Becoming a Well-Built Man

잘 세워진 남자| The One with Dr. Timi Adepoju On Faith, Balance, and the Architecture of Leadership| Episode 33 (2025)

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“When I arrived in Mississippi, I saw poverty and health challenges everywhere. But I also saw opportunity. Light shines brightest in dark places. Mississippi became a place where purpose and persistence met. It reminded me that service can grow even in the hardest soil.” - Dr. Adepoju (2025)

“Being a physician and running a clinic means living in two worlds — the heart and the balance sheet. One calls for compassion, the other for structure. Balance comes from remembering why you began. A good doctor heals people; a great one also builds systems that keep healing long after he is gone.” - Dr. Adepoju (2025)

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The Well-Built Man: Faith, Balance, and the Anatomy of Greatness

In this episode of The More Sibyl Podcast, we journey from the rhythms of Nigerian childhood to the demands of American healthcare and entrepreneurship. It’s a story about how early lessons in resilience can shape a lifetime of purposeful impact.

When we think about success, we often picture titles, organizations, and output. But what about the inner work — the quiet choices that keep us whole? This conversation with Dr. Timi Adepoju reminds us that true leadership begins inside, long before the spotlight finds us.

Faith, Family, and the Making of Meaning

Dr. Adepoju’s story begins far from the clinics and boardrooms he leads today. Born in southwestern Nigeria, the youngest of four, he grew up in Ibadan while his parents hailed from Ogun State. Their family motto was simple: education, good character, and doing good in the world. Or, as every Nigerian child hears it, “Don’t disgrace us.”

He laughs, remembering those words, but admits they built the backbone of who he became. “Growing up under military rule, with food shortages and power cuts, you learn to do much with little,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what is around you. What matters most is what you can make out of you.” Faith became his compass. The Bible stories of David and Goliath or Moses in the wilderness taught him that underdogs could rise, that destiny often begins in unlikely places. “Those stories showed me that greatness and uniqueness already live in everyone,” he said. “My work was to bring it out of me.”

Becoming a Doctor Against the Odds

Even when people tried to dissuade him — “Don’t do medicine; you’ll be studying forever” — he took it as a challenge. His brother, an engineer, finished years before he did, but Dr. Adepoju stayed the course. “When someone said I shouldn’t, I took it as them questioning whether I could,” he shared. “That pushed me harder.”

After medical school in Nigeria, he came to the United States for a Master’s in Public Health. Then the 2008 global recession hit. “Jobs disappeared overnight,” he recalled. “I saw people from engineering and marketing moving into healthcare. That moment taught me that purpose can grow out of disruption.” While others ran from medicine, he ran toward it — choosing to prepare for U.S. residency instead of changing professions. “Someone told me, ‘Just go and do nursing; you’ll get a job.’ I thanked them for their advice but said, ‘That doesn’t fit into the outlook I have for myself.’” That quiet conviction still defines him.

Rethinking What It Means for Men to Live Well

When we shifted into men’s wellness, the numbers stopped me in my tracks: seven in ten men experience symptoms of stress, anxiety, or depression, yet fewer than half seek help. Men are also more than twice as likely to die from preventable diseases. Across every country I’ve worked in, one pattern is constant — men die younger. Dr. Adepoju understands why. “Most men are wired to provide,” he explained. “They’ll sacrifice their health and rest just to make sure the family is comfortable. They work so hard that when the vacation finally comes, they can’t even enjoy it.”

His prescription for men’s wellness begins with reframing productivity: “Taking time off to rest is being productive. Breathing, sleeping well, eating right — these are part of being present and alive for the people you love.” He lives this lesson now. In his early entrepreneurial years, 80-hour weeks were the norm. Today, he intentionally powers down when necessary, keeps Fridays lighter, dedicates a full day each weekend to rest, and takes two or three vacations a year. “I used to think rest was a reward,” he said. “Now I see it as maintenance.”

Rest, he reminds us, doesn’t require luxury. A personal retreat, a short road trip, even a single night in a quiet hotel can reset the body. “You don’t need to fly across the world,” I added. “You just need to show up for yourself.”

And yes — yearly checkups still matter. Know your numbers.

Leading Without Losing Yourself

Balance, Dr. Adepoju said, begins with structure. “There are times one role overshadows another, but having systems and support keeps me grounded.” Clear frameworks, set task times, and a dependable team prevent chaos. “The world will not crash if I don’t show up for a day,” he admitted with a laugh. “We forget that sometimes.”

Leadership, for him, is a form of self-governance. “I started by learning to lead myself,” he said. “If there is greatness in me, I have to be the one to bring it out.”

He draws on mentors like John Maxwell, Tony Robbins, and Brian Tracy — authors he once photocopied page by page in Nigeria — and now attends their conferences in person. “If anyone wants to grow,” he said, “don’t be limited by geography. Start where you are. Learn a little more every day. It all compounds.”

Finding Light in Mississippi

After residency, Dr. Adepoju moved to Mississippi, one of the poorest and most medically underserved states in the U.S. Where others saw barriers, he saw possibilities. “When I arrived, I saw poverty, health disparities, and few pediatric options. Many clinics wouldn’t take Medicaid, and families were using ERs for basic care,” he recalled. “I thought, which of these problems can I be part of the solution to?”

In 2019, he founded Empower Children’s Clinic, which has since expanded to multiple locations and serves underserved kids. “I always see adversity as opportunity,” he said. “Light comes out of darkness.” For him, success is internal. “It isn’t about what people see,” he explained. “It’s about who you are becoming.” Even in a place some overlook, he continues to build — attending leadership conferences virtually, training other clinicians, and nurturing what he calls “a beautiful garden in the midst of adversity.”

Redefining Greatness and Masculinity

As CEO of Manifold Leadership, Empower Children’s Clinic, and Empower Vitality, Dr. Adepoju bridges the worlds of medicine and management. “Being an entrepreneur requires a different mindset from being a clinician,” he said. Through Manifold, he now mentors other physicians who dream of opening their own practices, helping them blend clinical care with business vision. He challenges the culture that celebrates exhaustion. “Men are often praised for burning up instead of balancing well,” he said. “But success is what you achieve for yourself; greatness is what your success gives to others.” Leadership, for him, means humanity. He is quick to apologize when he missteps. “When you go back and say, ‘I was wrong,’ it’s not weakness,” he told me. “It shows you have enough self-esteem to keep improving.” Every year, he hopes to be a wiser, gentler version of himself. “This version of me you see today is much better than the one from three years ago,” he said. “But I’m still a work in progress.”

Looking Beyond the Clinic Walls

Through Manifold Leadership, he is developing new programs, trainings, and even a podcast designed to build transformational leaders across healthcare and youth communities. “There is a lot I can offer beyond medicine,” he said. “We want to take these values and insights beyond the four walls of the clinic to benefit the world.”

