Trent Hearn: The Injuries That Followed Me Off the Court

TW: opiod addiction

While basketball was never something I was obsessed with, but it became a big part of my life in ways I didn’t fully understand while growing up. Looking back now, what started as a sport I played for fun became something that shaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand.

What people don’t understand about the injuries I sustained throughout my career is that they affected much more than just my body, and for much longer than they ever should have. The hardest part was never the physical pain or the time away from the game; it was what happened internally—the anxiety, the self-hate, the way my relationship with myself slowly changed. Basketball didn’t just affect my body; it changed how I saw myself, for better and for worse. I didn’t stop loving basketball; I stopped loving myself, and the way playing basketball became tied to that. Injury didn’t just take me off the court; it followed me everywhere, shaping how I thought, how I felt, and who I became, long after the physical damage was done. From the outside, it looked manageable: just injuries, just recovery, just sport. But what no one saw was how I viewed myself, how my body changed, how comments stuck with me, or how much I was struggling beneath something that, to everyone else, seemed small.

My injury history didn’t happen all at once; it built over time. It started at 14 with Osgood-Schlatter disease in my knee, which at the time felt manageable, just a growing and overuse injury that I would push through as most young athletes do. But from 16 onward, things changed.

That’s when the shoulder issues began. My first dislocation happened during a game, and from that point, it became a cycle that lasted for years. Across both shoulders, I experienced somewhere between 15 and 20 dislocations, each one making the joint more unstable than the last. What started as a single incident turned into repeated trauma, internal damage, and eventually multiple surgeries. I underwent stabilisation procedures on both shoulders, followed by two Latarjet surgeries on my left shoulder, with the second acting as a clean-up of the first. Each surgery came with months of recovery, and across those years, I spent long periods sidelined, constantly working to get back, only to find myself injured again. Alongside that, I also dealt with repeated ankle injuries, sprains, tears, and fractures, all tied back to underlying hypermobility.

What looked like separate injuries were part of a much bigger pattern, and over time, injury stopped being something that happened occasionally and became something that defined my experience in sport.

I still remember the first time it happened clearly. I went up for a rebound, and the ball was ripped backwards from behind me. There was a pop, and in that moment, I just knew something wasn’t right. My shoulder had come out. I remember the pain, but more than that, I remember the feeling that something had changed. I was young, and I cried because I didn’t understand what had just happened to my body.

Looking back now, that moment feels bigger than it did at the time. It wasn’t just an injury; it was the start of something that would follow me for years. And what makes it harder to think about is that it involved someone I was close with. In the moment and in the way I spoke about it after, I framed it in a way that made it seem like they were at fault, which wasn’t fair. That situation created distance in a friendship that meant a lot to me, and over time we went from being close to just people who knew each other. That’s something I still regret, because it wasn’t just the injury that came from that moment; it was the beginning of losing things I didn’t expect to lose.

After that first dislocation, surgery felt like the solution. At the time, it gave me hope. The mindset was simple: fix it, recover, and get back to playing as nothing had changed. And for a while, that’s what I believed would happen. I went through rehab, did what I was meant to do, and worked towards getting back on the court.

But when I returned, it didn’t take long for things to go wrong again. The shoulder dislocated again, and then again after that. What I thought was a one-off injury turned into a pattern. Recovery, return, re-injury, over and over. Over time, both shoulders became unstable, and the dislocations started to feel less like accidents and more like inevitabilities. I would spend months out, come back, and then find myself right back where I started, sometimes walking in with a sling again only a short time later. At first, it was frustrating and upsetting. I hated missing games, missing time with my teammates, and feeling like I was falling behind. But as it kept happening, that frustration slowly changed. It turned into anger, and eventually into something harder to recognise; I stopped reacting the way I used to. Instead of being shocked or emotional, I started expecting it. I started thinking, “this is just what happens.” And that was the point where it stopped feeling like I was dealing with injuries and started feeling like this was just how my experience of sport was going to be.

