Briefly

I love college football and I’m eager for the 2019 season to kick off for my alma mater in three weeks. But as much as I enjoy Alabama football, I would strongly encourage a child not to play the sport. If I’m fortunate enough to have a son, I hope to steer him in the direction of something safer. We’ve known for years that serious injuries are common in football, but the evidence is piling up that the sport does long-term brain damage, even for those who never had obvious injuries. Evidence of brain damage called chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) has been found in 99 percent of the former NFL players whose brains have been studied after their deaths. And now a new study shows that playing even one season of college football causes hidden long-term brain damage, even in players who never suffered from a concussion. I still love the game, but I can no longer doubt that it’s too risky for people I care about.

When I was younger, I cared a lot about other people thinking I was impressive. I hate to admit that, but it’s true. I had already started making inner changes before I saw her talk in 2012, but watching Brené Brown’s TEDx presentation about vulnerability was a profound turning point for me (I wrote about this in 2012.) A friend shared a link today which reinforced the idea that it’s far more important to be authentic than it is to be “impressive.” That would have made me nervous 10 years ago, but I’m able to live it now. I’ve made a conscious effort to unmask myself as much as is reasonably possible and that has had one positive effect I didn’t anticipate. Since my father was a narcissist, I’m vulnerable to falling into some of his patterns if I’m not careful. But being very open about such fears about my failings helps inoculate me against doing that, because it’s hard to have a sense of grandiosity if you’re vulnerable about your faults and struggles. Being authentic, open and honest with each other can be transformative. It can save your soul.

Molly woke up suddenly Tuesday morning and realized that I was close to her. She was instantly in what I call “feral mode.” She was afraid she might be in danger, despite the fact she’s been safe and well-fed in my home for 11 years. I caught this photo of her worried expression and posted it on social media. One of my friends who has a deep personal interest in the effects of abuse on humans had a reaction similar to what I’ve thought: “I wonder if that response is similar to the heightened state of alert that people with [a history of abuse] experience,” he wrote. I see a strong similarity between feral animals and abused people. Both can heal and change, but it takes time — and it requires us to be patient. After Molly’s last daughter died a couple of weeks ago, she spent nearly a week letting me touch her, which was unprecedented. She’s pulled away again, but the progress made my heart happy. It takes a long time to earn trust. If a feral animal or human with a history of abuse ever really trusts you, you’re being given a great honor. (I wrote something longer about this three years ago.)