"Still Standing: After a Stroke Nearly Killed Him, This Chicago Father Found Strength in the Fight for His Life"
By Christopher “Tru” Hood
South Side Chicago | Special Report
“There’s always green on the other side. There’s always more.” — Jonathan Overton.
A sudden rush of pressure, a collapse, and the realization that his body had finally said, “No more,” were the only things that characterized Jonathan Overton at the time. There were no sirens, no dramatic scenes. Just a quiet moment after a phone call – and then bam. A wave of pressure, a collapse, and the realization that his body had finally said, “No more.”
He says he had just hung up the phone with his daughter’s mother. “We had been going back and forth about parenting. About doing things right, and as soon as I hung up, everything just clicked into place.”
Having a stroke at 39, not from drugs, not from poor nutrition, not from genetics, but instead it comes from stress.
The Invisible Killer
People in Black communities in America are accustomed to documenting emotional trauma, even glorifying it. They consider pain to be an inheritance that needs to be inherited. “We were raised to be strong, not soft,” Jonathan says. “But nobody taught us how to feel. We never had the chance to express our feelings. It’s a national epidemic.” In Black males ages 15 to 24, suicide is the third leading cause of death, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Mental health problems often go unnoticed until it’s too late.
The National Alliance on Mental Illness reported in 2021 that just 1 out of 4 Black adults with mental health problems receive treatment, compared to roughly half of white adults. Jonathan could have been one of those statistics, but he chose to fight. The numbers are chilling. According to the CDC, suicide is now the third leading cause of death for Black males aged 15 to 2. Yet, depression, anxiety, and emotional burnout go undiagnosed and untreated in millions of older Black people, many of whom never raise their hands for help. Jonathan was one of them.
“I was overthinking everything,” he says. “Trying to be the perfect father, a better man, keep the peace, provide. I held everything in, but your body can only take so much.” Before the stroke, he had already been suffering in silence. But like many Black men, he’d been taught that showing emotion was weakness. That therapy was a joke. That pain was something to get over.
“We don’t talk,” he admits. “We just bottle it up. We don’t go to the doctor. We don’t even tell each other when we’re not okay.” But this time, the silence almost killed him.
Healing Through Joysticks and Grace
After the stroke, recovery was brutal. His body weakened. His emotions are unstable; his confidence has cracked. But one thing kept calling him back to life: Fighting games. Yes — video games, but not the way people think. Jonathan has been part of Chicago’s underground FGC (Fighting Game Community) since his early 20s. Titles like Street Fighter, Tekken, and Smash Bros weren’t just hobbies — they were ways of expressing control, power, and resilience.
“I couldn’t control the stroke,” he says. “But I could control the fight. On-screen, I was still sharp, still me.”
What started as solo gaming became something big. He began mentoring teens and hosting casual tournaments, even teaching his 13—year—old daughter how to play.
“She’s cold,” he laughs. “I’m teaching her the games, but really, I’m teaching her life. How to get knocked down and come back.”
A Father’s Wake-Up Call
The stroke didn’t just attack his body — it exposed the truth: something had to change. It took six months of recovery. Six months of rebuilding. Six months of learning how to open up, rest, and redefine what it means to be a man, ut for Jonathan, it wasn’t just about ssurvival. It was about his daughter. “She’s everything,” he says, his voice softening. “She’s 13 now. She plays sports and games. She’s watching me. I can’t let this world break me. I have to show her how to keep fighting — with grace.”
And that’s when something powerful started to shift.
Fighting Games, Real Healing
In an unlikely twist, Jonathan found healing in the one place he’s always loved — the world of fighting games.
This is something that not just helps, but is an outlet. Long before the health scare, Jonathan was part of Chicago’s underground gaming community — a scene rich with culture, strategy, and connections. Think Tekken, Street Fighter, and Smash Bros. But after his stroke, it became more than a hobby.
“It became therapy; one thing that was standing out to me was when,” he said. “I started organizing tournaments, mentoring other players, even teaching my daughter how to play. It gave me a reason to show up. To connect. To feel alive again.” Gaming helped him reclaim control in that digital space; he wasn’t broken. He was battling—competing Leadin. “I used to think I couldn’t contribute much. Now, I host events, give advice, and build community. I’m mentoring older guys and teens. I’m building something.”
The Bigger Fight
Jonathan knows his story isn’t unique — and that’s the problem.
