Part One - How Finland Faced Its Suicide Crisis Head-On

Part 1 of 3 in a series on what the world can learn from Finland’s suicide prevention efforts

In the United States, the conversation about male suicide is as predictable as it is shallow. “Men just won’t seek help,” we’re told. And that’s the end of it. Nothing more is asked, and nothing more is done.

But in the 1980s, Finland was facing a suicide crisis of its own. Suicide rates were among the highest in Europe, and the deaths were concentrated in a very particular group: men — often rural, middle-aged, isolated, and drinking too much.

Finland could have shrugged, as America does, and accepted that “men just won’t seek help.” Instead, they made a very different choice. They decided to find out, in painstaking detail, who was dying, where, and why.

The Scale of the Crisis

By the mid-1980s, the numbers were grim. Suicide had become one of Finland’s leading causes of death for working-age men. Rates had been climbing steadily since the 1960s, and by the 1980s they were among the worst in the developed world.

For a country that prided itself on being orderly, sober, and efficient, this was more than a statistical embarrassment — it was a national emergency.

In 1985, the Finnish Ministry of Health convened experts, psychiatrists, and policymakers. Their goal was clear: develop a national suicide prevention plan that would reduce suicides by 20% within ten years.

This was, at the time, a radical idea. No other country had attempted a national, research-based suicide prevention program on this scale.

But the Finns knew that to act wisely, they would first have to understand deeply. And that meant one thing: research.

A Radical First Step — Research Every Suicide

Most countries are content to look at suicide from a distance, through statistics. Age brackets, gender breakdowns, perhaps a line on a graph. Finland chose a different path.

In 1987, the government launched what became known as the Suicides in Finland 1987 study — a nationwide effort to examine, in intimate detail, every single suicide that occurred over the course of one year.

Not a sample. Not an estimate. Every case.

For each of the roughly 1,400 suicides, researchers conducted what’s called a psychological autopsy. They interviewed families, spoke to friends and neighbors, and combed through medical and police records. They asked hard questions: What was happening in this person’s life? Had they ever sought care? Were there early warning signs?

The project engaged hundreds of professionals across the country: doctors, social workers, police officers, even clergy. It was one of the most ambitious suicide research efforts ever attempted, and it immediately began to change the way Finns thought about the problem.

The findings were stark. Suicide in Finland was not a random scattering of tragedies. It clustered in specific groups:

• Middle-aged rural men, often farmers or hunters, living in isolation.

• Young men rejected from compulsory military service, who carried the stigma of “failure” at the very moment they were trying to establish their adult identity.

• Men with alcohol dependence, frequently untreated.

• People who had never had contact with mental health services at all.

For the first time, Finland could say not just how many suicides were happening, but who was dying, where, and under what circumstances.

This wasn’t abstract theory. It was a roadmap. And it set the stage for something even more unusual: a national plan to intervene, directly and specifically, in the lives of those most at risk.

The Provincial Lens

The brilliance of the Finnish project wasn’t just in collecting data — it was in how they used it.

Instead of keeping the results locked away in government reports or academic journals, the findings were handed back to the provinces. Each region received its own suicide profile: a detailed account of who in their community was dying, what patterns were visible, and where the weak points in support systems lay.

In one province, the data might highlight young men failing conscription. In another, middle-aged farmers drinking heavily and living alone. In yet another, the lack of follow-up care for suicide attempts.

These weren’t abstract numbers anymore. They were portraits of neighbors, colleagues, and fellow parishioners. And the responsibility was clear: suicide prevention would have to be tailored locally.

Provincial health officials, police, clergy, teachers, and even farmer’s associations were drawn into the effort. Instead of a purely top-down campaign dictated from Helsinki, Finland was building a network of local responses, each shaped by the community’s own data.

This was a crucial shift. Suicide wasn’t just a “psychiatric problem” to be handled in hospitals. It was a social and cultural problem too — one that touched schools, military bases, rural hunting clubs, and village churches.

By the early 1990s, Finland had something no other country had ever built: a nationwide, locally adapted suicide prevention strategy, grounded in evidence about real people in real places.

Why This Matters

What Finland did in the late 1980s was extraordinary.

Instead of throwing up their hands and sighing that “men just won’t seek help,” they went out and found the men who were dying. They studied the contexts of their lives, the patterns in their struggles, the systems that failed them.

By the early 1990s, Finland could point to its suicide crisis and say with precision:

• We know who is most at risk.

• We know where the deaths are happening.

• We know the social and cultural factors driving them.