A Word from Mo!

Talking with Dr. Adepoju felt like sitting with someone who sees clearly — not just the grind but the growth. His life proves that meaning isn’t found in circumstances; it’s created by how we respond to them.

For leaders burning out, fathers stretched thin, or men chasing purpose, his message is simple:

Care for yourself intentionally. Lead with vulnerability. Turn every challenge into a chance to build something lasting.

“Write the vision,” he told me toward the end. “Keep it where you can see it. One day, you’ll look up and realize you became it.”

If you’re a physician dreaming of your own practice, a man redefining strength, or simply someone trying to balance it all, this episode is your reminder that greatness is a journey, not a finish line.

🎧 Listen to the full conversation on The More Sibyl Podcast, available on all streaming platforms.

Until next time, Mosiblings — keep growing, keep balancing, keep becoming.

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🅻🅸🅽🅺🆂:

• Listen: https://mosibyl.podbean.com/e/adepoju2025/

• Download: https://mcdn.podbean.com/mf/web/mz2jb7dzdsfpayic/ADEDPOJU2025.mp3

• Or on the website: www.mosibyl.com

• Manifold Leadership:

https://www.manifoldleadership.com/

• Previously on the series

• Mr. Roland Odeleye Esq.

• Dr. Andrew Roth

• Mr. Mark A. Harris

Breaking the Silence Against Prostate Cancer

깊은 믿음의 자리| The One with Mr. Mark A. Harris| Episode 32 (2025)

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“In the end, it wasn’t the cancer that took Mychal’s life. He had gone through surgery, radiation, and all the treatments. He fought hard. But one morning, he slipped and fell, and the doctors later told us he had suffered a brain bleed. That’s what ended his life, not the cancer. As painful as that was, I saw it as an act of mercy. The cancer had already spread to his brain, and I knew what kind of suffering was ahead. God spared him that pain. It didn’t make the loss easier, but it gave it meaning. Even in that moment, I could still say, ‘God was good.’” — Mr. Harris (2025)

“In 2011, my PSA was 5.3. The doctor said, ‘Come back in a week, don’t ride your bike or have sex before the next test.’ I meant to, but I forgot. Two years later, it had jumped to 13.2. That’s how quickly things can change. A high PSA doesn’t always mean cancer, but ignorance will always cost you more. Men, ask for your PSA when you get bloodwork; don’t let the doctor be the only one who knows your results. A simple checkup—a five-minute conversation—could save you decades of life. Get your yearly checkup. Know your numbers. Stay ahead of the storm — Mr. Harris (2025)

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When Strength Speaks Softly: Mark Harris on Faith, Fatherhood, and the Fight to Live Fully

When we began our Prostate Cancer Awareness Series this month, I knew it would take us to some heavy but necessary places. These are the places where medicine meets memory and where vulnerability becomes courage in motion.

In our last episode, Dr. Andrew Roth reminded us that healing is not only about curing. It is also about caring, about listening deeply enough to hear the story behind the symptoms.

This week, that truth came home differently through the voice of someone who has lived it.

I sat down with Mark Harris, a husband, father, and longtime advocate who has faced prostate cancer head-on. His story reminds us that illness does not only test the body. It also tests faith, identity, and the fragile threads of family life.

Because this conversation was recorded on Father’s Day, it carried a weight that went beyond medicine. It was about legacy — what fathers give, what they lose, and what they rediscover when life rearranges everything they thought they knew.

Finding the Bright Side in the Unthinkable

Mark began with numbers. “In 2011,” he said, “my PSA was 5.3. The doctor told me, ‘Come back in a week and don’t ride your bike or have sex before the next test.’ I meant to, but I forgot.”

Two years later, during a routine physical, that number had climbed to 13.2. “That’s how quickly things can change,” he told me quietly.

A biopsy confirmed it: prostate cancer. Then came the Thursday night call that changed everything. “Your biopsy came back positive for prostate cancer,” the doctor said. “But I’m going to do everything I can to help you.” That last line became his anchor. “My parents always told us to look at the bright side, so that’s what I did,” he said.

Still, the weight of the word cancer pressed down hard. “People don’t really talk about it,” Mark admitted. “For a moment, I even thought about not telling my wife. I saw my role as protector, not as the reason for her anxiety.” He did tell her, and when she asked, “What are we going to do?” he could only say, “I don’t know.”That night, he turned on a movie. “It was just white noise,” he said. “I can’t even remember what it was about. I just needed something to fill the space where fear lived.” But in the silence that followed, the thoughts came rushing in: I’m going to die.

Then his faith stepped in. “My spiritual side said, ‘How are we going to use this to help others?’” he remembered. “God has always let me experience things so I can help somebody else.”

By morning, fear had given way to purpose. “My first thought wasn’t, Why me? It was, Who do we tell? I’m too talkative to keep it to myself,” he laughed. But his decision to share was not about attention. “If I talk about it, maybe someone else won’t feel so alone.”

The Power of Sharing and Early Detection

Throughout our conversation, one phrase surfaced again and again: Prostate cancer is a team disease. “Yes, you have the diagnosis,” he said. “But that woman, your wife, is right there with you. She’s in the foxhole with you.”

He told me about a friend whose wife did not know her husband was sick until after he passed away. “He thought he was protecting her,” Mark said softly. “But the hiding is more stressful than the disease itself. If you care for your loved ones, include them.” Mark also spoke about the importance of early detection. “There are no symptoms for early prostate cancer. None. I felt fine.” It was only the persistence of his doctor that saved his life.

“A high PSA doesn’t always mean cancer,” he explained, “but ignorance will always cost you more. Ask for your PSA when you get bloodwork. Don’t let the doctor be the only one who knows your results. A five-minute conversation can buy you decades of life.” He talked about changing generational habits. “Girls watch their mothers go to the doctor. Boys watch their fathers not go. Then they grow up the same way. We have to break that cycle.” He also spoke about silence in Black families. “If your mother has breast cancer, it can raise your daughter’s risk. If your father has prostate cancer, it can raise your son’s. But how will we know if nobody talks about it?”

A Diagnosis That Changed Everything

When I asked what moment had most altered his life, Mark surprised me.
“It wasn’t the day I found out I had cancer,” he said. “It was the day I found out my son did.” Just six days after his own diagnosis, his son Mychal, only 30 years old, was diagnosed with an aggressive salivary gland cancer. What began as a small swelling under his ear led to a twelve-hour surgery that removed part of his ear.

The family clung to hope when the surgeon said, “We think we got all the cancer.” But Mark would later realize how fragile that word think was. “All I heard was, ‘We got it all,’” he said. “Hope can make you deaf to the fine print.” During those months, one song became their anthem: Tim McGraw’s Live Like You Were Dying. “It reminded us that death isn’t the opposite of life — it’s part of it,” Mark said. “I told Mychal, ‘Nothing’s changed. We were always going to die someday. Now we’re just more aware of it.’” The ordeal tested every part of him. “When I saw the pain after surgery, I fainted right beside him,” he recalled. “But I stayed there. I had to.”

