The Cost of Fitting In.

You could smell it before you saw it.
Diesel. Wet earth. Cigarettes.
And the stale heat of a crew truck that had been lived in for 14 hours straight.

The laughter was sharp. Always at someone else’s expense.
And my laugh was the loudest.

I had to be loud. Had to cover up the fact that I didn't belong.

I wanted the "brotherhood."
Craved the approval of the older guys—the ones with the leather skin, the divorces, the stories.
I told myself it was a rite of passage.
If I could just be one of them, I’d finally be enough.

So I learned the moves.
Learned how to take a punchline. Learned how to throw one back.
Watched the "family men" on the crew take their wedding rings off and toss them into the glovebox before we hit the bar.

I didn't judge them. I copied them.

I cheated. I lied. I wore the mask.
Laughed when I wanted to scream.
Told myself that’s how you proved you were a man.

But the mask gets heavy.

I became two people.
Cole the Lineman: The party animal. The tough guy. The one who spent half his paycheck on rounds for the boys.
And Cole the Son: The sensitive kid my stepdad Mike raised me to be.
The one who was taught to feel things, not bury them.

I’d walk through the front door to my girlfriend and try to be that "good guy."
But I felt like a fraud.
You can’t build a life when the foundation is split down the middle.

The Old Rule: You’re only as good as your last laugh in the break room. Never let them see you sweat.

The Crash: I started using more just to keep the noise down. The alcohol, the cocaine—it wasn't about having fun anymore. It was about turning off the guilt.
But the mask slipped. It always does.

The New Rule: Brotherhood isn’t built on secrets. And real strength isn't about how much you can drink or how hard you can work.
Real strength is looking in the mirror and recognizing the face staring back.

If you’re out there today, knuckles split, laughing too loud, terrified they’ll see through you—Let’s connect.

We don’t have to wear the mask forever.