Over time, something started to change in the way I felt about playing. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t one clear moment where I made a decision. It was gradual, and almost hard to notice while it was happening. But slowly, I started to lose the emotional connection I had to playing. I didn’t stop liking basketball, and I didn’t stop enjoying parts of it, especially casually or in moments where there wasn’t much on the line. I still loved to win, I still understood the game, and I still cared about it in many ways. But something shifted in how it felt to actually play consistently. Being in seasons, being locked into training, and putting my body back into the same environment over and over started to bring up something different. It wasn’t excitement in the same way anymore. It started to feel heavier. There was anxiety there, but more than that, there was a kind of emotional detachment that I didn’t fully understand. My brain had started to link playing basketball with everything that had come after the injuries, the instability, the surgeries, the setbacks, and the feeling of losing control over my own body. What used to feel like something that gave me identity slowly became something that reminded me of everything I had gone through. And without really noticing when it happened, I started to care less in the moment when I was actually playing, even though I still cared deeply about the game itself.

After my first surgery and the ongoing uncertainty with my shoulders, I found myself trying to stay connected to basketball in a different way. I started refereeing first, mainly to be around the game and the people I grew up with. It wasn’t planned as a career path at the time; it was just a way to not completely step away from something that had been such a big part of my life. From there, I was introduced to coaching, and that slowly became the space where everything started to shift for me again. I have been coaching since I was 15, and over time it has become something I love. Coaching gave me basketball without the physical cost, but more importantly, it gave me a different kind of connection to the game. I wasn’t just trying to survive my own experience anymore; I was helping others navigate theirs. I started to understand the game in a new way, and I found meaning in being able to support young athletes through situations that I had either been through myself or deeply understood. It became the place where basketball felt safe again, not because the game had changed, but because my relationship to it had.

Even while coaching gave me a way back to basketball, my relationship with playing continued to deteriorate. Each time I tried to return to consistent playing, the same pattern would repeat. Something would flare up, something would feel unstable, or I would end up injured again. Over time, those experiences layered on top of each other, and every return started to feel less like a fresh start and more like a reminder of everything that had already happened. I still enjoyed moments of casual basketball, but the idea of committing to playing across a full season began to feel different. It wasn’t excitement anymore in the way it once was. It felt heavier. There was a growing sense of discomfort that I couldn’t fully explain at the time, especially around the idea of being locked into something long-term again. It wasn’t just about individual injuries anymore; it was about what the repetition had done to the way I experienced the game. Somewhere along the way, I realised I wasn’t just returning to basketball; I was returning to a version of myself that no longer felt the same, and that made playing consistently feel increasingly disconnected from who I had become.

One of the biggest turning points came after my later Latarjet procedure on my left shoulder. It was a major surgery, and it wasn’t just my shoulder that was affected in the recovery. Part of the procedure involved taking bone from my hip, which made the recovery far more physically limiting than anything I had experienced before. For a period of time after the surgery, I couldn’t walk properly, and even basic movement became something I had to slowly rebuild. I was essentially immobilised in a way that I hadn’t been before, and it forced me into a level of inactivity that I struggled to adjust to mentally. During this period, everything slowed down. I wasn’t training, I wasn’t playing, and I wasn’t moving the way I normally would. That’s when my body started to change in a way I noticed. My weight began to increase during that recovery phase, not suddenly, but gradually, as my activity dropped and my routines shifted. At the time, I didn’t fully process what that meant beyond the physical inconvenience of recovery, but looking back, that period marked the beginning of a much deeper shift in how I saw my body and myself. It wasn’t just another injury anymore; it was a stage of life where my physical identity was changing in front of me while I was still trying to recover from everything else that had already happened. At this point, I was also getting to the back end of puberty, so my metabolism was starting to slow down, which didn’t help either.

One of the most defining moments of my life happened during my recovery from shoulder surgery, when I was at one of my most physically vulnerable points. I was on crutches, in a sling, unable to move properly, and still in pain. During that time, someone in my life during recovery, someone I was very close to, cornered me in a moment that I was completely unprepared for. I was physically exposed, emotionally exhausted, and already in a state where I had very little sense of control over my own body. In that moment, I was yelled at, humiliated, and physically mocked about my body and how it had changed, how I had gained weight. I was slapped. I remember feeling completely powerless, like I could not leave or defend myself, and in that moment something in me broke in a way I didn’t understand at the time. I have never felt so vulnerable or so small in my life.