Even as the disease spread to Mychal’s liver, lungs, and eventually his brain, the two found refuge in humor. “Mychal would crack jokes even when he could barely speak,” Mark said, smiling. “That laughter kept us human.” When Mychal died from a brain bleed rather than from the cancer itself, Mark called it an act of mercy. “Cancer would have been a worse death,” he said quietly. “God was good to spare him that.”

After the funeral, Mark sat in silence and asked himself, Are things fantastic now? Then came the scripture: In everything give thanks.
“Not for everything,” he said, “but in everything. That word held me up when nothing else could.”

Redefining Strength and Advocacy

Sometime later, a man approached him and said, “You don’t look like a punk when you talk about your cancer.”

Mark laughed as he told me this. “At first, I didn’t know how to take it,” he said. “Then I realized he meant that I hadn’t lost my manhood. That’s the problem. Men think being open means being weak. It doesn’t. Real strength is honesty wrapped in grace.”

Over the years, that philosophy has shaped everything he does. Through his work with the American Cancer Society, the Department of Defense, NRG Oncology, and ZERO Prostate Cancer, Mark has become a bridge between the community and the clinic, a translator of hope.

He has lived more than a decade with undetectable cancer and uses that time to mentor, teach, and bear witness. “My job now is to model what life after diagnosis can look like.”

Education, he believes, is its own medicine. “We don’t talk enough about our diagnoses or recoveries,” he said. “A friend once shared her cancer scare, and suddenly everyone had a story. They had all just kept quiet. That’s what I’m fighting — to make sure silence doesn’t win.”

His goal is simple: to be as loud as possible about the things people whisper about. “Some folks just need to see somebody else doing it first,” he said. “If I can be that somebody, then the pain was worth it.”

Lessons from the Journey

Before we ended, I asked what he most wanted others to remember. His answers came slowly, measured and real.

• Ask for help. “You’re not weak for needing people. That’s what community is for.”

• Get checked. “A simple blood test can save your life. Don’t wait for symptoms.”

• Tell your story. “Your pain might become someone else’s survival guide.”

Continuing the Conversation

Throughout this Prostate Cancer Awareness Series, one truth keeps echoing. Cancer does not happen in isolation. It reaches into marriages, friendships, faith communities, and family lines.

From Dr. Andrew Roth’s reminder that medicine must treat both body and mind to Mark Harris’s testimony about openness and shared strength, these stories reveal the human side of healing.

From Dr. Andrew Roth’s reminder that medicine must care for both the body and the mind, to Mr. Roland Odeleye’s story of finding purpose after survival, and now Mark Harris’s testimony of faith in the face of loss, this series has traced the full circle of healing. Each man offered something different: Mr. Roland showed us what it means to live beyond diagnosis, and Mr. Harris revealed what it means to keep living after loss. Their journeys speak to one another, reminding us that the real work of healing is both personal and shared.

If you have been following this series, I hope this episode helps you see that healing is not the absence of pain. It is learning how to live honestly within it.

A Word from Mo!

Conversations like this remind me that men’s health is not just a medical issue. It is a family and community issue. As Mark said, fear and shame keep too many men from getting help. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is choosing to act despite it. We can do it afraid. Because the truth is, our loved ones want us here, whole, healthy, and present. Real strength lives in that balance: firm yet tender, brave yet vulnerable. This episode was a rare moment where science, storytelling, and heart came together in one space.

To Mr. Harris: thank you for the honesty, the faith, and the reminder that strength can sound like a whisper. Here’s to more open conversations, more early checkups, and to continually redefining what it means to be strong.

Huge thanks to the incredible More Sibyl Podcast and The MORE Lab teams for helping bring this conversation to life.

🅻🅸🅽🅺🆂:

• Listen: https://mosibyl.podbean.com/e/harris2025/

• Download: https://mcdn.podbean.com/mf/web/59ctp56tm4a7mbui/HARRIS2025.mp3

• Or on the website: www.mosibyl.com

• Previously on the series

• Mr. Roland Odeleye Esq.

• Dr. Andrew Roth

The Human Side of Cancer

암 너머의 인간| The One with Dr. Andrew Roth — On Men, Medicine, and Meaning| Episode 31 (2025)

“One of my supervisors once said, ‘You’re so anxious, how will you ever be a good psychiatrist?’ Maybe that’s why I became one. It taught me that being human doesn’t disqualify you from helping others. Having been a patient myself made me more empathic. I wouldn’t recommend illness as training, but it helps you understand suffering from the inside out.” — Dr. Roth (2025)

All month on The More Sibyl Podcast, we’ve been exploring the many layers of prostate cancer, not just the medical facts, but the emotions, identities, and relationships that come with it. This series has taken us from the science of screening to the psychology of healing, revealing how deeply illness shapes the human experience and how medicine, at its core, is a human story.

When we think about medicine, we often imagine white coats, stethoscopes, and sterile rooms filled with data and precision. But what about the parts of healing that can’t be measured, the anxiety before a diagnosis, the silence that follows bad news, the quiet courage it takes to live through uncertainty?

This week’s episode is a profoundly human conversation with someone who has spent his life standing right at that intersection between science and the soul. Dr. Andrew Roth is a Professor Emeritus of Clinical Psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College and a longtime attending psychiatrist at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. For over three decades, he’s helped men and their families face one of the most personal and often misunderstood illnesses, prostate cancer.

Yet his story isn’t just about cancer; it’s about what it means to be human when the ground shifts beneath your feet. His humility struck me first. For someone whose career has quietly reshaped how medicine understands the emotional lives of cancer patients, Dr. Roth carries his wisdom with a kind of disarming gentleness. “I was never supposed to be a doctor,” he said with a laugh during our recording. “If a fortune teller had told me that, I’d have had a really good laugh.”

From Brooklyn Streets to the Halls of Medicine

Dr. Roth grew up in a working-class family in Brooklyn, New York — the kind of household that valued hard work more than pedigree. His father was a garment district factory worker, and his mother was a bookkeeper who loved numbers, organization, and finding order in chaos. Medicine wasn’t part of his world. “Physicians were people you stayed away from,” he said. “If you were seeing one, something was wrong.”

He describes himself as a quiet, shy kid who often answered questions in class with one word, sometimes none at all. “People used to say, ‘Cat got your tongue?’” he recalled. “So I learned to be even quieter.” But where words failed, movement filled in the gaps. “I couldn’t run my mouth,” he said with a grin, “but I could run my legs.” Sports gave him confidence and a way to belong.

