WHERE GRIT MEETS GROWTH

WHERE GRIT MEETS GROWTH
'Finding Strength in Stillness, Struggle & Self-Discovery'
Exclusive Interview with Aaron Taylor
Conducted by Allié McGuire

​​Aaron Taylor is a College Football Hall of Famer, Super Bowl champion, and one of the most respected voices in the game. A two-time All-American at Notre Dame and Lombardi Award winner, he went on to play in the NFL before injuries ended his career early. But Aaron’s most powerful work began off the field—becoming an advocate for mental health and redefining what strength looks like beyond the helmet and pads.

ALLIÉ: Let’s start here—with me admitting the truth: I’ve never won a Super Bowl. Most people haven’t. You, my friend, have. So, take me back to that moment. What did it actually feel like to reach the peak of what so many people dream about?

AARON: That’s a great question. The simple answer? It felt weird. Surreal. Unlike anything I had ever experienced. I started playing sports when I was six or seven—officially, anyway. I’d been playing in the backyard since I was probably two. But I had never won a championship at that level. I’d won high school championships. We’d finished as high as number two in college. But every kid who plays football has that dream—posters on the wall, daydreams in bed—about making the block, catch, tackle, or throw that wins the big game.

​For me, at 28, that moment came in the 1996 season—technically January 1997—against the New England Patriots. We had a two-touchdown lead late in the game and were in our “four-minute offense,” trying to run out the clock. I remember Brett Favre taking the snap, dropping to one knee, and with less than 30 seconds left, we knew for certain we had won. Confetti started to fall, and it was like a surreal slow-motion montage of everything I’d worked for: every offseason workout, every winter conditioning session, summer training, four or five knee surgeries—all of it.

It felt like standing on top of Mount Everest. That was it. We did it. No next week. No “one step closer.” Just… done. NFL Films even caught me pirouetting through the confetti because I instantly became a little kid again. Ironically, much of my professional career hadn’t been joyful—it was work, pain, and stress. I’d lost the intrinsic joy I’d had as a kid. But for those brief 30 to 45 seconds, all of that melted away. I was that eight-year-old boy again, living the manifestation of his childhood dream.

ALLIÉ: Thank you for sharing that. I felt every detail right along with you. I imagine that after a moment like that, there must have been a strange kind of silence—when the noise fades, when the cameras stop flashing. They say when you’re on top, there’s only one way to go. So when you think back to after the win, Aaron, what was a moment when things began to slide? Because we can’t stay in that euphoric space forever.

AARON: It’s interesting—the greatest silence I felt after the Super Bowl was the silence of my girlfriend, watching me receive the phone number of another woman right in front of her because I was so intoxicated. I can say that now with a smile—and even a little joy—only because I was a glorious, beautiful train wreck. It certainly wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but it represented just how far away from myself I had drifted.

The NFL doesn’t require you to live that way, but it certainly invites it. I wasn’t disciplined or strong enough to resist those temptations. Thankfully, I didn’t cross even more lines or take it further than it already had gone. But that moment was emblematic of what would eventually become my fall from grace—when I shut it all down completely.

When you retire from the NFL—or from anything where you’re part of an elite unit—there aren’t many people on the planet who know what you know or can do what you do. You have this rare skill set, you’re compensated extremely well, and you love what you do. When all of that goes poof in an instant, you’re left in a vacuum you’ve never experienced before. For the first time in my life, I felt insecure, unsure of what was next.

The football world is highly cadenced—nothing is planned further than three months out, maybe six at most. Suddenly, I had no idea what was coming. At 28, being “all grown up” felt harrowing. So, I did what many respectable, “successful” people do—I started drinking a lot of Wild Turkey, five or six nights a week, trying to fill the void.

I was hugely depressed. I had no sense of purpose, no identity. My income stream was gone. I’d lost my community—the locker room. And without that, I didn’t feel I had a reason to get out of bed. I floundered. I tried to recreate what I’d lost in all kinds of ways, but here’s the truth: when we go from Point A to Point B in life, transition requires transformation. We have to become something different than we were before. And that isn’t always fun, and it’s not always easy.

