Brady Kramer: From the Rink to Recovery

I was raised in Philadelphia, always holding a hockey stick and with one dream in mind—to net the winning goal in a Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Like so many kids raised around ice rinks and backyard games, I imagined the spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and the moment that would define my life. That dream lit a fire in me. It pushed me through early mornings, late practices, injuries, and setbacks.

It carried me to a Division I hockey career at Providence College, where I had the privilege of serving as team captain. In 1993, I proudly wore the red, white, and blue representing Team USA at the World Junior Championships—a moment I’ll never forget. I had been drafted by the Montreal Canadiens back in 1991, and in 1995, I signed a three-year contract with the organization. It felt like the payoff for a lifetime of hard work, sacrifice, and relentless focus. I had made it—at least on paper. 

Or so I thought.

What most people did not see was the invisible battle I was fighting behind the scenes—anxiety, depression, and the long-term effects of multiple traumatic injuries. By age five, I had suffered my first concussion. Over the years, I’d endure five to six more, along with broken jaws, collarbones, and fingers. But no physical injury compared to what I was carrying mentally.

During my first professional game, I got into a fight on the ice that triggered a panic attack and a downward spiral. I returned to training camp and played two rookie games. But just weeks into what was supposed to be the start of my NHL career, I made a decision that shocked many: I walked away. My mental health couldn’t keep up with the pace of the dream I’d chased since childhood.

What followed was a long and winding road—one that eventually led to healing, purpose, and a very different kind of victory.

In 2011, I got sober. That moment didn’t just mark the end of a destructive chapter—it marked the beginning of transformation. I began rebuilding—not just my life, but my sense of worth, identity, and direction.

I became an educator, and in time, a mental health advocate. I started speaking honestly about the things we’re often taught to hide—depression, anxiety, trauma, and recovery. I learned that my story wasn’t a weakness—it was a bridge. I found purpose in helping others navigate their own struggles, many of them invisible to the outside world. Students, athletes, adults—so many people were facing quiet battles just like I had.

But recovery, I’ve learned, isn’t necessarily straightforward.

Even years into sobriety, I faced a new kind of challenge: gambling addiction. It snuck in quietly, masked as harmless. But soon, it became clear—it was another escape, another way to avoid discomfort, fear, and unresolved pain. Addiction is tricky like that. It's like playing whack-a-mole—when you knock one down, another often pops up if you’re not staying aware.

In June, I’ll celebrate one year bet-free, and in August,  I will be sober for 14 years. These milestones mean more to me than any stat, any goal, or any contract ever did.

Because this time, the win isn’t about performance—it’s about honesty, integrity, and growth.

Today, I use everything I’ve lived through to support others. I teach, I speak, I listen. Whether it’s helping a student believe in themselves or encouraging an adult to take the first step toward healing, I see each moment as a chance to give back. My story is no longer about what I walked away from—it's about what I walked toward.

I didn’t score that Stanley Cup-winning goal. But I found something better.

I found the ability to make a real difference in the lives of others.

And that, I’ve come to believe, is the greatest victory of all.