Blue & Gold Illustrated: America's Foremost Authority on Notre Dame Football
Issue link: https://comanpub.uberflip.com/i/1541560
16 NOV. 29, 2025 BLUE & GOLD ILLUSTRATED looked up to, the one who was supposed to be strong and in- vincible. Instead, I was a shell of myself, physically wasting away, emotionally distant. I felt a profound sense of shame, like I had failed them all — failed as a son, failed as a big brother, failed the image of strength I had always pro- jected. They cried about me, and knowing that, knowing I caused them that pain, is a burden I still carry. My low point is etched in my memory with brutal clar- ity: standing in an airport, and having my wife, the woman I love more than anything, carry my backpack, because I was simply too weak. Me, the former offensive lineman, the guy who could bench press 225 pounds 20 times, was re- duced to a state where a sim- ple backpack was too much. The shame burned through me. I felt utterly useless, ex- posed and vulnerable. I had no energy to do anything. Every movement, every conversation, felt like I was going through the motions, operating on fumes. People looked at me differently. I could feel their eyes, their silent questions, the pity or concern in their gaze. The athletic build that had defined me, that had been a source of pride, was gone, replaced by gauntness and an unmistakable fragility. That perception, the shift in how others saw me, only amplified the self- loathing. I felt like I was losing every- thing — not just my physical self, but my connections. I almost lost a lot of my closest friendships, because I was so consumed, so detached. And honestly, I almost lost it with family as well. During that time, I couldn't enjoy any- thing. Parties, gatherings, simple jokes, even times that were supposed to be celebrations — they all felt like a chore. The joy was sucked out of life. I became angry, short-tempered and perpetually tired. I found myself snapping at people, lashing out, not caring about others be- cause I was so lost in my own suffering. I hurt people I loved. My mother-in- law, who had always been so kind and supportive, bore the brunt of some of my misplaced anger. My sister-in-law, too, felt the sting of my bitterness. And my wife, the one who deserved endless patience and love, often received my frustration and despair. I scared my parents with how little I resembled their son. There were times I would just cry by myself, huddled in the dark, overwhelmed by the mess I had made of myself and the pain I had in- flicted on those who cared most. It was a dark, isolating hell, and the ripple ef- fects of that period still echo in my life. THE LASTING TOLL Beyond the internal battles and the mental shifts, there's the undeniable, constant reality of the physical toll that football demanded. The aches and pains from college weren't fleeting; they were precursors to a lifetime of maintenance. My body, once a finely tuned machine built for collision, now carries the indel- ible marks of countless battles. I have the battle scars to prove it: multiple surgeries, a torn pec from a particularly brutal hit, a broken wedding ring finger that still sometimes aches in the cold. And always, the quiet, lingering fear of head injuries, the long-term unknowns that hang over so many of us who played the game. The most recent, and arguably the hardest, physical challenge came last August when I got my knee replaced. It was noth- ing short of miserable. After years of grinding, that joint fi- nally gave out, a culmination of all the stress and impact. The recovery was brutal — a level of physical pain and helplessness I hadn't experi- enced since perhaps my worst days of the eating disorder. Moving felt impossible, and daily tasks became monu- mental efforts. Thank God for my incredible nurses, who also happen to be my mom and my wife. Their endless patience, their willingness to help with every mundane, painful step, was everything. Living for a couple of weeks on an ex-teammate's couch in South Bend, away from my own comfort, while trying to navigate that level of recovery, was pure hell. The irony wasn't lost on me — I was back in the shadow of Notre Dame, but in the most vulnerable, unathletic state imaginable. Even through that haze of pain and medication, the drive, in a twisted way, was still there. I actually logged in and worked the day after getting my knee replaced. It sounds insane, probably was, but there was this stubborn refusal to fully succumb, to completely stop moving forward. That, too, I owe everything to my wife, Nina. She was my constant through that hard physical process, cheering me on, pushing me when I needed it, and sim- ply being there when I felt utterly de- feated. She saw me at my weakest, and her unwavering support was the fuel for every agonizing physical therapy ses- sion, every slow, painful step. The process of rebuilding has been agonizingly slow. For months, just walking without a limp felt like an im- possible dream. But recently, the light at the end of the tunnel has become a real- ity. I just started to jog again, a simple act that felt like a monumental triumph. And incredibly, I just finished walking a marathon. It's a testament to how far I've come, a quiet victory in a life that once celebrated only the loudest ones. This challenge, this ongoing physi- After his football career ended, Ruhland went from weighing 305 pounds to about 155 pounds in two years. With that weight loss, though, came an eating disorder that changed Ruhland and how he interacted with those around him. PHOTO COURTESY TREVOR RUHLAND