For me, the turning point came when I hit my own version of rock bottom—failed relationship number 277. That was my opportunity to go inward, to rip my chest open, to really examine what was driving my poor decision-making. That process slowly helped me start making my way back to the path I’m on now—or at least closer to it. It was the last thing I would have ever asked for, but it turned out to be the first thing that truly worked in getting me back to myself.

​ALLIÉ: Wow. What a journey. And to your point, to be this in one instant—and then, in the very next, not at all—that’s a hard reconciliation. Your identity, your purpose—or the sudden lack thereof—had been something you’d never had to go looking for before. It was always there. You’d had a career most people would define as the pinnacle of success. But sometimes, the moments that define us don’t look like success at all. They look messy and scattered. They’re quieter, far more complicated. Could you talk for a moment, Aaron, about one of those moments—one of those invisible lows—you rose from?

AARON: Man, there are so many. But the easiest one that comes to mind is the moment I decided to give up drugs and alcohol. Looking back, I didn’t drink or use because of the way it made me feel—though that’s what I thought at the time. I drank and used because of the way it prevented me from feeling.

I come from a long line of alcoholics on my father’s side. Addiction runs in my family. We like what we like, and there’s no middle ground—no gray area. It’s all or nothing. In recovery, they say, “One is too many, and a thousand is never enough.” That was certainly true for me—not just with drugs and alcohol, but with food, bread, sugar, Netflix… anything. I like what I like.

I’d mentioned that failed relationship. In that mess, we tried the on-again-off-again thing, but it was more of an emotional hostage situation than a relationship—probably for both of us. She had cheated on me with her ex-fiancé, and I was the rebound guy. We were both in bad places. At one point, she said she thought she had a drinking problem, so I took her to a meeting at a church and dropped her off. The women there came out, hugged her, and took her in. I remember thinking, Yeah, good cover story.

About a week later, she called and said, “Hey, just wanted to thank you for taking me to the meeting. I’m an alcoholic, and I’m going to try recovery. I’m doing this for me. And… I’ll be honest—this will probably be the last time we speak. But there’s one more thing I want you to know.”

I said, “Yeah? What’s that?”

She said, “You and I drink and use the same.”

Allié, the deafening silence that followed those words changed the course of my life forever. I heard her. And in that instant, every piece of my life—the doubts, the questions, the masks, the charade, the pretending, the desperate hope that no one would find me out, the imposter syndrome, the constant management of my image—just fell away. That sentence stuck with me. It rang in my ears.

The next day, I went to the gym and sat on a treadmill talking to a mutual friend. I told her about the conversation, and she said, “You know, my husband used to go to a recovery meeting up on the hill in our neighborhood. If you’re interested, I can give you his number.”

Now, my first thought was, Go talk to strangers? I just won a Super Bowl. I’m on TV right now. I’m an NFL guy—I’m not walking into a meeting full of people who live under park benches drinking out of paper bags. But for whatever reason, I said, “Okay.”

That was Monday. I called him Tuesday. He invited me to his garage—heaven, as it turned out. That garage became the place where I learned how to be human again. It’s where I dropped the facade, learned how to be Aaron again, and became a good teammate again—to myself, to my community, to my friends, to my employers. It’s where I let go of the lie, got honest, became willing, made amends, and started cleaning up the wreckage of my life. Some moments, some phone calls, matter more than others. Looking back, that one quiet moment didn’t look like much from the outside. But everything that came after it changed everything.

I’m grateful for all the pain I had to go through to earn the opportunity to walk into that garage. I’m grateful for those guys who laughed at me—but laughed with me—when I introduced myself by saying, “Yeah, my name’s Aaron, and I don’t think I have a drinking problem, but I’m here to explore it.” And they said, “Yeah, man, that’s new. Sit down.”
It was that kind of, Sit down, rook. We got this. We’re the vets in this room. You’ve got two ears and one mouth. Shut your mouth, and use your ears. And keep coming back.

And I did. I owe everything I have in my life today to that. I’ve got a life I wouldn’t trade anything for. If you gave me a magic wand and told me I could change my job, my house, where I live, my kids, my looks—anything—I wouldn’t change a thing. Because everything I have is a gift. It’s all a blessing. My wife and kids might not always say that’s true, but in my heart of hearts, that’s how I feel. That moment was a turning point I will never forget.

