The Identity Crisis

It was late. I was doing what I had been doing most nights, doom scrolling, mindlessly flicking through my phone, looking for nothing and everything at the same time. Then a clip stopped me.

A former teammate was walking back onto the court at his old stomping grounds. The crowd erupted. They were on their feet, chanting his name, welcoming him home. A thunderous standing ovation.

Tears started falling down my face before I could even process why. Anger. Frustration. Envy. Sadness. All of it hit at once and I couldn’t stop any of it.

For weeks leading up to that moment, I had been getting a look from people when they saw me in the streets. The one where their eyes soften just a little too much and you can feel the pity before they even open their mouth. Some tried to cheer me up. “You’ll be okay.” “Enjoy the retirement.” ”You’ll be alright”. They meant well. I know that. But I was still trying to come back and play at the time. Hearing those words didn’t feel like encouragement, it felt like they were being dismissive of what I was going through. Like my struggle was something to move past, not something that was detrimental to my life.

I just lost the one thing I had always identified as. My whole world had been turned upside down. How was I going to make a living for my family? What was I going to do with a lifetime of skill that I had developed year after year for my whole life? There wasn’t going to be a twilight era to my career. No farewell tour. No standing ovation. There were no more bus rides. No more locker room jokes. When you play sports, the coaching staff and your teammates become a built-in family. Then all of a sudden, the whole show just kept going without me.

People often ask me, “What do you do to fill the void of playing in front of thousands of people?”

The truth is, you don’t. It’s impossible to replace it. And I felt like life had suddenly become meaningless while I watched my former teammates reap the rewards and I was left behind. It was very unfair. I had always had other things I loved doing, but those were just ways to give my mind a quick rest from the game, it was never meant to replace it. I didn’t know who I was outside of basketball because basketball was everything I had poured my heart and soul into. There was nothing else.

I broke down every day. I wore it on my face no matter how hard I tried to hide it. Even my kids, who were toddlers at the time, could see it. They’d look at me and ask why I was sad, and I wouldn’t have an answer that made sense to either of us.

That’s when I knew something had to change.

I woke up one morning and I was just tired of being tired. I couldn’t keep crumbling in front of the people who needed me to be present. I had to start paying attention to what was actually around me, not what I had lost. My wife. My kids. Parent-teacher meetings I had been running from. A family that needed me more than I needed the game. So I fell into it. Not gracefully. Not with some grand plan. I just started showing up for the things that were right in front of me.

If you’re reading this and you’ve lost the thing that defined you, whether it’s a career, a relationship, a business, your health, I’m not going to tell you that it gets easier or that everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe in sugarcoating it. The void is real and you can’t replace what was lost.

But here’s what I’ve learned: there are still things in your orbit that need your attention. Start small. Clean and organize your living space, volunteer your time with a local charity. Learn something new that you’ve always been curious about. Because even when we lose something, there are still things we can maintain as a human being. Reach out to a friend or someone you trust and just get things off your chest instead of holding it all in. Sometimes the smallest things help the most—a caring conversation, a task completed, a moment where you feel like yourself again, even if it’s just for a second.

You don’t have to replace what you lost. You just have to start noticing what’s still here.