Man Up to Cancer: A Lens Into the Male Cancer Experience — Insights From Cancer Survivor Joe Bullock

Colorectal cancer does not just impact the body. For many, men in particular, it can also challenge identity, relationships, and the unspoken expectation to stay strong and carry on. While treatment plans are often clearly defined, the mental and emotional toll of a cancer diagnosis can be harder to name, and even harder to face, especially when it feels like you’re doing it alone.

Learn more: Coping With a Colorectal Cancer Diagnosis

To start, could you tell us about your cancer journey and walk us through the key moments that led up to your diagnosis and treatment?

“My cancer journey started before I ever became a patient; it started when I was a caregiver for my father, who was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I didn’t get myself checked when I first began showing signs that, in hindsight, were consistent with colorectal cancer, such as blood in my stool and abdominal cramps. When I did eventually see a doctor at the age of 47, I was told I was ‘too young’ for colon cancer, and that a colonoscopy wasn’t really on the table.

Two years later, when I was 49, my father passed away. My symptoms persisted, so I went back to the doctor. Even then, I didn’t think “cancer”. It didn’t feel like an emergency, and at that time, the screening age for colorectal cancer was 50, so I convinced myself I could wait. I scheduled a colonoscopy for October during Thanksgiving.

But then life hit again. The weekend before that colonoscopy, my mother was hospitalized, and she passed away from a heart attack. Once again, I postponed the colonoscopy and chalked my symptoms up to stress and grief. After that, the symptoms seemed to fade. But symptoms easing off is not the same as the problem going away.

In spring 2018, everything came back stronger. I had significant GI issues and more blood in my stool. Following encouragement from my wife, who is a registered nurse, I scheduled the colonoscopy. There were plenty of red flags, and I wasn’t trying to be stubborn. I was kind of living in my grief, and there never seemed to be time to deal with my symptoms.

During the colonoscopy, the doctor found a 10 mm-wide tumor in the sigmoid colon, along with four polyps—two precancerous and two noncancerous—which were removed during the procedure. I then had a colon resection to remove the section of colon containing the tumor, and the surgeon removed 40 lymph nodes for testing. Three were positive for cancer, which made it stage 3.

From there, my treatment followed the standard of care: six months of chemotherapy. After that, I was told there was no evidence of disease.”

What was the hardest part to talk about, even with people close to you?

“I was raised to “gut through things,” and I did not want to appear weak because my goal was to survive the cancer; I was trying to be that good patient. Though my wife was my sounding board, I was still holding back a lot of what I did not feel comfortable talking about.

I know it sounds odd, but I had this belief that to get better, I had to maintain a strong façade throughout treatment and that if I looked weak, or even felt weak, it would give the illness more power over me, and that could somehow let the cancer spread.

Eventually, I did go to a local support group at my cancer center, and slowly I learned to allow myself to be vulnerable. It’s hard for most men to do. Having the chance to speak about those thoughts, to say them out loud, and share what I was feeling made things a lot easier.”

When did you realize you needed support beyond “pushing through”?

“I had the privilege of having an oncologist who treated the whole patient, not just the disease. I was lucky in that regard, because doctors are overwhelmed and often only have 15–20 minutes with a patient, so the mental health side can get missed.

Before cancer, I was actually a pre-K teacher. Depression was not part of my life, nor was it something I ever thought about. But during chemo, I started dealing with depression as a side effect. It was unfamiliar, and it worsened over time.

My oncologist caught on and encouraged me to see a therapist on top of treatment. My wife nodded—she had been encouraging me to seek help too. She couldn’t be my only sounding board, and I learned then that my going to therapy was going to help her as a caregiver as well.

I took the chance and met with the therapist with no obligation, and I ended up in talk therapy without needing medication. It helped me connect the dots between how I wasn’t able to grieve my parents properly because I went from being a caregiver to being a cancer patient. Those unprocessed emotions were colliding, and they contributed to severe depression. That experience is also what fueled my passion for MUTC—giving men that place to “howl.” To share the thoughts, feelings, and emotions they may not feel comfortable sharing anywhere else.”

Do you have a specific story of a moment you felt “seen” in the community?

“I met Trevor, the founder of MUTC, in a Facebook group for colorectal cancer patients. He shared a post asking for stories, and I wrote about my experience, especially on the lack of mental health support for really any cancer patient out there.

In that simple exchange, when Trevor acknowledged that what was happening to me was something he experienced too… I really felt seen, even though I was already seeing a therapist and making efforts to join my local support group.

My local in-person support group was about 80% women and two or three men. I wasn’t really connecting with the men, and I think it’s because they were like me: present, but guarded, maybe even feeling forced to be there. I didn’t feel connected to the group as a whole.

But when Trevor acknowledged my experience and shared that he was going through something similar, we connected, and suddenly we had a shared mission. That made a huge difference. It felt like I was heading in the right direction, like this might be what my advocacy is meant to be.

It was a big “aha” moment: somebody else actually wants to do this with me.”

You now serve as Director of Programs & Partnerships. What have you learned about what men need most after a diagnosis?

“Honestly, I think it’s having a place to talk. A place to share feelings and thoughts, things they may only feel comfortable sharing with another man who is walking the same path. In most cases, the cancer is treatable. We get in there, and we fight. But we’re afraid to let our guard down. We’re afraid to be vulnerable, because we’re trying to fight the disease.

What many men don’t realize is that vulnerability can actually give us more strength in the fight.”

Life after cancer is complicated. What does “living well” mean now?

“Today, I’m a seven-year survivor of stage 3B colon cancer. I’m beyond the five-year remission mark, but for those years, I lived with the assumption it would come back. That was my mindset the whole time: cancer’s going to return.

And then all of a sudden, especially in the past year, I’ve realized that I am getting older; I’m 58 now. I’m like…”Wow. I might actually live longer.” So now I’m trying to find the confidence to put cancer aside and focus on the things I’ve been putting off. For me, a big one includes building a healthier work-life balance. I’m deeply involved in the community and in advocacy with MUTC, because the need is real, but I am also making sure to spend time with my family and do things outside of cancer work for my own mental health.

It’s a tough place to be. There’s an incredible amount of loss. I’ve lost hundreds of friends to this disease, men I’ve known beyond just social media, and that takes a toll on you. I have had to find outlets for my mental health, whether through exercise, going for a walk, gardening, or finding hobbies that can pull me away from it. It’s very important.

Advocacy burnout is real. The average advocate lasts about six to seven years. I’m seeing firsthand that you have to find ways to prevent burnout, because the work matters, but so does staying well enough to keep showing up.”