ALLIÉ: I think it’s really beautiful to say that such a degree of grace can be found in a garage. You know, Aaron, you and I have come from different worlds, and yet they’re the same in one regard: strength. Strength that was all about grit, about wins, about pushing through at all costs. Perhaps you’re like I am—the older I get, the more I’ve realized that kind of strength can’t carry you forever. So, my question for you now is this: what does strength look like for you today? Not the NFL version, but the kind that gets you through an ordinary Friday. What is strength to you now?

AARON: Give me a second… I’m gonna find this quote someone sent me because it’s so dang good and it sums up exactly what I’m about to say: “The problem is not that there are problems. The problem is expecting otherwise and thinking that having problems is a problem.” —Theodore Rubin.

The Buddhists like to say that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. And for me, the suffering in my life comes when I’m unwilling to accept things as they are—when I want them to be different. When I want my wife to act a certain way. When I expect my kids to follow every instruction perfectly. When the reds, the blues, the purples—whoever it is in the world—don’t line up with my preferences, that’s when I’m the most anxious. That’s when I suffer.
When I’m able to let things go and let the world be what it is, I’m good.

Being a college football analyst for CBS Sports is a long season—it’s a grind. But I’m wired for that. I like it hot and intense, like a meteor—boom! But I also need a carrot at the end of the stick. For many years, that carrot was heading down to Baja. I love the area north of Cabo—it’s remote, quiet.

One morning, I was on the beach meditating. The sun was rising behind me over the Sierra Lagunas, painting the sky pink and orange. Out front, the ocean was alive—whales spouting so close it felt like you could walk across their backs. It was idyllic, serene.

And then—out of nowhere—I see this one guy walking along the beach with about ten dogs. Turns out he rescues them, which is a big deal in Baja where spaying and neutering aren’t common. But these dogs? They were unruly. Barking like crazy. And here I am, all Zen, and this dude is wrecking my serenity.

So I’m sitting there, watching him, thinking all kinds of thoughts… and I start getting tight. Irritated. Two or three minutes into this, I catch myself and think, Oh my God. This is what I do. I’m literally surrounded by beauty and peace, and I’m zooming in on this tiny speck of negativity. That realization hit me like a brick: I don’t see the world the way it is—I see it the way I am.

Both things were true in that moment—serenity, sunrise, whales, meditation… and a man rescuing dogs. But the world I chose to live in for those few minutes was the negative one—focused on the interruption instead of the blessing. I wasn’t present.

So now, whenever I get too full of myself—caught up in politics, what’s happening in the world, my neighbors, the this and the that—I try to remember that story. I ask myself, How can I shift my focus? What else is true right now?

When my wife wants something from me but doesn’t verbalize it—God bless her soul—and I’m feeling frustrated, I try to pause and remember all the things I love about her. And in that moment, those little pet peeves that come with a 16-year marriage just don’t carry the same weight they used to.

The truth is, we don’t see the world the way it is. We see it the way we are. That’s why it’s critical to be intentional about where we place our focus and attention—and therefore our time and effort. Because when we control where our focus, attention, time, and effort go, we give ourselves the power to change our fate.

ALLIÉ: I love that—and I love how you just said, What else is true about this moment? What else is true about my wife? What else is true here in the serenity on the beach? Because there were so many other things that were true—not just the dogs. That’s powerful. I feel like we’re already talking about some deep stuff, but I want to go even deeper.

ALLIÉ: Let’s talk about something like anger. And now, this is me as a woman saying this, but I feel like—society in general—a lot of men use anger as a socially acceptable mask for everything: sadness, fear, vulnerability. Has that ever been true for you?

AARON: Has it ever not been true for me? I think the truest part about that is the awakening to that dynamic. For me, when I’m afraid… when I’m scared… when I feel uncertainty… when I’m sad—I don’t like those feelings. They make me feel vulnerable. And I’ve been hurt in my life when I’ve felt vulnerable. You know when I don’t feel vulnerable? When I’m big. Mad. Angry. The big guy.

