath the surface, many are isolated. They don’t feel safe opening up. They haven’t been taught how to name their needs, nurture intimacy, or build emotional community. And by the time the pain becomes unavoidable, it often shows up as depression, substance use, rage, or silence.

This emotional suppression isn't innate; it's taught. Research indicates that infant boys may cry more than girls, yet societal expectations often discourage boys from expressing vulnerability. From a young age, boys are socialized to suppress emotions, equating emotional expression with weakness. This conditioning can lead to a lifetime of emotional restriction, making it challenging for men to form deep, supportive relationships.

In some cases, this unaddressed emotional pain manifests in behaviors like hypersexuality. Particularly within the Black community, hypersexuality can serve as a coping mechanism—a way to assert control or seek validation in a society that often devalues Black male emotional expression. This behavior, while offering temporary relief, can further isolate individuals from forming genuine, supportive connections.

Meanwhile, many women are doing the opposite. We talk. We cry. We seek therapy. We form group chats and sister circles. We’re learning to say hard things, support each other, and unlearn patterns that kept us disconnected. We know what it’s like to feel invisible too—but we’ve created pathways back to each other. We’ve turned toward community. And honestly, that’s saved us.

I say all of this not to compare pain, but to name a truth that often goes unspoken: women are evolving, emotionally and relationally, at a pace many men aren’t keeping up with. That isn’t to shame men—it’s an invitation. It’s a reminder that emotional connection isn’t a luxury. It’s a lifeline. And we need more men to do the work. To seek connection. To be vulnerable. To heal.

Because what I witnessed in those hospital rooms wasn’t just death. It was the slow erosion of relationship over a lifetime. It was the cost of emotional silence. And too often, it was irreversible.

We all need people. We all need to be seen. And it’s time to stop pretending otherwise.