This is the foundation of prevention. You cannot help people you refuse to see.

And here lies the striking contrast with the United States. To this day, our suicide surveillance is patchy, fragmented, and often superficial. We rarely break down the data in meaningful ways, and even when we do, we almost never follow it with targeted action. Middle-aged men in rural communities — by far the group most at risk — remain largely invisible in our prevention systems.

Finland chose another path. They chose to look directly at the problem, however uncomfortable. And that choice gave them a roadmap for action.

Coming Next: From Research to Action

Research alone does not save lives. But in Finland, research was only the beginning.

The findings from the 1987 study became the blueprint for one of the boldest public health experiments in the world: a nationwide suicide prevention strategy that would mobilize schools, churches, the military, the media, and even rural hunting clubs.

And it worked. Suicide rates, which had been climbing steadily, began to fall.

In the next post, we’ll look at how Finland took the data in hand and transformed it into practical, creative interventions — and how entire communities became part of the prevention effort. It should post a week from today.

Men Are Good.

In the late 1980s, Finland discovered something troubling. Among its highest-risk suicide groups were young men rejected from military service. At exactly the age when they were trying to prove themselves, they were branded as outsiders. Many spiraled into isolation, unemployment, and despair.

Finland’s response was striking. The Defense Forces worked with mental health groups, employment services, and ​therapists to catch these men before they fell. They created guidebooks for life after discharge. They launched projects like Young Man, Seize the Day to provide vocational training, community, and a renewed sense of belonging.

In other words: Finland looked at these young men — stigmatized, rejected, hurting — and asked, “What do they need to find a way back in?”

Contrast that with how our society treats another group of young men today: those labelled as “incels.”

Here too we see rejection, isolation, and despair. But instead of responding with empathy or practical support, the prevailing approach is ridicule. The media caricatures incels as “dangerous losers” or “ticking time bombs.” Academic articles often describe them as pathologies — not people. On social media, the word “incel” has become shorthand for contempt, a slur hurled at any man deemed awkward, unwanted, or out of step.

The result? We deepen the very isolation that fuels their pain.

This doesn’t mean excusing harmful behaviors, nor ignoring real risks. But if the only response to young men in despair is shame and hostility, then we are doing exactly the opposite of prevention.

Finland shows another way. It proves that when a society chooses to see its hurting men as human beings rather than problems, it can build supports that save lives.

The question is whether we are willing to do the same. Will we keep throwing rocks at young men already drowning in loneliness? Or will we, like Finland, build ladders out of despair — ladders made of belonging, opportunity, and care?

_________________________

Starting Monday, I’ll share a new three-part series on how Finland confronted a devastating suicide crisis — and what their success can teach us about helping men in pain, rather than mocking them.

I’d known for years that Finland had significantly reduced male suicide rates, but only recently did I dig into the details. After reaching out to the Finnish Embassy, I was connected with thr Finnish Health Dept who then introduced me to Dr. Timo Partonen, a researcher who lived through these efforts. He shared documents that tell the story in remarkable depth.

I’ve distilled that material into a series I think you’ll find eye-opening. Finland’s story is one of care, courage, and respect for men’s lives. My hat is off to them — and I hope we can learn from their example.

Preface: The Double Bind Men Face

In a previous post, we looked at how men are often excluded from help when they appear dependent. Our focus was on culture—how society expects men to remain independent, and how men who fail to meet that standard are judged as weak or less deserving of care. These judgments come from all directions—women, men, institutions, and even therapists.

It’s easy to see how this cultural default discourages men from seeking therapy. If help is only for those who admit weakness, and admitting weakness means you lose status, the path forward becomes nearly impossible. Most men learn early: always appear independent. Don’t ask. Don’t need.

Therapy, on the other hand, requires vulnerability. It asks men to reveal struggle, uncertainty, and emotional need. For many, that feels like walking directly into the line of fire—the very place they’ve been punished before. No wonder so many avoid it unless they absolutely have to.

What we’ll explore today is an added layer—one that comes from inside the man himself. Not just cultural messaging, but biological wiring. Men receive a double push: society tells them to be independent, and their biology—especially testosterone—echoes that same directive.

In the post below, we’ll take a closer look at how testosterone shapes men’s emotional behavior, especially in therapeutic settings. The more we understand what’s going on beneath the surface, the more compassion—and effectiveness—we can bring to the work of helping men heal.