He studied sociology at Brooklyn College, drawn more to systems than to science. “I wanted to fix structures, not bodies,” he said. After graduation, he became a community organizer, investigating housing discrimination and redlining long before those words were widely used. “We wanted to prove that banks were starving our neighborhoods,” he explained. “And we did.” Their activism helped pass fair-lending laws that still exist today.

But life has a way of opening new doors when you least expect it. When his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer in her fifties, everything shifted. The organizer became a son, watching helplessly as illness unraveled someone he loved. “That was the beginning of something,” he said softly. “I just didn’t know what yet.” A few years later, he married into a family filled with doctors, and slowly, medicine stopped feeling like a foreign language. One step led to another, and eventually to psychiatry — and then, to a field that didn’t yet exist: psycho-oncology, the study of how cancer affects the mind and emotions.

Building a Discipline That Didn’t Exist Yet

When Dr. Roth joined Memorial Sloan Kettering in the late 1970s, psychiatry and cancer care were rarely mentioned in the same breath. “Back then, if you had cancer, everyone focused on treating the disease,” he said. “But who was taking care of the person who had it?” Enter the late Dr. Jimmie Holland, the visionary psychiatrist who would go on to found the field of psycho-oncology. She and a small, determined team, including Dr. Roth, believed that emotional care was not optional; it was essential.

Source: mskcc.org

Together, they began the slow, revolutionary work of building a discipline from the ground up. “When we started using self-report questionnaires to ask patients about their distress, people told us, ‘That’s not science. You’re just asking how they feel,” Roth recalled. “But that’s exactly how we began to understand what people were going through.”

Out of that conviction came the Distress Thermometer, a deceptively simple but powerful tool that allowed cancer patients to rate their level of distress on a scale from zero to ten. It might seem basic, but it transformed the landscape of cancer care.

“Men hated being asked if they were depressed,” Roth explained. “But if you asked if they were distressed, they could say yes.” That single word change, from “depression” to “distress,” opened the door for honest conversations. “They didn’t want to check a box that said they were depressed,” he said, “but they could say they were struggling.”

The Distress Thermometer became a model for early psychosocial screening and is now used worldwide. It also paved the way for his next innovation: the Memorial Anxiety Scale for Prostate Cancer (MAX-PC), a measure that captures the unique anxieties men face, fear of recurrence, changes in masculinity, loss of control, and uncertainty about the future. His approach was simple but radical: bring empathy and evidence together. In a world that often prizes data over depth, Dr. Roth showed that the two can and must coexist.

The Man Behind the Science

What makes Dr. Roth remarkable isn’t just his research; it’s how human he remains about it. “I’m an anxious guy,” he said, laughing. “Always have been.” He recalled a supervisor who once asked, “You’re so anxious, how will you ever be a good psychiatrist?” The irony, he admitted, wasn’t lost on him. “For a while, I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong field,” he said. “But over time, I realized maybe that’s my strength. Maybe that anxiety helps me connect better with my patients.”

That understanding deepened when he became a patient himself. Years later, he underwent surgery to remove an acoustic neuroma, a benign brain tumor that left him deaf in one ear. “I had to learn how to be a one-eared psychiatrist,” he said with quiet humor. “It wasn’t easy, but it changed me.” Being on the other side of the hospital bed gave him a new kind of empathy. “You don’t realize how vulnerable it feels until you’re the one wearing the gown,” he said. “It taught me that healing isn’t always about fixing; sometimes it’s about witnessing.”

Men, Vulnerability, and the Fear No One Names

For decades, Dr. Roth has sat with men at some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives, after diagnosis, during treatment, or while navigating side effects that strike at the core of identity.

“When men hear the word cancer, everything freezes,” he said. “They stop seeing themselves as strong. They start asking, ‘Who am I now?’” He’s seen how fear hides behind silence, fear of dying, fear of impotence, fear of losing control. And while few men will admit to depression, they’ll say things like “I’m just tired,” or “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

Dr. Roth helps them find language for what they’re feeling. “You’re allowed to be scared,” he tells them. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.” He also challenges the myth of the “perfect treatment.” “You can go to five experts and get six opinions,” he said. “You’ll never know which is right until you choose. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s peace with your decision.”

That kind of grounded honesty, the ability to hold uncertainty without judgment, feels rare in medicine today.

Aging, Grief, and Finding Meaning in the Meantime

When our conversation turned to aging, Dr. Roth paused before answering. “People think older adults handle illness better,” he said. “Sometimes that’s true. But acceptance isn’t the same as peace.”

He explained how depression in older adults often shows up differently — through fatigue, pain, or withdrawal rather than tears. “Not everything that looks psychiatric is psychiatric,” he noted. “Sometimes fatigue is just fatigue. But you have to listen long enough to know the difference.”

That, he said, is the heart of psycho-oncology: listening long enough for the truth to surface. Even now, in retirement, he practices what he preaches. “I meditate every day,” he said. “I exercise. I play the guitar and the piano. I’m learning Tai Chi.” Then he smiled. “Joy comes and goes. But when I’m with my family, that’s the slam dunk.” It struck me how rarely we talk about joy in conversations about illness. We talk about courage, resilience, and endurance, but not joy. Dr. Roth’s version of joy isn’t a constant high. It’s quiet presence. It’s the decision to keep showing up for your own life, even when it doesn’t look like it used to.

Legacy: The Butterfly Effect of Compassion

When I asked what legacy means to him, he took a deep breath and thought for a long moment. “It’s not something you define,” he said slowly. “It’s something you live into.”

He spoke about students, colleagues, and patients as the ripple effects of his work, minor, unseen acts of care that keep moving outward. “I hope the people I’ve taught go on to help others,” he said. “You don’t always get to see how far the ripples go.”

He compared it to the butterfly effect. “You train one person to listen differently,” he said, “and that changes everything.” Even in retirement, that teacher’s instinct remains. “I miss the hospital,” he admitted. “Not the paperwork or the bureaucracy, but the people. The teaching. The laughter in between rounds.”

When Our Paths Crossed: APOS and the Power of Mentorship

I first met Dr. Roth at the American Psychosocial Oncology Society (APOS) conference in Pittsburgh earlier this year. It was one of my favorite gatherings of the year and, honestly, one of the most nourishing spaces for anyone doing work at the intersection of cancer, psychology, and human connection.

APOS has always felt like more than a conference to me. It’s a community; a place where the science of survivorship meets the heart of healing. I’ve mentioned it before on this podcast, especially during my conversation with Dr. Bethea. Still, it bears repeating: APOS is one of the few spaces where you can walk into a room full of researchers, clinicians, nurses, social workers, and even patients, and immediately sense the shared commitment to understanding the whole person behind the diagnosis. It’s also one of the few professional homes that intentionally makes space for early-career scientists like me — supporting us with mentorship, collaborative networks, and a sense that we belong to something much larger than our own projects.

