Karoshi: The Question That Crushes a Man’s Soul and Kicks Him In The Ass

You’re at a cocktail party.
You’re at a backyard barbecue.
Paper plate in one hand, beer in the other, some new guy walks up, makes eye contact, and within sixty seconds you’re in the ritual.

The first question is always harmless: “What’s your name?”
Easy. Surface-level. Scripted.

But if you’re a man, you know what comes next.
The question that isn’t just expected—it’s demanded.
The one that comes with invisible strings and iron-clad expectations.

“So… what do you do?”

Now here’s the thing—it’s not always the second question for women. They often get something else entirely. Something relational, something light, something human: “Do you have kids?” or “Where do you live?” But for men? The script is damn near universal. That second question is always the same, always pointed, always about work. It doesn’t ask who you are. It doesn’t care what you care about. It skips the heart and goes straight to the hustle.

What do you do?
It’s code for:
How do you earn?
How do you produce?
Where do you sit in the masculine food chain?

Let’s not pretend we don’t know this.
You’ve asked it.
You’ve answered it.
So have I.

Why I Don’t Answer Straight

Now, I’m an Enneagram 8—just for this moment, we’ll pull that card. That means I don’t exactly do well with bullshit social rituals, and my wife, bless her for putting up with me, calls me the “8-hole” because I just can’t help but push back when I sense an empty pattern. So when someone throws that predictable, reflexive question at me—“What do you do?”—I don’t give them what they’re fishing for. I pivot.

Sometimes I say, “I’m a human that’s being.”
Not a human doing. Not a resume. Not a cog. I breathe. I create. I exist. I contemplate the absurdity and miracle of life. Some days I howl at the moon, other days I write about it. That’s what I do.

Or I’ll say, “I’m a spiritual mutt.” I meditate like a Buddhist. I chant like a Kabbalist. I pray like a Hasid and sweat in yoga like a Hindu. I don’t fit in any one box and don’t pretend to. I’m not interested in subscribing—I’m here to transform.

Or I’ll go relational. “I’m a lover,” I might say. Not in a Hallmark or TikTok way, but in a real, embodied, been-through-the-wars, learned-to-lead-with-scars kind of way. I romance my wife like she’s the divine in disguise—because she is. We build intimacy not with flowers and dinners, but with deep work, fierce presence, and humble repair.

Or I’ll say, “I’m an Abba.” That’s Hebrew for father. But not just the wallet guy, not just the disciplinarian. I show up. I hold space. I walk alongside. I break generational cycles and try to be the man my kids can turn to after they’ve failed, not just when they’ve succeeded.

Sometimes I say, “I’m a man in development.” Because I am. I’m practicing the masculine archetypes every day—some days I lead with the Warrior, other days with the Lover, some days I need the Magician to figure out what the hell is happening inside me. And when I’m in alignment, I show up as the King—not the tyrant, not the weakling, but the grounded man who holds center in his home, his work, his life.

But let’s be honest. Eventually, I cave like the rest of us.
I give them what they wanted all along.
I say, “I coach. I lead men’s peer groups. I write.”
And just like that, the ritual is satisfied.
The box is checked.
The sacred second question is complete.

But every time I give that answer, a piece of me dies.

Karoshi: When Work Becomes a Man’s Death Sentence

There’s a Japanese word that gets to the heart of all this: Karoshi. It means “death by overwork.” And it’s not a metaphor. It’s a medically recognized, government-documented phenomenon in Japan. Men—usually middle-aged, usually high-functioning—dropping dead from heart attacks, strokes, suicides, directly caused by grinding themselves to dust in the name of duty, identity, and worth.

Here in the West, we don’t call it that.
We call it ambition.
We call it hustle.
We call it success.
And then we wonder why we’re exhausted, emotionally bankrupt, spiritually disconnected, and falling apart by the time we hit 50.

Make no mistake—Karoshi is happening here, too.
We’re just better at hiding the bodies.
And even better at normalizing the walking dead.

Work Gets the Spotlight. Community Gets the Scraps.

This is exactly why in every Men’s Peer Group, we begin each meeting by sharing our highs and lows across four domains: Personal, Work, Family, and Community. And guess which one gets the most airtime, the most emotion, the most detailed play-by-play?

Work.

Because it’s the one place men know how to measure themselves. We know how to talk about stress at the office, performance reviews, missed deadlines, financial targets. It’s quantifiable. It’s linear. It’s safe. And it makes us feel useful.

But then we get to Community—and suddenly the room goes quiet. Men stare at the floor. They shrug. They offer one-word answers. Because most men can’t even define what community means to them. We’ve never been asked to. We’ve never been taught how. We’re starving there—starving for connection, for brotherhood, for a place to be real, to be known, to belong. Starving for contribution. For purpose beyond the paycheck.

And it’s not just a vibe or a theory. The statistics back it up. It’s in the rising suicide rates. It’s in the quiet, unspoken isolation of middle-aged men. It’s in the emotional illiteracy, the numbing, the anger, the quiet despair.

There is a direct correlation between the question “What do you do?” and the slow erosion of a man’s soul. Because that question—when asked of men—is never about relationships. It’s never about our marriage. Our kids. Our friendships. Our service. Our emotional world. It’s about work. Period. That’s it.

And when that becomes the centerpiece of a man’s identity—when his entire sense of self is pinned to his productivity—it’s only a matter of time before something breaks.

Returning Relationships to the Center

This is why we built Men’s Peer Groups.
To return relationships to the center of a man’s life.
To reclaim the parts of ourselves that don’t show up in job titles or LinkedIn bios.
To bring back the emotional, spiritual, relational nutrients men are starving for—especially in the second half of life.

Because if your life is only as big as your job, then when the job slows down—or ends—you’re left with a void. And that’s when the darkness creeps in. That’s when Karoshi becomes not just literal, but existential.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

We can rewire the narrative.
We can teach men how to share not just what they do, but who they are.
We can build a culture where a man’s value is tied to his presence, not just his performance.

Answer Like An Eighthole

So next time someone asks you, “What do you do?”, maybe you don’t give them the rehearsed answer. Maybe you don’t lead with your title, your income, your performance report. Maybe—just maybe—you start refusing to let that question define you, confine you, or quietly bury you.

Maybe you ask a better set of questions.

Who are you not?
What’s the false self you’ve been selling for years just to fit in, to win, to survive?

Where’s your moral line—your emotional limit—the place inside where the price is too damn high to purchase your soul?
Where is the hill you’re willing to die on, the truth you’ll bleed for, the fire you refuse to put out just because it makes people uncomfortable?

And who are you becoming—beyond the grind, beneath the armor, behind the scripted answers?
Because that’s the real question.
That’s the only one that matters.
And that’s the one most men have never been asked, let alone given the space to answer.

That’s why we built Men’s Peer Groups—to create that space.
To ask the dangerous questions.
To tell the unspoken truth.
To help each other reclaim our soul—not through performance, but through presence.

In every meeting, we share our highs and lows—not just from work, but from our personal life, our family, and our community. Because work will always get the spotlight. But relationship is what brings us back to life. Especially in the second half. Especially when the ladder leads nowhere. Especially when the money isn’t enough.

This isn’t a program.
It’s not a pitch.
It’s a path back to yourself.

Men’s Peer Groups
We don’t ask, “What do you do?”
We ask the only questions that matter:

Who are you not?
What do you stand for, bleed for, and refuse to sell out?
And who are you finally—finally—ready to become?

Let’s rise—together.

__________________

Dr. Baruch “B” HaLevi
Logotherapist | Men’s Coach | Spiritual Guide
Helping you build the soul muscles to awaken now, die later—and rise eternally.