I think a lot of men either watch, learn, or just figure out that anger is a safety valve—a mechanism. I, like many people, absolutely default to anger. The first thing I actually feel might be fear or sadness, but the first thing I show is anger. Because when I’m angry, I feel strong and powerful. I’ve got the ax in my hands and I’m ready to swing. When I’m afraid, I feel weak—and who wants to feel that way?

It’s a process. Especially knowing how our brains work when we’re in a fear state—when cortisol or adrenaline kicks in and fight-or-flight takes over. Those chemicals take 15 to 20 minutes to process. And if we reinforce them with more negative thoughts, we can turn a molehill into a mountain in no time.

Take road rage, for example. Somebody cuts me off in traffic—this is what I do: I start playing it out in my head. What if I got out of the car at the next light and said this, and then he said that… And before I know it, I’m six miles down the road, having a full-blown argument in my head about something that’s never going to happen.

But here’s the truth: that driver cutting me off isn’t just about traffic. It’s about the times in my life when I’ve felt disrespected in ways that were much deeper and much darker. When I was sexually abused. When I was physically violated. When I was abandoned. I hated how that felt.

So, no—this guy in traffic isn’t putting his hands down my pants. But my brain, this giant association machine, recognizes that feeling and says, We know this feeling. We don’t like it. We need to protect you from it. That’s what being “triggered” is—something small that reminds us of a bigger danger our brain never forgot. It’s survival instinct. We don’t want the saber-toothed tiger jumping out of the bushes, so when we hear bushes rustling, we run. The trick is having a plan to respond to our triggers instead of just reacting to them.

I’m as guilty as anyone of using anger to mask my true emotions. And I’ll take it one step further, Allié—I’m the lovable big guy. I don’t want to come across like a jerk, so instead of being openly angry, I go passive-aggressive. I get sarcastic. I’ll slice you up with words and make it seem like I’m joking, but underneath there’s anger. For me, sarcasm is a warning sign. It’s been my default style of humor for years. I’m really working to correct that—to find more creative ways to be funny that don’t cut people down. Because for me, sarcasm has always been a double-edged sword. And truth be told, I’ve used it to cut a lot more than I’ve ever used it to bless.

ALLIÉ: I love that—just becoming so self-aware. For you, recognizing For me, sarcasm is this. For me, this is. And then creating from that set of knowings so we can take the appropriate action. I also love how you talked about the difference between responding and reacting. A reaction and a response are two very different things—one’s a knee-jerk reflex, the other has intention behind it.

So, I’ve heard it through the grapevine that you’ve got a name for that voice inside your head—by the name of Ernie. Mine, I’ll share, is the editor… and she’s a real piece of work. So my question for you now, switching gears a bit: what do you do when Ernie is loud and relentless? What brings you back to center, Aaron?

AARON: First of all, I want to give a shout-out to Ernie. He’s got a bad rap. Granted, he’s always trying to f*ck sh*t up. He’s always trying to ruin a good thing. He never appreciates how good he’s got it. He also doesn’t have a lot of confidence, so he’s always trying to stand out and call attention to himself, just so you’ll tell him he’s a good boy… that he matters… that he’s seen. He means well, but, man—oh, man—it’s best if he stays in his room. I try to keep Ernie in his cage as much as I can because he likes to muck things up a little bit.

Ernie is my alter ego—my shadow piece. It’s the part of me I try to hide, repress, and deny… but it’s back there, pulling levers. What I’ve realized over the years is that he’s also persistent, energetic, and outgoing. There are some positive qualities to my ego—to my shadow. When I’m at my best, I try to draw on Ernie and that part of me I’ve worked so hard to stuff down. Because whatever we repress continues to evolve and pop up. As the saying goes—whatever we resist, persists. I think I first heard that from Neale Donald Walsch in Conversations with God. When we hide, repress, or deny those shadow parts, they still find their way out. So now I’m trying to keep Ernie out in front of me—let him work for me instead of against me. And look—this may sound crazy to some people listening. I’m not saying I hear voices or talk to Ernie—it’s a metaphor. A way to describe those different parts of ourselves and the masks we wear to stay safe and navigate the world.