It was during the mentor/mentee dinner meet, a cherished APOS tradition, that I had the chance to meet Dr. Roth in person. My mentor, Dr. Bill Pirl, whom I deeply admire, was the one who made the introduction and encouraged us to chat. Bill’s warmth and generosity are trademark APOS; he’s the kind of mentor who doesn’t just talk about connection but creates it.

Dr. Roth greeted me with the same quiet kindness that threads through all of his work. He asked about my research on prostate cancer survivorship among Black men, about cultural dimensions of masculinity and emotion. What struck me was not just his thoughtfulness but his curiosity. Here was a man who had helped build an entire discipline, still leaning in with the openness of someone who knows that the work of understanding people — and suffering — never really ends.

That first conversation — surrounded by the gentle hum of dinner chatter and laughter between colleagues — eventually became the seed for this episode. And in many ways, it represents what I love most about APOS: its ability to weave mentorship, science, and humanity into a single, living conversation.

A Word from Mo!

Hosting this conversation felt like sitting at the feet of wisdom: the quiet kind that changes you slowly, almost without noticing. Dr. Roth’s story is proof that medicine and humanity are not opposites. Healing isn’t always about curing; sometimes it’s about witnessing. It’s about sitting beside someone’s pain and saying, I see you. I’m here. Let’s face this together.

For caregivers and clinicians, this episode is your reminder to care for yourself, too. As Dr. Roth said, “It’s hard to take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself.” And for patients and families, it’s permission to feel everything: fear, anger, fatigue, hope, without apology.

Healing isn’t about returning to who you were. It’s about learning to be at peace with who you are now.

You can listen to the whole conversation with Dr. Andrew Roth on The More Sibyl Podcast, available on all major streaming platforms. To learn more about his work, find his book Managing Prostate Cancer wherever books are sold.

If this story touched something in you, share it with a friend, a parent, or a healthcare worker who needs to be reminded that compassion is still at the heart of care.

Until next time, Mosiblings, remember to take care of your mind, your body, and your heart.

“You train one person to listen differently, and that changes everything.” — Dr. Andrew Roth

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On Prostate Cancer, Purpose, and the Power of Openness

새로운 나 | The One With Roland Odeleye — Redefining Survival |Episode 30 (2025)

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“For some, survival is simple — you take out a kidney, put in another, and life continues. But with prostate cancer, it’s different. When your prostate is removed, you don’t go back to who you were. You are transformed. The word ‘survivor’ doesn’t always fit. Yes, I’m alive. Yes, by the grace of God, the cancer is gone and the wound is healing. But I am not as I was. What few people tell you is that physical recovery is only the beginning; what follows is quieter, an invisible kind of grieving. I even asked my surgeons to take a picture of my prostate before removing it — they forgot. I would have framed it, not out of vanity, but reverence. It was part of me.” — Roland Odeleye, Esq. (2025)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from hosting this podcast, it’s that stories of resilience often hide in plain sight, wrapped in quiet strength, data-driven decisions, and a deep sense of service. That’s exactly the kind of story Mr. Roland Odeleye brought to our conversation. As a Black man navigating prostate cancer, a disease that disproportionately affects our community, Mr. Odeleye didn’t just share his diagnosis; he unpacked his entire life, from his vibrant childhood in Nigeria to his decades-long commitment to healthcare equity. He also opened up about friendship, transparency, and the way honest conversation can literally change someone else’s health journey — “because somebody was talking.”

Born in Ibadan and raised in Bodija, Mr. Odeleye, a patent attorney and nonprofit leader in the U.S., has a path that is a testament to turning personal challenges into communal triumphs. He’s spent over 20 years as Executive Vice President of a nonprofit providing prostate health screenings in Nigeria, all while facing his own battle with the disease since 2017. Through active surveillance, disciplined choices, and unshakeable faith, he’s redefined what “survival” means, not as conquest, but as continuation. He describes that redefinition as a transformation rather than a return to who he was before — “Yes, I’m alive. Yes, the cancer is gone. But I am not as I was.”

This episode hit close to home for me, especially as someone who’s seen the toll of late diagnoses in our communities through my work. Mr. Odeleye’s honesty about grief, decision-making, and giving back left me reflecting on how we all carry forward, even when the path isn’t clear. Let’s dive in.

A Childhood Dream in Bodija: Fruits, Freedom, and a Sense of Purpose

Mr. Odeleye’s story begins in Ibadan, Nigeria, back when it was part of the Western Region. As the third of seven children, he grew up in Bodija Estates, one of the first families to move there in 1959 when he was barely a year old. “My childhood was a dream,” he recalls, painting a picture of lush streets lined with fruit trees, mangoes, guavas, and more, that the kids would pluck as they roamed freely. He remembers the neighborhood’s diversity — Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, and international names like Martin — where children walked the streets and plucked fruit “growing lushly across the estate.” “We’d walk down the streets, pluck all kinds of fruits off the trees because they were growing lushly across the estate,” Mr. Odeleye shares. This sense of abundance wasn’t just literal; it shaped his worldview. He felt like the most loved child in the world, his parents’ favorite, his siblings’ favorite, everyone’s favorite. “I still hold to that claim,” he says with a chuckle.

But life wasn’t without its adventures and dangers. One story stands out: the day of Nigeria’s first military coup in 1966. Mr. Odeleye, just five or six years old and in primary one, found his school dispersed amid the chaos. With no ride home, he decided to walk from Mokola to Bodija, a trek of three to five miles. Oblivious to the turmoil, he wandered through military barracks and wilderness areas. His parents were frantic, the neighborhood on alert. When he finally arrived home, unscathed, it solidified a belief he’s carried ever since: “I feel convinced that I must have a purpose. And until my purpose is served, I’m not going anywhere.”

Reflecting on this, I couldn’t help but think of my own Yoruba roots, my mom from Oyo, and my high school days in a boarding house there. Places like Ibadan have this preserved history, a chaos that’s endearing yet grounding. Mr. Odeleye’s tales of Bodija reminded me of how our early environments plant seeds of resilience. For him, it was a foundation of love, diversity, and an innate sense of direction, literally and figuratively.

Family Hustle and Early Influences: Teachers, Economists, and the Art of Selling

Mr. Odeleye’s parents were the architects of his drive. His mother, a primary school teacher for primary one and two, was the heart of the home. But she was also a hustler, making pap and other goods that the kids would sell around the neighborhood. “We were the only kids in the area that used to carry stuff on our heads and go sell,” Mr. Odeleye admits. At the time, it didn’t feel embarrassing; they’d set down their trays to play soccer and pick up where they left off. In retrospect, it taught resourcefulness in an upper-middle-class enclave like Bodija.