I didn’t process it properly when it happened, but looking back, and through speaking with my therapist, I’ve come to understand that this moment was the origin of my anxiety disorder. It wasn’t just an emotional experience; it became a turning point in how I related to my own body and my own sense of safety. After that, I didn’t feel safe in my own body in the same way again. It became another layer in everything I was already going through with injury, identity, and recovery, and it added a psychological weight that I didn’t have the language for at the time. Even now, it is still one of the hardest moments for me to think about, and it sits at the centre of how my anxiety developed during that period of my life.

As my injuries continued and my activity levels dropped for long periods of time, my body also changed significantly. Between around 16 and 22, I went from roughly 80–85 kilos to about 105 kilos. At the time, I didn’t fully process what that change meant beyond the surface level of recovery, inactivity, and life circumstances shifting around sport. But looking back at photos over time became something that affected me deeply. It wasn’t just seeing a different version of myself physically; it was the emotional response that came with it. There were moments where I felt genuine disgust toward myself, and that’s something that has taken a long time to unpack and slowly start to change.

During that period, I also developed unhealthy coping patterns around food. There were phases of binge eating, alongside depressive episodes where I would also deny or minimise that anything was wrong with my eating habits. It wasn’t something I openly understood or acknowledged at the time, and it existed alongside everything else I was dealing with rather than separate from it.

On top of that, there were external comments about my body that made it harder. Family members, especially those I didn’t see often, would make remarks that were framed as jokes. Even friends would occasionally comment in passing. Most of the time I would laugh it off, but internally it hurt. It was difficult because there were real reasons behind the weight changes, long-term injuries, inactivity, recovery, and everything that came with that period of my life, but that context wasn’t always visible or understood by others.

I still look at photos of myself, and despite being healthy and not overweight, I constantly think I've got no chin, or I judge the shadow under the jawline of the people around me in photos against mine. I find myself walking by buildings and looking at my side profile in disgust in the reflection of the windows. It’s not healthy, and it is something that I am still working on. Because I know that I am healthy, strong, and fit.

As everything continued to build, I went through periods where my mental health started to deteriorate. Looking back, there were clear signs of depression, long stretches of low mood, disconnection, lack of motivation, and a feeling that I was just moving through life without really feeling present in any of it. It wasn’t a sudden breakdown, but more a slow decline that developed alongside everything else that was happening physically and emotionally.

During this same broader period, my relationship with prescribed opioid medication also became something I struggled with. What started as legitimate post-surgery pain management as a younger kid gradually shifted over time into something I became reliant on. At first, it was about dealing with pain and trying to sleep, but eventually I noticed I was using it for more than that, and I wasn’t fully in control of how I was engaging with it. There were moments where I misused it and moments where I hid the extent of it, and in hindsight, those were signs that things were moving in a direction I didn’t fully recognize while I was in it. This was in my early adulthood, when it went downhill.

Eventually, it reached a point where I became extremely unwell, and it forced a level of honesty that I had been avoiding. Admitting what was happening to my parents was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It was confronting and uncomfortable, but it also became a turning point where I was no longer trying to manage everything on my own. From there, I was able to start getting proper support, not just for the physical side of recovery, but for what I was carrying mentally and emotionally as well.

I remember eventually telling my dad about it, and how much guilt he felt when he found out. He felt like he should have questioned things more or looked deeper into what was being prescribed and why, especially because I had been on these medications from a young age with very little resistance or questioning from the medical side. But I don’t blame him for any of it. He was doing what most parents would do in that situation, trusting doctors and trying to do the right thing. If anything, I feel bad that he carries any guilt about it at all.

