I grew up with an all-too-familiar mindset many men of my generation share: Rub some dirt on it. Man up. Suck it up. Men don’t cry.
For much of my life, mental health was something I rarely discussed and didn’t fully understand. That all changed when I lost my oldest son, Gavin, to suicide after he was the victim of an online sextortion scam. The grief forced me into a journey I never expected to take.
Gavin was only 17. As a father, you feel responsible for protecting your family. Not only had I experienced the greatest tragedy of my life, but I felt like I had let my wife and my sons down.
I didn’t understand post-traumatic stress until I began experiencing triggers of my own. I didn’t understand how anxiety could take over the body or how depression could make the simple act of getting out of bed feel impossible. After tragedy entered my life, I had to learn how to get up, keep going and move forward while carrying a weight that would never completely leave me.
Looking back, I realized my body had been trying to teach me something long before I knew how to name it. When I felt anxious or angry as a teenager and overwhelmed as an adult, I often went to the gym for some physical exertion. I felt energy building inside me that had to go somewhere. I wanted to scream or run until the rage was gone.
Gavin had his own version of this. When he became anxious, he would grab his skateboard and head outside to clear his head. He might skate for an hour or more, and when he returned, he felt better. I even remember one night when he and I just walked laps around the airport in my town to talk. At the time, I didn’t recognize what either of us was doing. We were moving our bodies to process what we were feeling. I now say that to change an emotion, you must create motion. It took the worst day of my life and the wisdom of a 4-year-old for me to finally grasp this.
The Guffey family is from western North Carolina. We’re mountain folk with mountain ways. We always had a tradition that I never understood until the day we buried my son: Guffey family members bury their own. We don’t let others put dirt on our loved ones. Ever since I was a child, as soon as a funeral service ended, we grabbed shovels and began to cover the grave until the dirt filled the hole and covered our family members.
At Gavin’s funeral, shovels were waiting beside his grave. Hundreds of people gathered in early August in South Carolina. It was one of those days when the heat was almost unbearable. When the casket was lowered, I took my then-16-year-old son, Coen, and my 4-year-old son, Callahan, toward the mound of dirt. Coen and I carried full-size shovels. Callahan had a smaller one.
Instead of walking up with us, Callahan stopped. He was crying and didn’t understand why we were asking him to do what we were about to do. Truthfully, I’m not sure I completely understood it myself at that moment. I knelt beside him and tried to explain that our family did this for the people we loved. Callahan had lost not only his brother, but also his best friend.
That moment is captured in a photograph. I am leaning down beside Callahan, my sister Micala on his other side, and the rest of the funeral attendees are gathered behind us.
Eventually, Callahan walked forward with Coen and me. Together, we pushed our shovels into the mound and placed the first bit of dirt into Gavin’s grave. After 10 or 15 minutes in the heat, Coen and I began passing our shovels to other family members. Callahan refused to stop. He kept returning to the mound, lifting one small shovelful at a time.
As people began to leave, I looked back and saw the pile of dirt was nearly gone. Callahan was still working. When the earth above Gavin’s grave formed a new mound, he used his little shovel to pat down the top.
His face was covered in dirt, except for the clean lines left by his tears.
“Are you all right, buddy?” I asked.
“Yeah, Daddy,” he said. “It helped get the yucky out.”
Those may be the wisest six words I have ever heard.
Callahan could not explain grief or the pain he felt. He couldn’t name the storm of emotions moving through his small body. Yet, somehow, he knew what to do with them. He picked up a shovel. He moved. He worked. For a moment, the physical act helped him carry what words could not.
That day taught me one of the most important lessons of my mental health journey: To change an emotion, you must create motion.
Science supports what Callahan understood instinctively. According to the National Institutes of Health, physical activity can reduce short-term feelings of anxiety, while regular activity can lower the risk of depression and improve sleep.
Movement does not have to mean running a marathon or lifting heavy weights. It can mean taking a walk, riding a bicycle, dancing, working in the yard or stepping onto a skateboard. On some days, it may simply mean standing up, walking outside and feeling the sun on your face.
Movement is not a cure for grief, trauma, anxiety or depression. It is not a replacement for counseling, medication or professional care. Sometimes the bravest and most necessary movement is reaching for the phone and asking someone for help. It’s something I wish my son Gavin had done.
Movement has become the tool in my tool belt: An immediate, accessible way to interrupt the moment when the weight of the world feels too heavy.
I now share this lesson with teenagers because they are carrying more than many adults realize. I tell them that when anxiety begins rising inside them, or when an emotion feels too big to hold, they should try creating motion. Give that energy somewhere safe to go. Let the body help the mind carry the load.
For generations, boys and men have been told to “man up” and hide what hurts. We have treated silence as strength and suffering alone as courage. I no longer do that. Real strength is recognizing what is happening inside us and responding in a healthy way. It is talking about our pain. It is seeking help, and sometimes, it is simply taking the next physical step when standing still feels unbearable.
My 4-year-old son taught me that beside his brother’s grave. When you can’t find the words, move. When anxiety tells you that you are trapped, move. When grief feels too heavy to carry, ask for help — and move.
You may not be able to remove the pain, but sometimes, motion can help get the “yucky” out. Sometimes that’s all we need to make it to tomorrow. That’s the important part because tomorrow needs you.
Brandon Guffey is a South Carolina politician and a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives. Before his election to the state legislature, he served locally on the York County Council. Following the tragic death of his 17-year-old son, Gavin, who died by suicide after being targeted by online sextortion, Guffey became a prominent national advocate for child online safety. He successfully championed “Gavin’s Law,” landmark legislation in South Carolina that criminalizes sextortion and mandates cyber-safety education in schools. Today, he continues his advocacy nationwide to protect children from digital predators through legislative efforts and his nonprofit foundation.
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