We can spend an entire week talking about one play in a game. Break it down from every angle. Replay it in slow motion. But when it comes to the mental health of the athletes who make those plays, the conversation often gets quiet.
I have been a Cowboys fan since 1977, when they drafted Tony Dorsett out of Pitt. I grew up on Staubach and the Doomsday Defense, lived through the dynasty years with Aikman, Emmitt, and Irvin, and stayed loyal through the eras of Romo and Dak. I have seen the highs, the heartbreaks, the finger pointing, the miracles, and the collapses.
But this one hit different.
Marshawn Kneeland's story did not just hurt as a fan. It hurt as someone who has spent years working with athletes and coaches to help them find balance beyond the game.
Kneeland was not a household name yet. But his story carried all the layers that make sports so powerful and so heartbreaking. A young man from Western Michigan who climbed from obscurity to the NFL. A son who carried his mother's ashes around his neck as a symbol of love and loss. A second-round pick who scored his first NFL touchdown just days before his death. On November 6, 2025, Marshawn Kneeland died at just 24 years old.
When the news broke, we saw the shock, the sadness, the tributes.
What we did not see was the deeper question.
How do we get better at recognizing and responding when our athletes are struggling?
The Performance and the Person
As a counselor, educator, and life coach, I design programs that help athletes reconnect with who they are outside of competition. Through my Flow State Life Coaching program, I have seen what happens when we give athletes space to be human again — when we remind them they are more than stats, contracts, or expectations.
We ask players to be warriors. To play through pain. To give their bodies, and too often their peace of mind, for our entertainment. The message is clear: be tough, stay silent, perform.
But silence is not strength.
We celebrate grit but ignore grief. We glorify resilience but overlook recovery. We say "next man up" when maybe the man standing in front of us is not okay.
Football, more than any other sport, demands a level of sacrifice we rarely acknowledge. We talk about concussions and CTE as neurological and medical issues, but their potential effects do not exist separately from an athlete's emotional and psychological well-being. What happens to the body and brain can affect the person carrying both.
When I first wrote about Marshawn, there was much we did not know about what he may have been carrying in those final days.
There still is.
But we now know one more piece of his story.
In July 2026, his family announced that postmortem testing by researchers at the Boston University CTE Center found Stage 1 chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE, in his brain.
That finding matters. But we should be careful about what we ask it to explain.
CTE cannot be identified as the cause of Marshawn's death. Suicide is complex and cannot be reduced to a single diagnosis. His family shared the finding because they believed it provided important context about struggles he may have been experiencing, and could help raise awareness about what athletes in high-contact sports may face.
For me, the diagnosis does not change the central question of this essay.
It makes it more urgent.
What was happening to the human being underneath the helmet?
The Culture We Have Built
Every week, millions of us tune in to watch our teams. We track stats, fantasy points, and highlight reels. But we rarely stop to consider what happens when the cameras stop rolling.
I have sat in locker rooms as a coach and watched the energy shift the moment the crowd leaves. I have seen athletes who can memorize a playbook in seconds struggle to describe how they feel.
Our athletic systems have become exceptionally good at developing performance.
I'm not convinced we have become equally good at developing and protecting the person producing it.
We cannot keep waiting for tragedy to start the conversation.
What Needs to Change
If we are serious about honoring Marshawn Kneeland and others like him, we need to rethink how our systems show up for athletes. That starts with small shifts that create real change.
- 01
Normalize the conversation.
Talks about emotional well-being should not only happen after something tragic. These conversations belong in the same rooms where we break down film, go through recovery, and prepare for the next game. Coaches, counselors, and teammates can model this by asking “How are you, really?” before “Are you ready?”
- 02
Build integrated support systems.
Mental health professionals should be part of athletic departments, not brought in only during crisis. Athletes need consistent access to people who understand the pressure, identity shifts, and expectations they carry.
- 03
Redefine toughness.
Real strength can include honesty. Leadership can mean telling the truth when something is not right, rather than pretending everything is fine. Athletes should know that asking for help does not make them less competitive, less capable, or less strong.
- 04
Protect the human, not just the performer.
We love the storyline of overcoming, but we have to care just as much about the person who is doing the overcoming. We need to develop human beings who can thrive long after the final whistle — supporting them emotionally, socially, and psychologically, not just physically.
A Legacy Beyond the Game
Marshawn Kneeland's stat line will live online forever, but his story deserves to live in us.
He was more than a defensive end.
He was a son, a friend, a teammate, and a young man whose life should not be defined by its final moments.
His family has said they want Marshawn remembered with compassion for the person he was, rather than defined by the final moments of his life. I think there is something in that for all of us.
As fans, coaches, and advocates, we owe it to every athlete to do more than watch. We have to listen. We have to care beyond the final whistle.
Because before they are Cowboys or Broncos or whatever team they wear, they are people.
And if we lose sight of that, we lose more than games.
We lose lives.
So the next time a player makes a big play, celebrate it. Break it down. Replay it.
But when the lights turn off, ask the question that really matters:
How is he doing when the cameras stop rolling?
Maybe that's the question we need to start asking.
Dr. Brian Maiden is a counselor, educator, and life coach who works with athletes and coaches through his Flow State Life Coaching program, helping them build identity and resilience beyond competition.
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