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— CLINT GRESHAM —
“Maybe wholeness is the acceptance of brokenness.Once I’m OK with my imperfection, that’s whenthings totally change because I’m not trying tolook different or feel different.”It’s hard for me to remember a time growing up when I wasn’t
anxious. My thoughts were constantly racing over each other
and there was this relentless, uncontrollable energy running
through my body—like I’d never be able to settle myself,
never be comfortable in my own skin. School was always an
uphill battle. But what I did excel in at an early age was sports.
Football, especially, felt like something that was in my control.
My dad had played in college, and I guess I inherited the gene.
I definitely shared the passion. At 11 years old, I was attending
games at the University of Texas, and I was already dreaming
of going pro. During my sophomore year in high school, a
college coach encouraged me to learn how to deep snap. I
have a vivid memory of my dad catching one of my first snaps,
and saying, “Oh my God, we struck gold.” And we had. Those
long snaps, along with a lot of hard work, took me from high
school to college ball to the NFL, where I played six seasons
with the Seattle Seahawks and got to be a part of their first
Super Bowl victory.
On the surface, I was living the dream. But the fact that I
was a long snapper was just too ironic; I can’t think of a worse
position for someone who would later be diagnosed with major
depressive disorder and panic disorder. Imagine coming out
on the field only a few times a game and throwing the football
8 yards so that it lands in a box that’s roughly 6 inches by
6 inches, and on its way, the ball must rotate two and a half
times so that when our holder catches it, the laces are pointing
forward. Anything other than exactly that was a failure. The
pressure to perfectly hit that mark was all-consuming. In an
attempt to numb my anxiety, I was taking Xanax and drinking
like crazy. I even thought about taking my own life, and that
broke me more than anything because I felt like a fraud living
this double life. At the time, I had no understanding of mental
illness or addiction, and how they have nothing to do with
whether you have internal strength. I felt totally alone in my
struggle with no idea how to break free.
And then, I was cut loose, but in a way I would never have
chosen. Not long after signing a three-year contract with the
Seahawks, I was suddenly cut from the team. In a split second,
my NFL career was over. At first, I thought it may have been the
worst thing that ever happened to me. My failure was on full
(and very public) display. But after the initial sting of rejection
wore off, I began to see that the real damage was what had been
happening internally over a lifetime.
Football did a lot of amazing things for me, but as a person
who found my worth in performance, it also left me completely
crushed. For a long time, I felt a ton of shame when I would
admit that. I mean, there are soldiers coming back from war
who suffer with PTSD on a daily basis and here I am with
trauma symptoms from playing professional sports? But there’s
no freedom in comparison. And the more I’ve learned about
the brain, the more I’ve realized that stress—no matter the
circumstance—is stress, and our minds can’t tell the difference.
We can live only our own stories. And sometimes telling your
story is the only way to reconcile yourself with what your story
actually is. A few years ago I started writing my story down in
what eventually became a book. That process was probably the
single most cathartic experience of my life.
I realized that we’re all becoming something. We’re in process
always, and that’s better than acceptable—it’s how we were
meant to be. But what does it look like to actually like who you
are when you’re not who you think you’re supposed to be yet?
Maybe wholeness is the acceptance of brokenness. Once I’m OK
with my imperfection, that’s when things totally change because
I’m not trying to look different or feel different. I’m just letting
myself be. That’s what I’ve been growing toward—or maybe
even running toward. See, I learned this thing about bison that
I can’t stop thinking about. (Yes, bison, as in American buffalo.)
Where cattle will turn their tails at a storm, bison face toward
it—right into the gale. It’s as if they have this instinct that if
they meet the tempest head-on instead of denying, running,
or hiding from it, they’ll get through it—more quickly and on
their own terms.
These days, I don’t try to avoid what I’m feeling or facing; I
lean into it, with the help of a whole community—including my
infant daughter, who has blown open my heart to love and accept
love in ways I never knew possible. It’s strange that after being
on what some might consider the mountaintop of my career, I
have found more life in the mundane everyday, like choosing to
be around people and putting myself out there, getting sunlight,
exercising, eating healthy, and simply speaking kindly to myself.
Sure, I’ll have moments when I’ll have an intrusive thought or
I’ll get triggered by something, but it happens less than it did
yesterday, and far less than it did six months ago. There’s peace
that I have now after doing the work and then just learning how
to sit and be comfortable in the uncomfortable, believing that,
day by day, I am being made whole.