 

6 Things the Mental Health Industry Gets Wrong About Men

We’ve built a mental health system that often misunderstands men.
Not because therapists don’t care, or because the science isn’t out there—but because many of the core assumptions about men’s emotional lives are built on a framework that fits women better than men. And that misfit? It drives men away. It leaves them unseen. And it often shames them for responding in ways that are biologically and psychologically normal for males. A 2011 paper by Eisenegger, Haushofer, and Fehr—The Role of Testosterone in Social Interaction—offers a major insight: testosterone drives status sensitivity, motivation, risk-taking, and protective emotional strategies. When we understand that, a lot of “male resistance” to therapy starts making sense. Here are six key things the mental health field gets wrong about men—and how we can do better.

1. “Men avoid therapy because they fear vulnerability.”

The truth: Many men avoid therapy because it feels like a status threat—and testosterone reinforces that instinct.

Testosterone heightens a man’s sensitivity to social threats—especially those that signal a potential loss of standing, respect, or dominance. Angry facial expressions, emotional pressure, unclear expectations, or even intense eye contact can feel like status challenges rather than invitations to connect.

Layered on top of that biology is a lifetime of cultural training. Most men grow up learning that independence is strength—and dependence is weakness. They’re taught to solve problems alone, not reveal them. Testosterone supports this stance by motivating status-seeking, autonomy, and competitive positioning.

So when a man is invited into therapy and asked to reveal his inner world, he’s not just being asked to share—he’s being asked to violate both his biology and his conditioning. What’s called “resistance” is often a natural response to a situation that feels unfamiliar, disempowering, and loaded with risk.

In those moments, you might see him:

• Break eye contact and look down or away

• Sit back, go quiet, or shift posture to reduce tension

• Use humor to deflect

• Say very little—not because he doesn’t care, but because the wrong move could cost him

This isn’t fear of vulnerability. It’s a biologically wired instinct to protect status in uncertain environments—amplified by a lifetime of being told that asking for help means you’ve already failed.

2. “Men are emotionally disconnected.”

The truth: Men often process emotion differently—testosterone shifts how they engage empathy, especially in high-stakes or competitive situations.

Research shows that testosterone reduces automatic empathy responses—like facial mimicry or reading subtle emotional cues—particularly in contexts that might involve competition or threat. That doesn’t mean men don’t care or don’t feel. It means their emotional systems are tuned to assess, not absorb, especially when status or safety is on the line.

Culturally, boys are often discouraged from emotional openness early in life. They’re rewarded for composure, strength, and staying in control. Over time, they learn to internalize emotion, rather than externalize it.

So in adulthood, especially under pressure, men may not “mirror” emotion in familiar ways:

• He doesn’t match a sad face with a sad face

• He misses subtle emotional cues unless they’re made explicit

• He stays logical or matter-of-fact during emotional conversations

• He may look emotionally “flat” when he’s actually carefully regulating or analyzing what’s happening

This isn’t emotional disconnection—it’s emotional management, shaped by both biology and lifelong social feedback. When we stop expecting men to respond like women—and instead tune into how they do engage—we start to see that empathy is there. It just speaks a different language.

3. “Men don’t trust easily because they’re guarded or cynical.”

The truth: Testosterone lowers baseline trust in uncertain situations—especially when status or vulnerability is involved.

Testosterone has been shown to reduce generalized trust, particularly in high-stakes or competitive settings. This isn’t paranoia or dysfunction—it’s strategic. In evolutionary terms, misplaced trust could mean defeat, betrayal, or loss of position. Testosterone prepares men to assess before they invest.

Culturally, this gets reinforced by repeated experience. Many men have learned the hard way that opening up too quickly can backfire—especially if it exposes weakness, emotional need, or dependence.

So when a man enters a new environment like therapy—or even a relationship conflict—he’s not defaulting to cynicism. He’s scanning for clarity, fairness, and safety.

You might see him:

• Hold back emotionally, even when invited to open up

• Look for hidden motives or question the process

• Rely on himself rather than ask for support

• Be slow to believe reassurance, especially if things feel emotionally tense

This isn’t distrust in you personally. It’s the biological and social consequence of having been trained—internally and externally—to protect himself from being taken advantage of.

Trust, for many men, isn’t the starting point. It’s the result of consistent respect, clear expectations, and earned safety over time.

4. “Real healing happens when you express your emotions.”

The truth: For many men, healing happens through action—and testosterone supports that path.

Testosterone isn’t just about strength or competition—it’s about drive. It fuels goal-directed behavior, reward-seeking, and persistence. That’s why many men don’t process pain by sitting in it—they process it by moving through it.

