Trying Anyway: Chris Mann’s Fight Against the Lie of ‘Not Enough’
Some men walk through fire. Others live in it for years before learning how to breathe again. Chris Mann is one of those men. Reserved, sharp-witted, and deeply intentional, Chris’ quiet faith, battle with depression, and hard-won lessons on grace and presence reveal a soul grit he won’t admit to.
By trade, Chris has been in ministry for years, helping Catholic men reconnect with faith and purpose through Heroic Men. But his path here wasn’t paved with spiritual certainty or clarity.
It began in high school, in the silence of his own mind, where perfectionism tumored into despair, and faith became a system of rules instead of a relationship with a Savior.
Chris talks about the deepest woundings of his life, how Jesus kicked down the door of his hardened heart, and why the quiet presence of a father—or friend—might just be the most heroic act of all.
The Dark Spiral of Perfectionism.
Chris’s story doesn’t start with a crisis. It starts with order. Raised in a faithful, loving home by engineer parents, he absorbed the faith like a rulebook.
“I had a very kind of cut and dry, black and white understanding of the faith,” he said. “It was very legalistic and impersonal. Here’s what you do. Here’s why. If you fail, you go to confession.”
As a young perfectionist, Chris took Jesus’ words literally: Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect. But instead of finding aspiration in that command, he found condemnation. “I took that as a command. Not a goal. Not a guideline. A command. And of course I couldn’t do that.”
This mental frame turned his sincere effort into torment. “It led to a lot of depression. I didn’t get into substances—pure grace there—but I did self-harm. I was cutting in high school.
“I had these expectations I truly believed in—and a complete inability to live up to them. So I tried to ‘fix’ it with more consequences. If I couldn’t stop a sin like masturbation, it meant the pain of failing wasn’t strong enough. So I tried to make it worse.”
He wasn’t addicted to sin. He was addicted to justice. “It wasn’t about numbing. It was about restoring rightness in the world. I deserved punishment. That felt fair.”
But beneath the logic, he was alone. “Nobody. That’s who I turned to during that time. Just me and a distorted view of Christ as a perfect judge.”
The Retreat That Changed Everything.
The turning point was a confirmation retreat—a three-day program called Teens Encountering Christ (TEC). Chris didn’t want to be there. He already “knew everything,” and had no interest in emotional experiences.
But God had other plans.
He remembers standing in the gym during icebreakers thinking, “Well, I’m here. Might as well play along.” That tiny sliver of openness was enough. Later that night, at confession, everything changed.
“I didn’t go in thinking I’d meet God. I went in with my old mindset—balance the ledger. But Christ was like, ‘I just want you back.’”
For the first time, Chris encountered not just a moral code—but a Person.
“I felt desired. Loved. It wasn’t just zeroing out sin. It was reunion. That door flung open.” The weekend gave him more than a spiritual high. It marked the beginning of transformation. Even his mom noticed. “She said, ‘Something’s different.’ She didn’t know about the cutting at the time. But she saw something new in how I talked, how I treated my siblings.”
He started slowly. “I began talking more. Listening more. Trying to change the way I thought.”
Later, he went back to help lead those same retreats. That’s when new friendships began forming.
Heroes Who Try Anyway.
Chris now works with Heroic Men, helping Catholic men navigate darkness and find meaning. But he still draws strength from the heroes who walked before him.
“I always go back to Frodo,” he said. “He doesn’t succeed in the quest. That hit me differently later in life. Tolkien shows how human striving is meaningful, even when it fails.”
Another unlikely hero? St. Mark Ji Tianxiang, a Chinese opium addict who was refused confession and communion. “He prayed for martyrdom because he thought it was his only ticket to heaven. He never kicked his addiction. He died addicted—and became a saint.”
Chris believes heroes aren’t those who win every battle. They’re the ones who show up, fail, and try anyway. “That’s the kind of hero I want to be—for my kids, especially. Not someone who always gets it right. But someone who keeps going. Who models how to ask forgiveness. How to move forward.”
His second mission? To be a hero to those suffering silently. “I want to be someone people can talk to. Not to fix them. Just to listen. And stay.”
Chris shared a simple prayer his spiritual director gave him that helps him rewire his inner monologue:
“In the name of Jesus Christ, I reject the lie that I am worthless. In the name of Jesus Christ, I affirm the truth that I am still loved.”
He teaches this to his children, too. “Every week, we ask each other: ‘How did you fail this week?’ Because failure is not the end. It’s just part of learning.”
Letting Go of the Outcome.
Chris shares his favorite verse, Exodus 14:14: The Lord will fight for you. You have only to be still.
“That verse wrecks me,” he said. “We treat surrender like failure. Especially as men. But surrendering the outcome—that’s courage.”
He believes the deepest freedom for men begins when we stop expecting ourselves to be God. “So many men feel they need to wrap things up, fix everything, complete the arc. But life doesn’t work like that.”
Heroism, he says, is less about control and more about presence. “Some of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had with someone? I said nothing. I just sat there. No phone. No fixing. Just present.”
That’s the mark he wants to leave on the world. He hopes that when people think of Chris Mann, they say: He was there. And he listened.
Because no man should walk alone. Not in the dark. Not anymore.