Black men are suffering quietly in neighborhoods across the country, Chicago, Baltimore, and New Orleans — cities where trauma is baked into the concrete and therapy feels out of reach. But his message is clear: “You don’t have to wait until your body gives out. You don’t have to go through a stroke to get help. Some people will listen. And if nobody’s listening — be the one who talks first.”
He’s still dealing with the aftershocks. He still has days when the pain creeps in, when memories flash back, and when parenting feels like a mountain. But now, he’s not doing it alone.
“I work out. I eat better. I talk more, I feel more. And I do it all for my daughter. Because one day, she’s gonna remember how her daddy fought — not just for his life, but for hers.”
The Village Speaks: A Cry for Safe Space
Jonathan’s story might have started with a stroke, but it doesn’t end with him. Fight echoes through church pews, community rooms, and barbershop conversations all across the South Side of Chicago, where Black men carry a pressure most never name.
At New St. Paul Church of God in Christ, Pastor Rory Hood calls it what it is: a crisis.
“Black men and mental health is a paramount issue in our community,” he says, his voice rising like a Sunday morning sermon. We need more centers. More resources. More space for Black men and Black families to heal — young and old alike.”
The pain isn’t abstract. It’s personal. It sits in the heart of First Lady Jody Easterling-Hood, who sees the daily toll it takes on husbands, fathers, and sons.
“Black men are taught to be so macho, they don’t embrace the idea of getting help. But it’s time our culture starts shifting. When our men are in crisis, they deserve support, not shame.”
It’s not just a generational disconnect. It’s cultural conditioning — passed down like trauma itself, and that’s why community members like Jewel Easterling are sounding the alarm:
“Most men won’t go to the doctor, let alone see a counselor,” she says. “We have to break the taboo. Let Black men know — it’s okay not to be okay.”
Dante Moore, a longtime member of the Church community, put it bluntly:
“We don’t talk because we’re scared. Scared of judgment, our woman won’t understand. We’re scared our friends will laugh at us, so we’re holding it in until it explodes. We need someone unbiased. We need safe places.”
And Frances Scott, speaking with the clarity of wisdom, reminded us that this is about systems, not just symptoms.
“This world is trying to box our young Black men in. Label them. Break them. But if we had more mentorship and more spiritual and mental support, we could change that story. There’s nothing weak about seeing a psychiatrist. That’s power.”
For Devon Lumpkins, it’s simple:
“We can’t do it alone. We need each other — to talk, to lean on, to encourage. This conversation has to keep going because this pressure is real. But so is the healing.”
These voices don’t just echo Jonathan’s journey. They validate it. They confirm what too many men have felt in silence. And they prove this truth:
When one man breaks his silence, he gives the whole village permission to heal.
What Comes Next
Today, you’ll find Jonathan coaching new players at his local gaming club. You might see him volunteering at a summer camp or watching proudly from the sidelines as his daughter scores her successive big win.
He’s not healed — but he’s healing. And that’s the power of this story.
Jonathan Overton didn’t just survive a stroke. He survived suppression, silence, and self-doubt, and now he’s choosing to speak. “Keep pushing,” he says. “There’s always green on the other side. There’s always more.” So, what do we owe men like Jonathan? We owe them space. We owe them the community. We owe them the right to feel without fear.
Because Black men aren’t machines. They’re fathers’ Leader Dreamers.
And they deserve to be heard — before their bodies scream for them.
A Final Word
To know Jonathan Overton is to witness a man in motion — not running from his past but walking through it. He doesn’t tell his story for sympathy. He tells it for change. Because somewhere in Chicago tonight, another Black man is holding it all in — until something breaks.
“To that brother, I say: You’re not weak. You’re human. There’s healing. There’s help. And there’s always more on the other side.”
Jonathan didn’t just survive a stroke. He survived silence. And now he’s making noise for a generation that deserves better.
🧠 If you or someone you love is struggling with mental health, reach out: ✊🏽 Help Break the Silence
If you or someone you know is suffering in silence, don’t wait. Start the conversation. Host a game night. Invite a brother out to talk. Volunteer. Share this story. We all have a role in healing the village.
- NAMI Helpline: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
- Therapy for Black Men: therapyforblackmen.org
- Beverly Area Planning Association: https://bapa.org/directory/categories/health-wellness/