The quiet crisis of older men in a world embracing mental health

Under the fluorescent lights of a community mental health clinic in King County, I opened the locked door to pop my head out into the lobby. “Jack?” A wiry, white-bearded man stood up stiffly, gathered his backpack and Big Gulp, and met me to walk back to my office. As I held the door for him, I immediately clocked the familiar smell of Marlboro cigarettes mixed with machine grease — the same smell of holding the flashlight for my dad on childhood weekends as he fixed some obscure valve or...