One moment that still stands out to me happened in Year 10, not long after one of my shoulder surgeries, when I was still in a sling. I was in biology class and had taken Endone at some point during the day. I don’t fully remember how much or the exact timing, but I do remember not feeling right. My teacher noticed I wasn’t myself; I was drowsy, slurring, and not really present, and I was sent down to the office to see the school nurse. My dad was called to pick me up, and I remember sitting there and suddenly just breaking down in tears for no clear reason. It didn’t feel like I was reacting to one specific thing in that moment, but looking back, it feels like one of those points where everything I was dealing with was starting to surface in a way I didn’t understand at the time. Even now, I sometimes think that might have been one of those early warning moments where something probably should have changed.

The moment I really knew things had gone too far, and that I needed to tell someone, was one night after getting more medication prescribed for a reason that, in honesty, wasn’t really there anymore in the same way it had been earlier in my recovery. I remember taking too much that night, around 10 tablets, and sitting on my bed cross-legged, almost drifting in and out of sleep while still physically upright. It wasn’t a normal sleep. It felt like I was slipping in and out of consciousness, with extremely vivid dreams that I couldn’t properly hold onto or remember afterwards. At some point I woke up and was violently unwell, and that moment made everything feel very real in a way it hadn’t before. There was no more rationalising it or pushing it aside. It was just a clear point where I knew enough was enough.

That experience became the point where I could no longer pretend things were under control. It wasn’t dramatic in the way people might expect, but it was confronting enough that I finally had to be honest about what was happening. It was the first time I fully understood that the way I was using medication had moved beyond recovery and pain management, and into something that needed to change.

I could have died that night, and no one would have known what I was struggling with, or that I was struggling at all.

Today, I am in a much better place than I was during the worst parts of my injuries and mental health struggles. I’ve had access to help, I’ve spoken about things I never thought I would speak about, and I’ve started to understand myself in ways I didn’t before. I’m also studying and working within exercise science and rehabilitation, which has given me a deeper understanding of the body, injury, recovery, and the systems that sit behind all of it. In many ways, my experiences with sport and injury are what led me into that space in the first place, and I am genuinely grateful for that direction in my life.

But there is still one major flaw in how I operate, and it shows up clearly when it comes to injury. Even now, I still get injured often, but my relationship with recovery is not where it should be. I have developed a mindset over time that injuries are just going to happen again and again, and that there is little point in trying to fully protect or manage them in the way I know I should. Instead, I tend to push through or return too quickly, almost accepting pain and re-injury as a normal part of how I move through sport and life, even when I know logically that this is not the healthiest way to approach it.

Recently, I tried AFL here in San Francisco. I told my dad about it, expecting him to be happy for me, especially because he was heavily involved in football and I never really played it growing up. Instead, he told me he thought it was a bad idea and that I shouldn’t do it. I understand where that comes from. It comes from care, and from not wanting to see me get hurt again. But I reacted emotionally. I turned it into an argument and told him it wasn’t fair for him to think like that, because to me it felt like I was being told I shouldn’t play sport at all. And that doesn’t feel fair either.

The truth is, I have accepted that I will get hurt again. I don’t fear it in the same way I once did. I’m okay with pain, and I’m okay with injury in a way that comes from everything I’ve been through. But I also know that this mindset isn’t always a healthy one, because when I do get injured, I often don’t manage it properly. I tend to push straight back into things, or ignore the recovery process, and that has led to cycles repeating themselves. I know that. I understand that. And I am working on it, even if I am still not fully where I want to be with it yet.

I remember in Bali, only about three months ago, rolling my ankle badly multiple times over a short period. It wasn’t just once; it kept happening, nearly ten times in total. I was limping, swollen, in pain, but I just kept pushing through it anyway. I told myself it was fine, that I could handle it, that it wasn’t worth stopping for. But I remember the last time it happened, we were walking home, and I rolled it again, three or four times in the same walk. That was the moment I snapped. Not outwardly at anyone else, but internally at myself. I was frustrated, angry, almost disappointed in my own body. Looking back, I can see the pattern clearly now. If I had actually taken the time to properly recover after the first roll, I probably wouldn’t have ended up in that position. But instead, because of how unstable things are and how often injuries have happened in my past, I pushed through it, and it just kept repeating. In that moment, I went into my shell and carried that frustration with me.

