Julian Bell: Let’s Not Wait Until Another Person Dies

My name is Julian Bell, and I am a medically retired student-athlete at Clemson University. I played lacrosse from first grade through my sophomore year of college, until I medically retired due to chronic stress reactions and chronic shin splints in both legs. I tried every treatment imaginable, but nothing worked. Eventually, we resorted to surgery: 8-inch plates and 6 screws in each shin during my freshman year of college. When my recovery did not go as planned, my medical team recommended a medical disqualification. This injury began in seventh grade and has impacted not just my lacrosse career and physical abilities, but my mental health even more.

Living with a chronic injury feels like a form of torture. No matter what you do, nothing truly eases the pain. It feels like knives are stuck in my legs, and even the smallest movement sends a sharp, aching, throbbing pain up and down them. I think of it like hitting your funny bone: it hurts, but you know the pain will go away in less than a minute. My pain never goes away. I felt — and sometimes still feel — hopeless about the future of my body and whether I will be in pain forever. That is a lot to process as a 12-year-old who just wanted to play the sport she loved. As athletes, we are held to a high standard and expected to always have a positive attitude, but there comes a point when you cannot expect a child to endure excruciating pain 24/7 without it affecting their mental health.

All I wanted to do was play, and I was heartbroken watching my teammates do what I wanted so badly to do. For as long as I can remember, my vision of lacrosse was me sitting on the sideline, throbbing in pain, tears streaming down my face, while I watched my friends do something I would have given anything to do. I felt like I was fighting a battle I could never fully win and grieving the player I knew I could have been. This battle became even harder during my sophomore year, as my physical struggle continued and my mental struggle intensified.

I remember the meeting with my athletic trainer, who had been with me through everything — the tears, the hard conversations, the difficult rehab sessions, and everything in between — when she mentioned medically retiring. I have never felt so angry and hopeless. I never imagined a world without lacrosse, especially not at 19 years old. My progress was inconsistent; one day, I would seem to improve, and the next, I would be bedridden for two weeks, unable to go to class, climb stairs, or sleep without excruciating pain. By that point, I had been warming up with the team and participating at only 50% in stickwork drills. Even warm-ups were a daily battle. After that conversation, I stopped suiting up for practice completely, which raised many questions from my teammates. I remember one teammate asking if everything was okay, and I choked up and could not even answer her. Within the next few weeks, my trainer told the team that I was medically retiring, which was one of the most devastating experiences.

I thought retiring before winter break would make things easier—tell the team, then step away for a month. It helped at first, but coming back made it worse. Not seeing them turned into watching them play every day, and that was unbearable. I would go to practices and games, and I had to leave because I couldn’t keep myself together. I felt like I did not deserve to be there in such an amazing space built for athletes. I felt guilty for still having access to everything Clemson athletes get, and if you know, you know — we are spoiled beyond belief.

From January to February, things spiraled downhill. Between my pain and the feeling that a part of me had been ripped away, my entire demeanor changed. All of my brain’s focus seemed to go straight to how much pain I was in, and I couldn’t ignore it because it affected everything. I would sit in class unable to comprehend anything because I was on the verge of tears from the pain. I became more reactive and frustrated with everything, even getting up and leaving class after being asked a question. I stopped caring about consequences and felt so angry that no one understood how much pain I was in, physically or mentally. I felt like I was watching my life from above, as if it was not even me living it.

From the start of my freshman year, I had been seeing a sports psychologist at Clemson. She helped me through so much regarding my injury, PTSD, and many other issues, and she is truly the reason I am still here. I met with her once a week and finally opened up about how I was feeling. I described all of my thoughts and feelings while hysterical. What I did not fully realize was that I was describing suicidal ideation. This is important for athletes to note, because many never think they would experience something like that, or they may be in denial that it is happening. I know I struggled with that reality. By the middle to end of February, I felt more and more removed from my body, almost as if my mind was trying to cope with the physical pain by completely dissociating from it. I felt like a ghost with no coherent thoughts.

On February 24, 2024, I texted my sports psychologist that I was really ready to be done. I was so tired of living like this, and the pain I was feeling physically and mentally was consuming me. She asked me to talk with her the next day, on Sunday, February 25. I remember feeling so groggy, almost intoxicated, most days, but especially that day. I was completely tapped out. My sports psychologist and I talked through everything, and I cannot even tell you exactly what we discussed. I was so removed from life and so incredibly hopeless. The next thing I knew, I was in the car with my sports psychologist and my trainer, heading to the hospital for an evaluation. When I got there, I remember being terrified and being asked so many questions about how I was feeling and what I was thinking. I ended up passing out numerous times due to stress and PTSD symptoms. From there, I was transported to a psychiatric hospital. My team had no idea where I was, and my trainer and sports psychologist were bound by HIPAA to keep my location and situation confidential.

After my time at the psychiatric hospital, I returned heavily medicated on PTSD, depression, and anxiety medications. I still felt like a ghost, as if I were watching my life from an aerial view. Because of that, I dropped most of my classes and met with academic support staff to help me finish the semester. I’m incredibly grateful for their support; when I couldn’t think straight, they helped me organize my thoughts and made school feel manageable again.

I have spent the past two years trying to build a life outside of sports and manage my pain when no treatment brings relief. I have been grieving the player, the person, and the college experience I thought I would have. Most people have four years to prepare for the end of their sport, but I had no time to prepare, and that was one of the hardest things to accept. I still go to practices and games because I love watching my team play, but I watch with a pit in my stomach and tears held back.

Two years later, I am still trying to be the most positive, encouraging person on the field, but you can only do that for so long. I still have days when I cannot stay through a game, whether because of physical pain or mental pain. Some people may feel relieved to end their sport early because they can finally rest, which is true in some ways for me, too, but my heartbreak overwhelms that feeling.

I share this because I know that letting people into your experiences matters. For so long, I wanted to bottle everything up and fake it until I made it so I could keep playing. Doctors said I was “one in a million,” and that rarity made me feel like no one could ever relate. In reality, people do not need to have the same story to learn from it. What people connect with is the vulnerability — the truth, raw experiences, and emotions behind the story. I know that if I had read about a college athlete going through something like this when I was in middle school, it would have widened my perspective and maybe helped me feel less alone. I truly felt insane going through all of this, especially because I have always been such a hard-headed person, like most athletes are.

In high school, the thought of playing in college and signing to compete at a university feels euphoric. Everyone tells you that college is the best four years of your life, and as an athlete, you get the unique opportunity to represent a school and share your talent at a high level. There is so much to be proud of in being a college athlete. I thought I was signing up for those “best four years” of my life, but in reality, these past four years have been some of the hardest years of my life.

I know I am not the only person whose college experience turned out very differently from what they expected. Sharing these stories matters so that people who feel consumed by adversity — whether injury or something else — can find community. Although injured athletes, especially medically retired athletes, are a niche community, we need to acknowledge their strength and resilience. I think injured athletes are some of the hardest-working people—they’re not just fighting to return to daily life, but to compete at an elite level while balancing school, jobs, and everything else that comes with being a college student. I titled this story, “Let’s Not Wait Until Another Person Dies,” to say: let’s not wait until another athlete takes their life to acknowledge them. Let’s not wait until we have to send athletes to psychiatric hospitals to recognize their pain and hardship. Let’s not dismiss mental health concerns until someone reaches a breaking point and is forced to ask for help. Let’s not wait until another person dies to advocate for mental health in athletics.