Behind The Suit: What Don Draper Still Teaches Us About Men’s Mental Health

I have been watching the series ‘Mad Man’, an American period drama created by Matthew Weiner and set in the 1960s. It is a compelling account of the tormented life and career of Don Draper, creative director at Sterling Cooper, an advertising agency on Madison Avenue. At first, I was drawn to the historical texture of the series — the political and cultural shifts of the Cold War, the civil rights movement, the space race — all reflected through the glamorous world of Madison Avenue adverting. I appreciated the show’s subtle portrayal of systemic misogyny and racism, expressed through the ordinary, often invisible violences embedded in everyday life.

But what stayed with me was the character of Don Draper.

At first, I couldn’t quite tell why. He is, on the surface, a man of many appetites: addicted to alcohol, chain-smoking through each day, cycling through women as easily as ad campaigns. He didn’t seem to love his wife or children. He didn’t seem particularly passionate about his work, despite being praised for it. If anything, he appeared to coast on the talents of others, wearing competence like a well-fitted suit.

 I found myself building a psychological profile of who he might be. I anticipated his moves, expected his breakdowns, hoped for small moments of redemption. But every time I thought I’d found some thread of humanity in him, he would pull away — with another drink, another affair, another smile.

To the defence of this character, the times in which it was created, were turbulent — socially rebellious, emotionally raw, often chaotic. There was a kind of aliveness in the 1960s that has since been dampened: people seemed more expressive, more willing to feel, even when that feeling veered into prejudice or dysfunction.

But Don Draper never truly met me where I expected him to, either emotionally or morally.

His emotional flatness, his inability to love deeply or act with integrity — it all felt like bad acting at first. I found myself frustrated by Jon Hamm’s performance. But the more I watched, the more I realized: perhaps Don Draper is acting — not Jon Hamm. That emptiness, that blankness, was intentional. The character himself is a man performing manhood. Performing success. Performing power.

He is a suit without a self.

In many ways, Don Draper is a relic of a past era — yet he still echoes in the lives of men today. While expectations around masculinity have evolved, the pressure to be strong, composed, and self-sufficient remains deeply ingrained. Men are still often taught to suppress vulnerability, to equate success with worth, and to carry pain in silence. A contemporary Don Draper might not drink bourbon in a corner office, but he might still struggle alone behind a high-functioning career, anxiety masked by achievement, depression by distraction.

The social script may have changed, but the consequences are familiar: disconnection, burnout, emotional isolation. As awareness around men’s mental health grows, perhaps the real challenge — and invitation — is to move beyond performance altogether, toward a version of manhood rooted in presence, honesty, and emotional courage.