The other thing I’ve realized about myself is how much I avoid talking about any of this. Most of what I’ve written here, I haven’t really shared with many people at all. Not many people actually know the full story behind everything; they just see someone who keeps getting injured again and again, without understanding the pattern or the psychological impact behind it. I remember recently speaking to my mum on the phone after another injury, and when she tried to ask me about it, I told her, “Mum, I really don’t want to talk about it.” And it was the first time I actually said out loud that the reason I avoid these conversations is because of everything they bring up for me mentally. It makes me think about surgeries again, about getting hurt again, about my body changing, about people judging me, about the weight changes, about the drug period, about everything I would rather not sit with. It makes me feel small, anxious, and overwhelmed, and honestly, it becomes a flood of things I don’t always feel ready to process. So instead, I avoid it, even though I know that avoidance is part of the problem too.

I am getting a lot better now. I don’t care for playing basketball the way I once did, and while there is still a negative association there, I’ve reached a point where I’m okay with that. I don’t feel the need to force myself back into something just because it used to be a big part of my identity. That love for playing isn’t really there in the same way anymore, and I’ve come to accept that as part of my story rather than something I need to fix.

At the same time, my life has moved forward in ways that feel meaningful to me. I’m studying overseas in my master’s degree, working towards a career in exercise science and rehabilitation that I genuinely care about. I’m also actively working on myself physically and mentally every day, and I am happy with the progress I’m making. I’ve been building better habits around training, recovery, eating, and mental health, and I now have strategies in place to manage things like panic attacks when they come up. I often wonder where I would be if none of this had happened. I think about what I would prefer. Because on one hand, my closest friends and amazing people are from basketball, and I wouldn’t have met them had I not gotten injured, more than likely. My passion for coaching is from basketball; my study and future career are likely associated with my experiences. I have met so many amazing people and done so many amazing things because of these injuries, but obviously it has its downfalls. I don’t know what I would prefer, but I don’t think having an answer would be healthy. Just live.

There are a lot of people I’m grateful for who supported me through different parts of this journey, and there are also people and moments I still reflect on with disappointment. Some things were said and done that had a real impact on me, and while I’ve had thoughts about wanting to name or call those things out in this, I’ve also learned that my focus needs to be on continuing to move forward rather than staying in those places.

There is a lot I am sure I missed, a lot of side parts to the stories, a lot of deeper stuff that I am yet to find comfort sharing, but that is ok too. I am getting better, and I will continue to get better.

What I hope comes from sharing this isn’t anything about me. It’s not about telling my story for the sake of it, and it’s not about sympathy or attention. It’s about something much broader.

If there is anything to take from this, it is a reminder for coaches, parents, teachers, teammates, friends, and mentors that what you see on the surface is never the full story. Someone can be performing, showing up, laughing, competing, and still be carrying something much heavier underneath that is not visible in the moment. The impact of words, actions, expectations, and even small comments can be far greater than people realise, especially for young athletes who are still forming their identity around sport, performance, and belonging.

You never really know what someone is dealing with behind the scenes. So, the responsibility is to be more aware, more empathetic, and more intentional with how you treat people. To ask the question “are you okay?” and actually mean it. To think about how something might land for someone else before saying it. Because in my experience, the effects of those moments can last far longer than the moment itself.

That’s really all I hope comes from this. Not a focus on me, but a wider understanding that everyone is carrying something you can’t always see.

I live on the other side of the world from my parents, and I just read them this, and most of it was the first they had heard of it. They asked if I am ok, and asked if I need them to come over. They said they are sorry. They said it was difficult to hear. They said they love me and are proud of me for going through it alone. But the most impactful thing they told me was that they wish I told them. And me, a 23-year-old man, broke down in tears when I heard that, and I responded: "Me too." So, share your story before it becomes something that haunts you for longer than it needs to. Find someone willing to support you; find someone you feel comfortable being vulnerable around. Because it makes it a lot easier and saves you writing an essay on your feelings 10 years later. Am I still going through it? Yes. Is that ok? Yes, because now I am heard and not alone.

The strength you show to be able to put on a brave, happy face while all this is going on is so painful, but it makes you so brave; the strength to admit it you need some support is what makes you so much braver. Reach out.