THE INVISIBLE INJURIES OF COLLEGE ATHLETICS

SHARE YOUR STORY SERIES: The cutthroat world of Division I athletics, the depth of a coaches influence on an experience, the journey to self-advocacy, & redefining identity beyond sport

"You are not your stats. You are not your scholarship. You are not weak for needing help. You are not a quitter for walking away from what’s breaking you."

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MY NAME IS BROOKLYN JAMES & THIS IS MY STORY

NCAA Division I Soccer and Track & Field | University of Oklahoma

Being a Division I athlete is often glamorized. People see the gear, the flights, the social media posts, the hype of game day. But behind the scenes, many of us are silently breaking down. It’s pressure. It’s isolation. It’s fear. It’s pain – and no one talks about it.

I’ve competed at the highest level in both soccer and track. I’ve stood on podiums, crossed finish lines, and been part of record-breaking teams. But behind every medal and team photo, there’s been pain. Not just the kind that lives in your body, but the kind that settles deep in your spirit.

My name is Brooklyn James. I was a dual-sport athlete at the University of Utah – soccer and track – and later transferred to the University of Oklahoma for my final year of eligibility. I’ve wanted to share my story for a long time, but I wanted to do it on the right platform. My hope is that telling my story helps play a part in improving collegiate sports and mental health awareness for athletes.

I originally committed to play soccer at Boise State as a junior in high school. But during my senior year, my track coach got a call from the track coach at the University of Utah, Coach Chad. He told my coach he knew I was committed to Boise State and played high-level club soccer, but he didn’t care—he was willing to offer me a full ride and could get me on the soccer team, too. It sounded like everything I’d ever wanted. I let Boise State know I was taking one more visit before signing, and immediately felt the switch. The head coach responded with so much animosity. Even though I told him I was still planning to go there, he retracted my offer before I’d even stepped foot on Utah’s campus. That was my first experience with how cutthroat collegiate athletics can be.

When I got to Utah, Coach Chad asked me what Boise State had offered. I told him 50% scholarship. He said he’d match that. This surprised my family and me, since we were under the impression it was going to be a full ride. Still, it was an incredible opportunity to play both soccer and track in one of the most competitive conferences in the country – so I verbally committed. But when it came time to finalize my scholarship, Coach Chad said he could only give me 25% because I’d also be playing soccer. I was confused as he was the one who had recruited me to do both. Frustrated, I asked what it would take to earn more. He told me I’d need to run a 57 in the 400m and a 2:12 in the 800m. That year, I went undefeated in the 400m, winning state with a 56.5, and two weeks later, ran a 2:09 at Portland Twilight. I called him excited to hear my new offer only to be told I wouldn’t be getting anything more. His reasoning: I was still playing soccer. I was crushed. But I told myself it was just business, and that I was lucky to even have this opportunity at all.

I finished my first year of college soccer and was excited to join the track team full-time. As a group we were so close and I loved being around them. That excitement quickly turned to panic as I would hear stories of Coach Chad and his strict method of coaching. The next three years of college track were extremely tough for me. I was being verbally abused every week; I was constantly told I was doing things wrong, told to stay out of the way, told not to lead workouts. Despite being top 10 in school history and one of only two freshmen to qualify for U20s, I was still denied a scholarship increase because I hadn’t qualified for regionals. In 2021, when soccer and track were both moved to the spring due to COVID, I managed to run 2:08 and 54.00 and qualified for regionals with my 4x4 team. I asked again for a scholarship increase. Again, I was told no. This time, the reasoning was that I hadn’t qualified as an individual. It felt like no matter what I did, the bar would always move.

I had multiple conversations with Coach Chad, trying to get him to see how committed I was, trying to get him to treat me with basic respect. But the more I reached out, the more distant and resentful he seemed. I eventually asked the head coach if I could switch coaches. I told him I couldn’t mentally handle this relationship anymore. He said, “That’s not how we do things at Utah.” I felt trapped.

With only a year left, transferring didn’t make sense, and I didn’t want to quit, I still loved the sport. So I scheduled one more meeting with Coach Chad to try to work something out. But that very morning, I got a call from a teammate telling me to check my email. Coach Chad had resigned. I can’t describe the relief I felt. It felt like I could finally breathe again.

When we began the search for a new coach, it came down to two candidates. The first had NCAA experience, brought mock training plans, and had a clear vision. I was excited again. The second was a woman, Coach Rebecca,  who had coached at an NAIA school in Oregon and had no experience coaching in the Pac-12.  As you can probably guess, for whatever reason, they went with Coach Rebecca. I was frustrated that our voices weren’t listened to, but I took it as an opportunity to have more say in my training, and I thought nothing could be worse than Coach Chad.