His father, an economist who earned degrees remotely by correspondence — first from the University of London and later a PhD (he recalls New York University) — was in government service. Long before Zoom or online programs, his dad studied by mail, wrote constantly, and modeled discipline. He helped establish the University of Ife (now Obafemi Awolowo University), worked at the National Library, and later left federal service to help set up the then-new Oyo State — turning down ambassadorial roles to serve community needs. “He was the most ethical person I know,” Roland says. “Gentle, but fierce for justice.”

These influences blended into Mr. Odeleye’s character: his mom’s nurturing hustle and his dad’s intellectual rigor. Moving to Lagos later, the family dynamic stayed strong, with Roland feeling like the center of affection amid seven siblings. Shout out to his sister, Dr. Akinremi, by the way — she’s the one who introduced us years ago, and her sweetness mirrors the family’s warmth.

For me, this part of the conversation echoed my own fragmented memories of Oyo with my grandma while my mom finished college. Family values like hustle, education, and community aren’t just backstory; they’re the blueprint for how we face life’s coups, literal or metaphorical.

Lessons from the Field (and the Fight)

Years before his own diagnosis, he was on the other side, organizing free prostate screenings through his foundation in Oyo State, Nigeria. The goal was simple: provide healthcare access at the grassroots. They focused on hypertension, breast cancer, prostate issues, and cataracts, offering screenings and discounted medication through their outreach center in Ilora.

But reaching men was always hard. At events that drew up to 500 people, only about 20 percent were men; most were market women who always showed up. Men usually avoided screenings unless the outreach specifically targeted prostate health. When it did, those with symptoms came forward. Through churches, mosques, and local announcements, they spread the word, screened hundreds, and referred men with high PSA levels (anything above four, especially near ten) for further care. Many were scared of surgery, so he often had to send people to find them and get them to hospitals. His message was simple: “If you don’t do it, you may die.” He carried that conviction from 2003 onward (prostate work from ~2005), even before GSM phones made follow-up easy — his team persisted anyway.

The foundation began in 2003, with prostate health programs starting around 2005. His own diagnosis came in 2017, more than a decade later. It made him rethink everything. His PSA was still below four when his urologist diagnosed him. Though he disliked the digital rectal exam, he reminded himself that his daughter, then a urology resident at Mayo Clinic, would one day need the same trust from her patients. That helped him see his doctor simply as an expert.

When the diagnosis came, he gathered his wife, daughters, and sister. Together, they met with his doctor, discussed options, and chose active surveillance, regular six-month checkups instead of immediate surgery. Making that decision as a family made it easier for him to stay consistent and calm.

Over time, his PSA rose steadily. By the time he chose surgery, it had climbed to 36, which is far beyond the point where he once urged others to act. His prostate had grown three to four times its normal size, but in a way that spared him severe bladder complications. Instead of pushing upward against the bladder, it grew downward, allowing surgeons to operate more safely. He notes that “doctors can pontificate,” but families live the consequences — so shared decision-making and clarity about personal priorities matter.

Hearing his story come full circle was powerful. The man who once urged others to get screened now deeply understood the fear, the choices, and the hope behind every diagnosis.

On Grace, Growth, and the Power of Openness

Mr. Odeleye’s story came full circle, from helping others to walking the same path himself. His foundation once held medical outreaches across Oyo State, long before GSM phones made follow-up easy. Yet, his team still found ways to stay connected. That persistence stayed with me.

What struck me most was his honesty about growth. Years ago, he urged men to get immediate surgery. Now, after his own experience, he sees that not every case needs the same urgency. That isn’t a contradiction, but maturity. Grace allows us to evolve without guilt.

He shared a humbling story about their cataract program. Most surgeries were miracles; people regained sight. But one didn’t go as planned. His uncle’s lens slipped during surgery, leaving lasting damage. “Even with the best intentions,” he said quietly, “I still have… and it was my family.” It reminded me that medicine, like life, isn’t perfect. We’d been talking about regret — commission (what we did) and omission (what we didn’t do). In healthcare, he and I agreed, it’s often the things we do with the best intentions that stay with us the longest.

We talked about active surveillance, monitoring prostate cancer instead of rushing into treatment. It’s often used for slow-growing cases to avoid unnecessary side effects. In his case, PSA levels rose from below 4 to 36. He also had BPH, a benign enlargement that made diagnosis tricky.

What set him apart was his openness. He involved his wife, daughters, and sister from day one. “We’re raised as protectors,” he said of men, “but vulnerability takes real strength.” After surgery, he began sharing his story publicly. One best friend, a pathologist and godfather to his daughter, revealed he’d quietly had his own prostate procedure years earlier. Another friend went to the urologist only after hearing Roland describe his recovery — turns out the symptoms were from lack of rest, not prostate cancer. “Because somebody was talking,” Roland said, that friend went. His transparency saved lives.

“People want real stories,” he told me. “Not coded ones.” When I asked what advice he’d give to families, he said, “Don’t face it alone.” Most people, he added, respond with care, not judgment. “They’ll pray with you, pray for you.” Illness isn’t your fault. “The more you talk about it, the better you’ll feel.” Set boundaries when needed, but don’t let silence isolate you.

His words were a reminder that silence isolates, but openness heals, not just one man, but everyone around him.

Redefining Manhood, Quality of Life, and Living Without Regret

With prostate cancer, we cannot avoid the discussion of manhood and how men often struggle with their sense of identity, confidence, and control, especially when the disease and its treatments touch areas so closely tied to masculinity.

For Mr. Odeleye, after his doctors explained the risks of surgery — urinary incontinence, waking up at night, and loss of sexual function — he used that information to choose what his priorities were. “Quality of life, quality of life, quality of life,” he said. That guided every decision. Though he was a good candidate for surgery, he delayed it until necessary. He’s candid that ED and sexual health matter, and that each man must weigh these differently: “Anything that touches your sexual health touches your sense of self.”

After surgery, he lost weight and developed a hernia from the robotic procedure. “They put five holes in you and one big slit,” he said. Still, he was grateful. His urinary problems were gone. “I don’t have to sit for minutes anymore,” he laughed. “I just go and I’m done.”

He spoke openly about sexual health. While many men fear erectile dysfunction, he said his priorities had shifted. “When I was younger, sex was more important. These days, I just enjoy closeness. Skin-to-skin contact with my wife is enough.” But he acknowledged that for some men, sex is more important to them. “That should matter when choosing treatment,” he said.

He encouraged men to weigh their options carefully. “Your doctor can guide you,” he said, “but only you and your family will live with the outcome, so know your priorities.” He also believes newer therapies and evolving standards — akin to shifts seen in breast cancer — will reduce the trade-offs men fear. “You don’t have to lose your dignity,” he says. “Look harder. Talk more.”

Faith also grounded him. Before surgery, his siblings prayed for him daily. He held on to Psalm 91 and Jeremiah 29:11. “There has to be a purpose,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d have found another treatment earlier.” Later, he learned about a targeted therapy that hadn’t been mentioned to him. “Doctors wanted to cut — that’s what they do,” he said, naming decisional regret: once surgery is done, there’s no going back. He carries both gratitude and that sober awareness — regret of commission and omission — in tension, and continues to counsel men to ask questions early.

