When the System Fails You

How do I know being an athlete at the highest level isn't what you think?

Because I see it. Every day. Up close and personal.

I see the awkward smiles pushing through crowds, searching for a familiar face — looking for safety. I see the mornings that begin with 5:30am workouts and the nights that don't end until after 9pm meetings. I see the vultures circling. I see the exhaustion. I see the tired eyes stuck between craving calmness and chasing more.

THE HOT TAKE

Student-athletes are the most vulnerable population on college campuses.

Even more than that. Athletes — especially those from communities similar to mine, those that we call "underserved communities" whose lives are shaped by generational trauma, poverty, and systemic disenfranchisement — are the most vulnerable people in the world.

Why? Because they simply don't know.

They don't know who to trust. They don't know who to call. They don't know what to do — or where to go. They don't know where to start.

So they search for safety, hope, and direction in anyone and anything.

THE MYTH

From the outside looking in, athletes aren't just admired — they're mythologized.

We don't see people. We see superheroes. We see Superman. The Hulk. The Flash.

For male athletes, society paints you as the full package: tall, strong, dominant, a natural protector, a future lottery ticket. The golden ticket to generational wealth and prosperity — for your family, your community, your legacy.

For female athletes, it's no different. You're seen as powerful, desirable, confident, polished. You're supposed to have it all together.

For both, the world is at your fingertips. You're told you're blessed. Gifted. Talented.

And because of that, life must be easy, right?

Wrong.

That fantasy only applies to a small fraction of athletes. Maybe 1 in 5, if that. The rest? They're navigating a system that doesn't see them as people — just as performance tools. Assets. Highlights. ROI. Parlays.

WHY DO WE KEEP FAILING THEM?

Is it because athletic ability becomes a substitute for academic rigor? Is it because we mistake a touchdown celebration for emotional stability? Is it because their charisma convinces us they're okay?

Do we become so starstruck by their physical gifts that we forget to ask about the person inside the helmet?

What about their home life? What about the predators that surround them? What about the anxiety and depression they're too afraid to discuss? What about them?

We praise their strength but we ignore their struggles. We minimize their pain — because we bask in their victory. We forget they're human. Even more so — we forget they're kids.

ATHLETES AREN'T SUPERHEROES.

They bleed. They break. They feel.

But too often, temporary success becomes a replacement for lifelong development. We don't check in. We don't ask the deeper questions. We don't hold space for their full selves.

THE ANSWER

Maybe the answer starts with a mindset shift:

Stop seeing the athlete first. Stop seeing the product and result. Start seeing the person.

The one who's scared. The one who's overwhelmed. The one who's growing and figuring it out in real time, on one of the brightest stages in the world.

This isn't about excuses. Nor is it about deflecting accountability or dismissing responsibility. It's about raising the bar for everyone — but doing so with love, care, and compassion.

We need to look beyond the highlight reels. We need to remember the person inside the jersey.