I tried to stay positive and I decided I’d give her a chance. But come to find out, she had no experience with the 800m. She was a jumps and hurdles coach. I was already committed to OU, so I focused on making the most of the year. At my second indoor meet, I tripped on the rail and sprained my ankle. It was my first injury ever. I rehabbed and came back for outdoor season, running a 2:10 in my first race back. I was proud. In the next meet, I ran 2:14. Frustrated, I asked to run again the next day at Mt. SAC. I was placed in a good heat, came through the first lap right on pace—and then hit a wall. I finished in 2:23, dead last. I was devastated.

I went to my coach looking for support. She ignored me. At the end of the meet, she told me, “I don’t care if it’s mental or physical, but you need to figure it out.” A week later, I found out I was severely anemic. When I told her, hoping it would provide context, she still dismissed me. She stopped including me in workouts. Didn’t consider me for relay teams. When the team qualified for regionals, I wasn’t even considered as an alternate.

When I got to Oklahoma, I was excited to work under Coach Hannah. She was a pro 800 runner for Brooks and seemed like the perfect fit. I redshirted my first year to set myself up for a strong final season. But just before the Big 12 Championships, Coach Hannah called a meeting and announced she was resigning. Months later, we found out she had been having an affair with one of the men’s team athletes and had moved to New York to marry him.

I asked to be included in the hiring process for the new coach—like we’d done at Utah. But the position quietly went to our Director of Ops, Jay. I was skeptical, but during our first call, he said, “I have to earn your respect just as much as you have to earn mine.” That one sentence shifted everything. He told me, “We probably won’t rely on you to toe the line in cross country,” and that small gesture—of not expecting me to prove myself in a discipline I didn’t even want to do—motivated me to feel seen.

On September 7, I wrote in my training log: “The day my dream became Jay’s.” He believed I could run a 2:02. He said he wanted to see me at Hayward Field. I cried after that call. It was the first time in my entire career that I felt like a coach truly believed in me. But it only lasted six months.

In January, we got a new head coach and assistant distance coach, Anna. Jay and Anna were now “co-head” coaches, but this was never clearly communicated. Jay slowly stepped back from the women’s side, and all our workouts started coming from Anna. There was no announcement—just confusion. I didn’t know who to report to, who to trust. And trust is everything.

I started to unravel again. I asked to skip the indoor opener and focus on my mental health. I still traveled to cheer for the team. But at Texas A&M, I had another panic attack. I told my mom, “I can’t do this.” She called Anna, who said all the right things. I decided to sit out the indoor season. My mom flew me home. But afterward—radio silence. No check-in, no text.

I texted Jay and Anna expressing disappointment. Jay replied, saying he didn’t even know what had happened. I felt like everything I’d worked for was slipping away.

At our first outdoor meet, I twisted my ankle in the bathroom getting changed. Same ankle. Same injury. Anna said nothing. Didn’t even look at me on the bus ride home. I sat right behind her for six hours. Not a single word. From that point on, she stopped coaching me. Wouldn’t respond to texts. Wouldn’t show up to workouts I had to do on my own. She took my struggle with the transition personally, when all I needed was time.

After she missed three of my practices, I met with our head coach. At first, he seemed open. He acknowledged I was the fastest 800m runner on the team. But then the conversation turned. “You think you’re better than everyone,” he said. “She was my first hire. If you have a problem with her, you have a problem with me.”

Then he said the sentence that I’ll never forget: “It’s selfish of you not to run indoors, and I reserve the same right not to run you outdoors.”

I felt sick. Was he really threatening to bench me for taking care of my mental health? If I had torn my ACL, no one would’ve batted an eye. But because my injury was invisible, it became ammunition.

My final panic attack came on senior night. My mom had flown in. I did my hair, got ready, and then stared at the clock. I froze. I turned to my mom and said, “I can’t do this.” She told me I had to. I ran into my room, locked the door, and hid in my closet. I was 24 years old. And I had never felt so broken.

That was the moment I finally asked: Is this worth it?

If I need medication to compete, is this really the life I want?

I stepped away from the sport. And it was the hardest decision of my life. But also the bravest. Because I finally chose myself.

Yes, I had coaches who hurt me. But they also gave me something: my voice. They taught me to advocate for myself. And that’s why I’m writing this. Someone out there needs to hear it.

You are not your stats. You are not your scholarship. You are not weak for needing help. You are not a quitter for walking away from what’s breaking you.

I still run—but now, it’s for me.I still fight—but now, it’s for peace. And that’s enough.

Let’s change the culture. Let’s build a world where athletes are treated like humans first. Where toughness includes tenderness. Where listening becomes leadership. Where mental health matters just as much as physical health.

Because it does.