Still, he found peace. He compared the evolution of prostate cancer treatment to breast cancer, less invasive, more dignity-preserving care. “That’s not yet true for men,” he said, “but it’s coming.”

His message was simple: “Ask questions. Look for options. You don’t have to lose your dignity, or your manhood, to survive.” For him, confidence isn’t tied to his body. But for others, it might be, and that’s okay. Each man must decide what quality of life means to him and choose from that truth, not fear.

Redefining Recovery and the Misnomer of “Survivor”

Healing isn’t about going back, it’s about becoming. Mr. Odeleye understands this and he shared his very interesting perspective on the term ‘survivor’ and why he believes it’s a misnomer for prostate cancer.

“The word is meant to empower,” he said, “but it doesn’t fit.” Losing the prostate changes a man’s body and identity in ways that can’t be reversed. “Yes, I’m alive. Yes, the cancer is gone,” he said. “But I’m not as I was.” The physical healing was only the start. “I feel it every day,” he said. “My body is still adjusting.” Then came grief, not just for the organ, but for who he used to be. He even asked his surgeons to take a picture of his prostate — “I would have framed it out of reverence; it was part of me” — but they forgot. Behind the humor was honesty: “No one prepares you for that.”

He believes healing begins with acceptance. “When you stop trying to be who you were and start living as who you are now, that’s when healing happens,” he said. “Survivor feels final. But this journey isn’t. It continues, quietly, every day.”

He now calls himself “a man who lived through cancer and carries its legacy.” The scar is part of his story. His message to men: It’s okay to grieve. You may not feel like a survivor, but you’re still you, changed, not diminished. And sharing the story ensures it isn’t “camouflaged” for the people coming behind.

“It’s not about sympathy,” he said. “It’s about truth. I’ve been transformed and I’m grateful.”

Looking Ahead: An Ongoing Purpose

Looking forward, Mr. Odeleye shared that his focus now is on full recovery, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Still healing from surgery and dealing with a hernia, he described how limited movement has slowed his progress. Yet, he believes real healing comes through purpose, by using his experience to help others. Now speaking from lived experience rather than theory, he’s passionate about advocacy: urging men to get checked, educating them about treatment options, and reassuring them that solutions exist. He also plans to revisit men from his foundation’s past medical outreaches in Nigeria to track their progress. For him, recovery is no longer just personal, it’s about transforming pain into purpose and service. And he’s clear about the method: openness, transparency, and inviting families into the room from day one.

Final Thoughts

Mr. Roland Odeleye’s episode is a testament to living with purpose. From his childhood in Bodija, where he felt like the “favorite” among seven siblings, to his advocacy for prostate health, he embodies the Yoruba saying I shared in the intro: “T’aba Mọ Ọna A kò baje,” meaning, if we know the way, we won’t get lost. His journey, rooted in faith, discipline, and service, offers a roadmap for navigating challenges. It also offers a reframe for regret — commission and omission — as materials for growth when held with integrity.

To those facing health challenges or supporting loved ones, Mr. Odeleye’s story affirms that you’re not alone. “Find doctors who will listen to you. Find communities that will support you,” I urged listeners, echoing his call for connection. Grieve, question, and connect, as healing is layered and complex. There’s more than one way to stay whole. Listen to this episode for a perspective that will empower you to continue with purpose and resilience, not just survive.

Listen in. You’ll leave empowered.

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The Suicide Panel

청소년의 소리| Three Voices, One Mission: Breaking the Silence on Youth Suicide | Episode 29 (2025)

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“Children’s struggles are not small. Their anger, shame, and grief are as real as ours, even if they cannot name them. Breaking the silence around youth suicide and mental health means teaching the language of feelings, confronting the trauma we carry as parents, and remembering that it takes a village, families, schools, faith communities, and chosen families, to make sure no child cries alone in silence.”

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When Children Cry in Silence: Talking About Youth Mental Health

When it comes to mental health, the pain that a person feels is almost invisible. This is especially true for children, who are often overlooked or dismissed. Yet the confusion and pain they carry are just as significant as what adults feel.

⚠️ Disclaimer: This episode contains heavy themes, including suicide, depression, and mental health struggles. Please listen with care and prioritize your well-being. If at any point you feel triggered or overwhelmed, it is entirely okay to pause, step away, or skip this episode altogether. If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out for support. Remember, you are not alone. Help and hope are available.

Why We Had This Conversation

This week’s episode is a replay of a conversation we had live on the podcast last year. I sat down with three remarkable people to talk about a subject most families whisper about, if they talk about it at all: youth mental health, suicide, and the pressures of parenting. These are some of the most sensitive and weighty topics in African homes. My guests did not just bring their résumés; they brought their own stories, their practice, and their research so that you and I could see precisely what is at stake and what is possible.

It is easy for us, as adults, to forget our own inner worlds from childhood. Yet children’s struggles are not trivial. They are simply wrapped in different languages and behaviors. That realization set the tone for the entire conversation and became the thread running through every story in this episode.

Meet The Panelists

This episode brought together three incredible voices who are passionate about making mental health conversations a normal and necessary part of our lives.

Dr. Jessica Puri is passionate about promoting health equity and helping communities address tough health challenges directly. She shared her own childhood story of struggle and survival, and also offered a public health perspective on why mental health matters as much as physical health.

Dr. Mathero Michelle Nkhalamba is a clinical psychologist who works with survivors of trauma and gender-based violence. She is deeply committed to preventive mental health and empowering people to take control of their well-being. She also spoke as an African mother, reflecting honestly on breaking the cycle of toxic parenting.

Doc Ayomide is a psychiatrist and writer who loves unpacking mental health, faith, and culture in ways that make sense. Longtime listeners will also remember him as a former co-host of this podcast.

Together, we opened an honest and hopeful conversation about suicide, stigma, and what it really means to support one another across generations.

Dr. Jessica’s Story: Pain That Started at Eight

One moment that will stay with me forever came when Dr. Jessica Puri paused, took a deep breath, and shared her story of attempting suicide at the age of eight. Growing up as the eldest daughter in a northern Nigerian family, she bore an invisible weight: maintaining the family’s honor, caring for younger siblings, and striving for academic perfection. Her father was often away for work, her mother’s discipline was harsh, and affection was scarce. She remembered trying to please everyone but constantly feeling like a disappointment. At just eight years old, she decided life might be easier for everyone if she were not in the picture. With a rope, a guava tree, and a plastic chair, she attempted to hang herself. The branch snapped, and she fell to the ground. Her first thought was not relief but despair: “I cannot even do that right.”

