Ben Tate is not who you'd expect to be talking about men's mental health.
Or maybe he's exactly who you'd expect, because he's proof that the most put-together-looking people are often carrying the most. And because the @benandzara account a father-daughter duo with 7 million followers, a billion views, collaborations with Robert Irwin, Sir Elton John reposting their content, and appearances on Australian national television exists because of what Ben went through, not in spite of it.
In 2010, at age 30, Ben self-admitted into a rehabilitation center. He spent nine weeks there. He came out on the other side of addiction, slowly began rebuilding his life, and 12 years later, he's not just sober, he's flourishing. The dancing, the laughter, the daughter twirling in matching outfits: it's all real. And it was made possible by men who picked up the phone for him when he couldn't pick it up himself.
The stigma is still there. Ben doesn't pretend otherwise.
In his conversation with COYT's Eric Robert Hunter, Ben acknowledged it plainly: "There is a bit of a stigma with men talking about how they feel and really telling each other, particularly if you don't know each other that well."
He and Eric Robert had only met once in person before they went for coffee in LA and, in Ben's words, "put it all on the table." Two men. Relative strangers. No agenda. And it became one of the most genuine, freeing conversations either of them had experienced in a while. Why? Because they skipped the surface stuff and went straight to the truth.
"If I just said to you, 'yeah man, it's all good' maybe things were good, but if I didn't give you some substance to what's really going on, because there's always something going on, then we wouldn't have connected," Ben said.
That's the shortcut. Honesty isn't vulnerability as weakness. It's the fastest route to real connection. And real connection, it turns out, is protective. It's preventative. It is, in Ben's words, "spiritual armor."
Men don't need permission to open up. They need practice.
Eric Robert made a point during their conversation that resonates deeply: men naturally build community through doing things together. Fishing. Sports. Sitting in silence at a game. The connection is real, but it stays on the surface if no one ever asks the follow-up question: "But really how are you doing?"
Making that normal. Making it routine. Making it safe. That's the work.
Ben bought a theater ticket for an older mate a 75-year-old man he deeply admires because he knew he loved a bit of theater. Was it awkward to invite another guy to a play? A little. "If I said let's go out for a beer, it'd be fine," Ben laughed. "But saying let's go to a play and some ice cream sounds a bit weird for a bloke."
He did it anyway. That man is now one of his closest friends in the world.
Uncomfortable moves create the deepest connections. The reach-out that feels a little risky. The text that says "I know this is random, but I've been thinking about you." The invitation that might get a no. Ben points out that rejection has a way of normalizing itself when you stop making it personal, and that the more you put yourself out there, the easier every future reach becomes.
What checking in looks like in practice.
According to Ben, it doesn't have to be elaborate. He's not a big texter, "I'm a bit old school like that" so he prefers to call. But if someone doesn't pick up, he leaves a voicemail. Short. Simple. "Just checking in, man. Hope you're good. See you soon."
And when he's struggling, he does something counterintuitive that a good friend taught him: he calls someone else who he knows is struggling, and checks on them instead. "Most of the time when I do that, I get off myself and I'm able to connect with a fellow, and there's a loving act there, and it's connection."
That's the paradox of genuine support: giving it helps you receive it. Being of service gets you out of your own head. Checking in on your teammate is also, quietly, checking in on yourself.
This is a lifestyle. Not a campaign.
When Eric Robert spotted Ben wearing the COYT hoodie and hat, he said what struck him most was that Ben wasn't just wearing a message, he was already living it. Long before the interview, long before the sweatshirt, Ben Tate had built his life around the principle of checking in.
"It is a lifestyle, man," Ben said. "I feel safer. I feel warmer."
COYT is not here to manufacture that feeling. We're here to make it accessible. To lower the barrier. To remind anyone who's been white-knuckling it alone that there's a whole team that wants to hear from them.
Vulnerability is not weakness. It's the fastest shortcut to the thing every single one of us actually wants: to be known, and to know we're not alone.
Visit checkonyourteammates.org. Check on your people. It starts with one call.