When the steel mill closed, life transitioning therapy helped years later.
Ray started working at Wisconsin Steel on Chicago’s South Side in 1967, at just 19 years old. The plant, located near 106th Street and Torrence Avenue, was a towering industrial city within a city—miles of conveyor belts, blast furnaces, rail spurs, and clanging steel. It never stopped.
Ray’s uncle had worked there. His father had worked there. The job was hard, hot, and dangerous—but it paid well. And more importantly, it was stable. In an era when Black men in Chicago had few avenues to the middle class, steel was a lifeline.
He got married at 21. Bought a bungalow off 95th Street. Put two daughters through Catholic school. His wife, Laverne, worked part-time as a lunch lady and raised the girls. Everything revolved around that job at the mill.
They said if you put in your time, you’d retire with a pension, a 401(k), and benefits for life.
By the late ’70s, whispers started. Slowdowns. Layoffs. Imported steel was flooding the market. Then came the final blow.
On March 28, 1980, workers at Wisconsin Steel showed up for their shifts only to find the gates locked and guards posted. No warning. No final paycheck. No explanation. The company claimed bankruptcy. Overnight, more than 3,400 people were out of work—Ray included.
“I didn’t even get my lunchbox back,” he said. “Just stood there with my thermos in my hand, not knowing what the hell to do.”
For months, he held out hope. That it was temporary. That they’d reopen. But the mill never came back. And the pension fund? It was gone. Embezzled. Mismanaged. Drained.
Ray eventually learned that Interlake Inc., the parent company, had quietly undercapitalized the pension. The PBGC (Pension Benefit Guaranty Corporation) took over—but because the plan was so underfunded, Ray lost more than half of what he was owed.
Instead of $1,500/month, he got $670—barely enough to pay the mortgage. His 401(k)? It had $11,000 in it. Not enough to retire on. Not even enough to last a year.
Ray took whatever jobs he could find: driving a delivery truck, janitorial work at a public high school, even cash work fixing fences in the neighborhood. But by then he was in his 50s. The union jobs were gone. The South Side was changing.
In 2004, at age 56, Laverne was diagnosed with breast cancer. The bills stacked up. Their savings drained fast. Ray cashed out the 401(k) to pay for her medication. She passed in 2007.
By the time he turned 62, he applied for early Social Security, but it was barely $1,100/month. His pension check from PBGC had never been adjusted for inflation.
He found himself alone in the house they’d bought together, eating off paper plates to avoid dishes, walking to save gas. Friends were disappearing. Some to strokes. Others to bottles. He started talking less. Smiling less. Sleeping too much during the day.
Then, one afternoon at the neighborhood food pantry, a volunteer asked if he’d ever thought about talking to someone—a therapist. Ray had laughed.
“Real men don’t do that,” he said. But he couldn’t get the idea out of his head.
He called the number they gave him. Life transition therapy for older adults in financial distress. His Blue Cross Blue Shield PPO plan covered the sessions. The counselor was a younger man named Frank, who met with Ray via video for virtual sessions. From time to time, there would also be in person sessions in the office.
Ray didn’t talk much the first session. Or the second. But by the third, the words started to spill.
“I wasn’t just a steelworker,” Ray said. “That job—that mill—was who I was.”
Marcus helped him name what he was feeling: grief, disorientation, loss of purpose. They worked together on reframing his identity, not as a man defined by what he lost, but by what he still carried: wisdom, resilience, history, compassion.
He started volunteering more at the food pantry—not just handing out bags but talking with people. Especially the younger men who reminded him of himself at 25. He even spoke at a community event once, telling his story.
“Counseling didn’t change the system,” Ray said. “Didn’t bring my pension back. But it helped me stand up straighter. Helped me feel human again.”
Now 76, Ray rents a room in a friend’s house in Uptown. He collects less than $1,800/month between Social Security and a slashed pension. Over $600 of that disappears into insurance premiums and medication for COPD and diabetes. But he gets by.
He no longer drives by the lot where the mill used to be. He doesn’t need to. “The mill’s not who I am anymore,” he says. “I’m still here. That’s what counts.”
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Are you going through a life transition? Have you lost your job or worry that you might be let go? Counseling may help you through the challenging times. Reach out to request an appointment.