Add to that the cultural message boys receive from early on: emotions are private, not public. While girls are often socialized to verbalize and share, boys are encouraged to channel, contain, or convert emotion into something productive.

So when a man loses someone, faces failure, or hits a life crisis, he often doesn’t head straight for a therapist’s office or a tearful conversation. He heads for action.

You’ll see it in the man who:

• Rebuilds the deck after his father dies

• Launches a scholarship fund in his son’s name

• Pours himself into work after a breakup

• Withdraws to plan, repair, or restore a sense of control

These aren’t distractions from emotion. They are emotional expressions—just in a different form. In fact, research suggests that testosterone supports action-based coping and suppresses affiliative, emotionally expressive tendencies in competitive or high-stress situations.

And here’s something crucial:
Men don’t just take action for action’s sake. They often do it in honor of someone or something. A man builds the bench his father always talked about. He organizes a tournament in his son’s name. He finishes the project his friend never got to complete.

When action is combined with honoring, it becomes something more than coping—it becomes a ritual of healing. The doing and the remembering work together. The movement carries meaning.

If we keep insisting that healing must look like emotional disclosure, we risk invalidating the very real ways men already process grief, loss, and pain—through effort, honor, and purpose.

5. “Men’s silence means they’re emotionally shut down.”

The truth: Men’s silence is often a protective response—shaped by testosterone, experience, and emotional strategy.

Silence in men is one of the most misunderstood behaviors in therapy, relationships, and even friendships. It’s often labeled as avoidance, stonewalling, or disconnection. But more often than not, it’s something very different.

Testosterone enhances status sensitivity and threat vigilance—especially in social situations where expectations are unclear or the stakes feel high. In those moments, going quiet isn’t about disengaging; it’s about managing risk. For many men, silence is a way to preserve dignity, reduce the chance of saying something regrettable, or buy time to process complex emotion.

Culturally, boys are also taught to be cautious about emotional exposure. If you speak too soon, or too openly, it can be used against you. So many men learn that staying quiet isn’t failure—it’s control.

In these moments, you might see a man:

• Go quiet during conflict, not out of indifference, but to keep from escalating

• Look away or physically retreat when overwhelmed, not to disconnect, but to recalibrate

• Say “I don’t know” when he actually means “I’m not sure how to say this without getting it wrong”

This isn’t emotional shutdown. It’s strategic silence.

And here’s the key: when that silence is met with respect instead of pressure, many men will eventually speak. But only after they’ve had time to feel safe, oriented, and prepared to respond on their own terms.

6. “If men just opened up more, therapy would work better for them.”

The truth: Therapy needs to adapt to men—not the other way around.

The prevailing model of talk therapy often assumes that emotional expression, verbal processing, and vulnerability are the starting point of healing. But for many men, that’s the end point—something that only comes after safety, trust, and shared purpose have been firmly established.

Testosterone plays a key role here. It supports behaviors that protect autonomy, status, and goal-directed action. It doesn’t reward emotional exposure unless that exposure serves a larger mission—like protecting someone, honoring a loss, or building something meaningful.

Culturally, men have been conditioned to associate emotional openness with dependency, and dependency with shame or failure. From early on, they’ve been taught that independence equals strength—and strength equals worth.

So when therapy immediately asks men to "share their feelings," it can feel like a request to abandon everything they've been rewarded for their whole lives.

That’s not resistance. It’s identity conflict.

If we want therapy to work better for men, we have to start where they are:

• Use structure, goals, and action as entry points

• Build trust through consistency, not intensity

• Offer dignity and choice, not pressure

• Make room for silence, strategy, and movement

• Respect independence, even while inviting connection

Men don’t need to become less male to heal. They need a therapeutic space that honors how they already process the world.

Final Thoughts: What Happens When We Get Men Wrong

 

Each of these six points challenges a core assumption in the mental health world—and offers a window into something deeper.

Men aren’t broken because they don’t fit the standard therapeutic mold.
They’re different. And that difference is both biological and cultural.

When we ignore testosterone’s role in shaping how men respond to trust, status, emotion, and healing, we don’t just miss the mark—we risk pushing men further away from the very support we say they need.

It’s not that men are avoiding healing. It’s that healing, as it’s often framed, doesn’t speak their language.

But when we build bridges—when we respect silence, honor action, adapt expectations, and treat men’s instincts as worthy of trust—something changes.

Men show up.

They engage.

Not by becoming less male. But by being deeply understood as men.

That’s when therapy starts to work.
And that’s when our culture begins to shift—one man, one truth, one act of respect at a time.