Here’s the thing—we all talk about “the hole” in ourselves, always looking for something to fill it so we can become whole. What I’m finding, in my current trajectory, is that what’s been missing… is me. All of me—including Ernie. This part of me that developed as a safety mechanism, as a way to navigate a challenging childhood. But just as much a part of me as Ernie is the benign, benevolent version—the one people write articles about. Ernie and Aaron are the same cat. And I think part of this journey for all of us is learning to integrate those pieces to be okay with everything we are and everything we’re not. Our wholeness is what makes us integral. That’s integrity—our thoughts, our words, our actions—all in alignment, even with the parts of us we might not want friends, neighbors, or loved ones to see.

ALLIÉ: There’s a specific word you used there—integral. Because when we think of integrity, we do need to integrate the verb of it, not just sit with the noun of it. We have to bring together these different parts and pieces of ourselves to form the whole version of who we are.

AARON: So what’s the flip side? I’m curious now—I’m going to flip this. Now we’re doing this podcast together. What’s the flip side of your editor? Is it discernment? Is it the ability to parse through information and pull out what’s helpful? What’s the positive side of the negative piece of your editor?

ALLIÉ: Yeah… I guess the editor always wants to make sure everything is done to a certain degree of excellence—and won’t have it any other way. So I have to remind her that I’m human. Allié is human. And that’s okay with me. I’ve got to convince her that it’s okay with her, too. So yeah, she can be a bitch, but most of the time we get along. And to your point—recognizing that I need her to do the work I do. But at the same time, I’ve got to remind her it’s okay not to be perfect… Because there’s no such thing.

AARON: Thank you for that.

ALLIÉ: Well, yeah—Ernie and the editor. I tell you what, we need them. We need to love them.

AARON: Yeah… they’re probably going to hook up for drinks after this.

ALLIÉ: Of course they would. Let’s talk now about showing up. Aaron, you’re showing up in very powerful ways—not just for yourself, but for so many others. A couple of examples come to mind: through Radical Hope, you’re helping young people find connection and support around mental health. And with the Joe Moore Award, you’re honoring the kind of grit and unity that doesn’t always get accolades or make headlines. So my next question is, what connects these two parts of your work? What do they say about the legacy you’re building off the field?

AARON: I think, at my core, if there’s one thing unquestionable about me, it’s my resilience. I don’t know what I did to earn it, to have it—or maybe I’m just temporarily holding it—but it’s there, and it’s always been there. Throughout my life, I’ve had people who reminded me of that, who nurtured it, who fed it when it was hungry.

I’ve lost 13 people I loved to suicide. I’ve lost a couple dozen more to deaths of despair—both from my football circles and from recovery. I don’t know why they didn’t have that same resilience. I’m just grateful that I do. And my life hasn’t been easy—not for me, not for any of us. Part of me suspects that’s the point.

Why we’re here is to be born perfect, then encounter things that make us question that perfection. We spend our whole lives trying to work our way back—only to realize we were perfect all along. Whether we accept that or not, that’s the journey. There’s divinity in that for me.

Hope is a verb. It requires action. I’ve found ways to take action—sometimes just by telling my story, leading with vulnerability. That’s a superpower of mine. It’s like, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours—but in healthy, loving ways. So whether it’s the Joe Moore Award, Radical Hope, this podcast, or any other work I do—I just want to be a good teammate and be a meaningful part of something worthwhile. Everything I’ve ever done—my family, my sports career, my time with you right here—fits into that. When I can do that, all the other noise just falls away.

​As hard and raw as this part of me is, it’s the best part of me. It’s the most authentic part of me. But it’s not easy to get on CBS and talk college football like this. I’m grateful, though, that I can talk college football—because that gives me the platform, the visibility, and the time to talk about things that matter more, that men are more than a third-and-seven.

Hope. Resilience. Being a good teammate… I’ve had mentors who changed my life forever. Joe Moore, my offensive line coach, taught me that I always had five more in me—that no matter how hard things got, I could always do five more reps. Bill Z, my longtime mentor, gave me a roadmap for happiness and serenity—how to forgive myself and others, how to lead, how to be grateful, how to be humble in the most glorious, grandiose sense.

My high school head coach, Bob Ladouceur, taught me to believe in myself and my potential. My mom—on my first day of football practice at De La Salle—gave me one of the most important lessons of my life. We had just moved. I was a D and F student. I’d been kicked out of the house. I wasn’t on my way to being a college football Hall of Famer or Super Bowl champ—not even a high school graduate.