That moment shaped her life. And though she moved on quietly, as an adult, she began to understand just how heavy that experience had been. What struck me even more was how she reframed that event years later. Moving to the U.S. at seventeen, Jessica slowly learned about mental health, community support, and how naming emotions can be lifesaving. She now advocates for early conversations with children about their feelings, even when it feels uncomfortable for parents.

She reminded us that adults must pay attention to children’s repeated questions about love or approval, because those are often hidden cries for help. Vulnerability is not weakness, she said, because showing our own struggles can serve as a model of honesty for a child. And while faith can be a powerful source of support, it should not be used to silence emotional truth. As Jessica put it, “We can talk to God about our struggles. He is not afraid of our questions.”

She offered practical tools that parents can use: journaling feelings with children, using simple emotion words at mealtimes, and sharing age-appropriate stories about their own mental health journeys. “When children see us doing the work, it normalizes it for them,” she emphasized.

Doc Ayomide: Giving Children the Language They Lack

Psychiatrist and writer Doc Ayomide explained why so many adults, and therefore their children, lack the language to describe emotions. Children often express emotional pain through physical complaints. A child may say, “I have a tummy ache,” not because they are lying, but because they do not know how to say, “I am anxious.”

He offered a deceptively simple suggestion: when a child shows anger, sadness, or fear, say what you see out loud. “You are angry. You look sad. You seem scared.” This is not putting ideas into their heads. It is naming what is already there.

Too often, adults shame or dismiss those signals. We say things like, “Why are you so clumsy?” when a child breaks a plate, or “You should not be angry” when a child is already furious. But as Ayomide reminded us, “This is not a young people problem. This is an all people problem. Adults throw tantrums, too. We just give them different names.”

He also highlighted the role of community. Professional spaces, such as schools and clinics, have necessary boundaries. However, communities, faith groups, and extended families can offer the kind of closeness and personal care that formal systems often cannot. “Sometimes a hug in church can do what a clinic cannot,” he said.

Dr. Michelle: Naming Our Own Fears First

Dr. Michelle Nkhalamba grounded the conversation in her practice in Malawi, where mental health care is deeply underfunded and often limited to psychiatric hospitals. She echoed Ayomide’s call to name children’s emotions, but she also turned the spotlight on parents.

“These conversations never take place when you are taught about breastfeeding or changing diapers. But the emotional work is just as important. What are your triggers? How do you react emotionally? Because your child will inherit that.”

She described how African parents often carry their own unaddressed trauma from poverty, strict schooling, and cultural pressure to equate obedience with success. Without self-reflection, that trauma passes down.

She shared her own experience of pushing her seven-year-old son to read early because teachers compared him to others. Only later did she realize her pressure was lowering his confidence. That moment of self-reflection became a turning point for her parenting.

Michelle also emphasized that parenting is never a two-person job. “Children need community. They need other safe adults. Your child may feel more comfortable talking to an aunt, a teacher, or even a nanny. That is not a threat. It is a gift.”

She reminded us that children cannot hold negative emotions for long. Without support, sadness or anxiety can overwhelm them and lead to self-harm. Creating a psychologically safe environment, where a child feels free to cry without shame and express anger without fear, is essential.

Helping Kids and Ourselves Use Tech Well

The panel also addressed the role of technology in children’s lives. Where many parents see only danger, Ayomide encouraged a healthier perspective.

“People worried about bicycles, about trains, about television, and now it is social media and AI. The question is not how do I stop it. The question is, how do I help my child live well with it?”

Instead of fear-based rules, he suggested balance. Utilize built-in screen-time tools, pay attention to late-night use, and anticipate that children will test limits. “Accept that kids will try to break safeguards. That is what kids do. Sometimes it shows intelligence, sometimes it is testing. The goal is not control. The goal is guiding them toward meaningful use.”

He reminded us that adults are no less addicted to their devices. “This is not just a teen problem. Adults are on their phones all the time, too.”

Finding Our Roots While Building New Branches

As the discussion turned to family life in the diaspora, we reflected on the concept of fragmentation and the idea of chosen families. Jessica offered a powerful image of the family tree: roots as heritage, the trunk as shared identity, and branches as our individual journeys. Migration can feel like being cut off from the trunk, but new communities allow us to graft new branches and create chosen families.

I shared the grief of losing my last grandparent and the pain of missed ceremonies. Ayomide spoke about using small acts of technology — such as sending photos, voice notes, and video calls — to stay connected across distances. These conversations reminded us that chosen family is not a second-best substitute but often a source of resilience and joy.

A Word From Me

As I listened to my guests, I felt the truth of it settle in: silence helps no one. Opening these conversations, even if they are awkward or imperfect, could save a life.

If you take only one message from this episode, let it be this: your children’s feelings are real, and they deserve to be named.

Resources mentioned in this episode:

• How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk

• The Good Enough Parent by Donald Winnicott

🎧 Listen to the full episode of The More Sibyl Podcast to hear these stories in the panelists’ own voices.

And remember: you matter. Share this with your children or parents to spark a conversation. Please stay safe, and let us continue to build communities where every child feels secure, seen, and supported.

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What Parents, Teachers, and Caring Adults Can Do

So much of this conversation reminded us that children are not asking for perfection. They are asking for presence, honesty, and safe spaces. Here are practical ways you can support a child’s mental health:

• Name emotions out loud. Say what you see: “You look sad,” “You are angry.” Naming feelings helps children feel seen and teaches them the words they need to express themselves.

• Normalize all emotions. Respond to a sad or angry child with the same patience you would give a happy one. Crying is not a weakness. It is a healthy release.

• Encourage healthy outlets. Journaling, drawing, music, or storytelling can help children process what they cannot yet put into words.

• Allow other safe adults to help. An auntie, uncle, teacher, or nanny might become the person your child can talk to most freely. That is not a threat. It is a gift.

• Guide technology with wisdom, not fear. Use screen-time tools, watch for late-night scrolling, and discuss the risks openly. Expect them to push limits, but choose your battles and reduce restrictions as they grow.

• Model vulnerability. Share age-appropriate stories about your own struggles. When children see adults owning their feelings, they learn that emotions are a natural part of being human, not something to be ashamed of.

• Check in regularly. Ask, “How are you feeling today?” not just “How was school?” Keep the door open with gentle questions.

Resources and Helplines

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide or deep emotional distress, please reach out. Support is closer than you think.

• United States: Dial or text 988 (Suicide and Crisis Lifeline)

• Nigeria: Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI) — Call +234 809 111 6264 or text MENTAL HEALTH to 5353

• United Kingdom: Samaritans — Call 116 123 (free, 24/7)

• Canada: Talk Suicide Canada — Call or text 988

• South Africa: Suicide Crisis Helpline — 0800 567 567

• Global: Visit www.befrienders.org to find a helpline in your region

You are not alone. Help and hope are available.

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