Category Archives: Wellness & Mental Health

The Stigma Around Mental Health in Athletes

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Sage Joyce ’27

“Pressure is a privilege” (Virgil Van Dijk). Student athletes are often expected to be strong, both physically and mentally. While time management, working well under pressure, and teamwork are all great qualities student-athletes build over time, what is not talked about is the overwhelming struggle to balance their school, sports, and home life. The stigma surrounding mental health in athletes is caused by the idea that all athletes have this type of “mental toughness”, where they are “weak” and “powerless” if they seek help for their problems. While this is not true at all, people still perceive that this is the case when it comes to mental health surrounding your sport. The unique challenges that athletes face can lead to poor mental health when not taken care of right away, whether it’s burnout, injuries, or needing to be the best, every game and every practice. 

Injuries can have a major impact on an athlete not only physically, but also mentally. Many athletes define themselves through their sports, so getting that taken away from you can lead to feeling frustration, anxiety, and eventually lead to depression. Depending on the injury, the recovery process can be uncertain and take a very long time, leading athletes to have to quit the thing that has brought them the most joy since they were kids. Without support, injuries can make athletes feel isolated and disconnected from the world around them, and in Morgan Rodgers case, it can lead to death by suicide. 

Morgan played lacrosse at Duke University. During her freshman year, she suffered a knee injury that required surgery and a long recovery. While she worked to return to her sport, she began dealing with intense emotional struggles, including feeling of being isolated from her team and losing part of her identity as an athlete. Even though she appeared strong on the outside, Morgan was battling internally. In 2019, she died by suicide, which deeply impacted her family, teammates, and the lacrosse community.

After her death, her family started Morgan’s Message to raise awareness about mental health in student athletes and to break the stigma that prevents many from asking for help. Morgan’s Message is a charitable organization that strives to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health within the student-athlete community and equalize the treatment of physical and mental health in athletics. In the Morgan’s Message community, we aim to expand the dialogue on mental health by normalizing conversations, empowering those who suffer in silence, and supporting those who feel alone. 

Going into the 2025/2026 school year, I was dedicated to bringing Morgan’s Message to the Hebron Academy campus. I had been in Morgan’s Message clubs in my previous schools, and, since our school is made up of student athletes, I thought it would be a great opportunity. In Morgan’s Message, we learn how to recognize signs of mental health struggles in ourselves and others, and how to respond in a supportive, respectful way. It also focuses a lot on open conversation, so club members can gain confidence in talking about topics that people usually avoid. This helps show the importance of support systems and how teammates, friends, and coaches can make a big difference on one’s mental health. Lastly, we develop leadership and advocacy skills by organizing events (hopefully dedication games to come!), spreading awareness, and creating a more positive Lumberjack culture. Overall, it teaches athletes that they are more than just athletes.

Between The Laces

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Addie Lydon ’26

For years, I outgrew pair after pair of skates. Their leather became thin and broken-in, and the laces embedded into the boots. They were never new or shiny, but each pair was mine and had been through a lot with me.

I didn’t just learn to skate in them; I was raised in them. My schedule, my friendships, even my family dynamic revolved around hockey. Weeknights were for practice. Weekends were for games. Holidays were for traveling. Our car always smelled faintly of damp gear, and our family arguments often started or ended in a rink parking lot. It was a rhythm I knew by heart.

And then it ended.

Abruptly, I woke up with my coach over me.
“Addie, are you okay?”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I did know those lights were giving me a headache. As I got off the ice, the athletic trainer looked at me with disappointment. I knew this was my last time on the ice. I knew I was about to go into weeks of dizziness, nausea, and an aversion to light. What I also knew was that this was going to be my fourth and final concussion.

I had to untie those laces and rip off the skates as quickly as they went on. I would never wear those skates—or any skates—again. I would never feel the crease under my blades, never shuffle or t-push across the ice.

Without my skates on, I couldn’t help but feel like I was wearing my shoes untied. No direction. No identity. Just… lost.

And that loss didn’t stay on the ice. It followed me everywhere.
The routine that had once structured my life was gone, and without it, everything felt unsteady. I struggled to find motivation, to feel like myself, to understand who I was without the one thing that had always defined me. What I had lost wasn’t just a sport, it was my outlet, my stability, and a huge part of my identity.

There were moments when it felt like I was stuck there, in that in-between, no longer the person I had been, but not yet someone new.

I hit a low point. I kept trying to fill the space hockey had left by overloading my schedule, hoping staying busy would make things feel normal again. But instead, I would burn out, lose motivation, and feel even more stuck. I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling or how to handle it. It wasn’t until I went home to recover from the concussion and had a real, honest conversation with my dad that I realized I wasn’t “ok” and something needed to change. That moment made it clear that I couldn’t keep going the way I had been, not just for myself, but for the people who cared about me: my parents, my siblings, Mrs Nadeau and everyone that was silently supporting me. 

So slowly, things began to shift.

I began to realize that those worn-out skates didn’t define me, and neither did the sport. I started helping the school’s social media. Designing posts, telling stories, and finding ways to make people feel connected gave me the same kind of spark hockey once had. I found new laces. I realized I wasn’t losing a team, I was just becoming part of a different one. I joined a club, Girl Up, that I now lead. I found my love for leading in my community as being elected Vice President. I had never seen myself becoming involved in leadership roles, but now they are my passion. I learned to retie those laces.

I also began noticing relationships I had once overlooked. My advisor became more than just someone who asked me how my day was; she became a mentor I went to about everything in my life. She helped me through the moments when things still felt heavy, when I wasn’t sure I was fully okay yet. She helped me tighten my new laces. My boss, who held me accountable but also reminded me to enjoy the workspace, showed me that leadership doesn’t always mean being the loudest voice, but often the most dependable one. She helped me start to loop those laces. Those relationships helped me realize I wasn’t as alone as I thought—I just had to look up from the ice to see them.

And while hockey wasn’t a part of my daily routine anymore, the lessons it taught me stayed. The dedication I brought to every practice carried over into new passions, and the teamwork I learned helped me support people in new ways. I made my first knot in those laces. 

There was so much more to my life—things I had been missing—because I was hyperfocused on lacing up those skates. I finally was able to tie the new laces I had found.

Letting go of hockey wasn’t easy. It was messy, and at times, it felt like I was losing more than I could handle. But in doing so, I made space for something even more important: growth. I didn’t lose myself; I fought to find myself again. I uncovered parts of me that had been waiting all along.