That first practice? I got my ass chewed out. I was going the wrong way. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never really played organized football. I came home in tears and told my mom, “I’m sorry. I know we moved here for this, but I can’t do it. I can’t go back.”

Leading up to that, she had asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I’d said, “I don’t know… play pro football,” but I didn’t really believe it. That day, she looked at me and said, “You’ve got to figure out if what you want is worth the price you might have to pay for it. If the answer is yes, you have to find a way to get up and go to practice. If the answer is no, that’s okay—but you have to be honest with yourself.” Then she shut the door.

I wish you could have seen me sitting there on the edge of that bed, Allié. I didn’t know how I was going to go back… but I did. And I got my ass chewed again. But I made a block or two. I went back the next day, made another couple blocks. I kept going. And it turned out—I was pretty damn good at football. I just didn’t know it yet.

I think about that moment—the fear, the uncertainty—and how close I was to walking away from everything that came after. I had no idea what was possible, what I was capable of, the people I’d meet, the experiences I’d have, the money I’d make, the lives I’d touch, the people who’d touch mine. None of it. But I had hope. And I want other people to have that, too.

I want the world to know there are things each of us can do—in as little as five minutes—that can help us feel better and perform better in the moments that matter most. They don’t cost a thing. They just require willingness, honesty, and a little elbow grease. And my observation? When I’ve done that—and when others have, too—somehow, some way, things get better. And I ask you, Allié… how does it get better than that?

ALLIÉ: That’s a big word. It’s one of my favorites with just four letters—hope. Because sometimes you feel like you have nothing… but at the end of the day, you can always have hope. No one can take that away.

AARON: I’ll say this about hope—optimism is the belief that somehow things will get better. Hope is the belief that there are things we can do to make things better. There’s a big difference. Optimism is about desire—it relies on things happening outside our control. Hope? Hope’s a verb. It’s about action. It’s believing there are steps we can take to make our lives better—and that puts the ball back in our court. That’s true for everybody.

ALLIÉ: One hundred percent. Because we do always have the opportunity to remake, to course-correct. As long as we’re alive—if there’s still a chance, there’s still hope. And I want to shift one more time…

AARON: Oh, here we go. You want to go darker than this? Damn, Allié.

​ALLIÉ: Okay, let’s go to the other side of it. Recently you were featured in a very powerful episode of Remade with Koby Stevens and Villa Licci. I want to talk that and specifically, what does the word remade mean to you?

AARON: That was a cool moment—the whole day, really—and how I got connected with Bill McCullough, the producer. He knows a good buddy of mine, Lonnie Paxton. Lonnie’s got his fingers in all kinds of things. We both played in the NFL—not together—but we know a lot of the same people, we’ve worked out together. It was just this beautiful confluence of all these circles of my life—football, recovery, transformation—coming together. What remade brought up for me immediately is the idea that the power of shared experience is transformational. That moment for me was being able to share—completely different sets of circumstances, sure—but a shared human experience. No different than me and your “editor” and my “Ernie.” Your lived experience and mine may seem worlds apart—you’re female, I’m male, you’re small, I’m big, different races, different genetics, different paths. But is it really different?

To me, being remade is like when a vase breaks and is repaired with gold lines—an art form from the East. The vase is damaged, but the gold creates something new with its own unique beauty. It’s not what it was before, but it’s equally beautiful—just in a different way. Being remade is the Humpty Dumpty of humanity. We fall off the wall, shatter into pieces, and if we’re lucky, we have people around us—and the courage within ourselves—to find the gold in our lives, piece it back together, and keep moving forward.

ALLIÉ: I love that. I love it so much. Just a couple more questions—on the lighter side. If every single thing you ever did on the field disappeared, and the only thing left was how you showed up as a father, a friend, a man—what would you want people to remember about you?

AARON: That’s a really good question. And honestly, I try to live my life with that in mind. I’ve always said—when I die, if the thing I’m best known for is how I played football, then I’ve been a colossal failure.   

One of my mentors, Bill Z—who I mentioned earlier—helped me understand that football is part of who I am, but not the biggest part. It’s a launch pad, a piece of the puzzle. He told me that in my fifties, everything would start to come together—just like it did for him—and that’s when I’d be able to affect the most change. Here I am at 52, finding that to be true.

My wife, my kids, my friends—they’d probably say, “At times he was difficult… but he was always worth it in the end.” And if I make it to the pearly gates—assuming God doesn’t bring up spring break in ‘92—I think He might say I was a pretty good teammate. Someone you’d want on your team. Maybe not the most talented, but someone who helped you win, helped you get more of what you wanted, and made the journey better. I hope people would remember that we laughed a lot, cried a lot, and grew together. I try to bring that into everything I do.

Right now, I’ve got four months of the year where I get to laugh, have fun, and get paid to be on scholarship talking sports on television—and my opinions don’t even have to be right. Then I’ve got the other eight months, which fund my philanthropic habit—where I get to be purposeful, feel significant, be part of a community, and do something bigger than myself.

However we each do it, I believe having income, identity, purpose, significance, and community—those are the five pillars of fulfillment. They’re a foundation for an amazing life. None of those things have anything to do with football, but all five were there when I was playing—just a little more muted than I’d have liked. Good thing I’ve been an ex-athlete a hell of a lot longer than I played because I’m getting the opportunity to try to flip the script there.

ALLIÉ: That is awesome. Before we wrap up today, one more thing, Aaron. Not everyone who feels lost looks lost. Sometimes you can be surrounded by love, by success—and still feel like you’re not at home in your own skin. So my last question for you today is for someone sitting in that space right now—what would you say to them? And again, not as a former pro athlete, but as someone who’s been there and made it through—what would you say?

AARON: I love the way you framed that question—that not all people who are lost look lost. My response would be this: feelings aren’t facts. The way we feel about our circumstances, our lives, or the people around us isn’t necessarily the way they actually are. That’s really important for me to remember when life is sending eight-man blitzes and I’ve only got five people to pick them up. Feelings aren’t facts.

Here’s what’s true—our thoughts are electrical signals running through complex neural pathways in our brains. Based on the type of thought we have, our brain releases chemicals. If we have good, healthy, positive thoughts, our brain releases positive chemicals, and we feel good. If we have negative, fearful, or uncertain thoughts, our brain releases chemicals accordingly—and then we start to feel afraid.

​Our bodies translate those chemicals, and shortly after, that’s what we experience as emotion. Just because I think the guy cutting me off in traffic is disrespecting me doesn’t necessarily mean that’s the case. So the real question becomes: when we feel lost, how do we lash ourselves to the mast when the seas get rough? For me, there are many ways—but prayer, meditation, and service are my anchors.

When I’m at my worst, I’m usually focused outward on what everyone else is doing—but only in terms of how it affects me. That’s self-centeredness. So when I feel lost or unloved—even if I’m surrounded by love—one of the most effective ways I’ve found to flip the script is through simple acts of service.

For me, courtesy is the gateway to serenity. That can be as small as letting a car merge in front of me, giving up a parking spot, holding the door open for someone who’s way too far away, or telling them not to rush. Complimenting a stranger’s tie or pocket square. These little things get me outside of myself. And here’s what I’ve noticed—whenever I start to feel better, I can usually look back and pinpoint the moment it began: the moment I made the decision to take action, to be of service. Because in those moments, I’m reminded that I have value. That regardless of how I feel about myself or whatever messages the world has sent me, I do have something to offer.

I think, deep down, that’s what all of us are trying to figure out—on this big rock in the middle of nowhere—whether our lives have meaning, whether we matter, whether we make a difference. So if you’re out there feeling lost—if you’re losing hope but want to be reminded there are good things and good people out there—turn your focus outward. Think about what you can bring to a situation rather than what you can get from it. Practice kindness, acceptance, and courtesy. See if that starts to shift your perspective—just slightly—so that your attention is on how you do matter, how you do make a difference, how people are appreciative and grateful for exactly who you are. That’s integrity. That’s becoming the integral person you’ve always been, even if you’ve forgotten it for a while.

Courtesy is the gateway to serenity. So if you’re struggling, look outside yourself. Find someone to help—and in doing so, you’ll be reminded of who the hell you’ve been all along. ∎

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