If you are in crisis or thinking of harming yourself, please call or text 9-8-8 (U.S.) or reach out to your local helpline right now. You are not alone.
I’ve taken a little time to reflect on the loss of Marshawn Kneeland.
His pain. His wonderings.
And my heart has been sitting with his loved ones.
Their pain. Their wonderings.
All the loss that now lives where his presence once did.
The death of someone so young, so full of promise, breaks something in the air around us. It ripples through locker rooms, families, and communities in ways that can’t be measured.
The headlines move quickly — but grief doesn’t.
It lingers. It slows time. It hums in the quiet moments when the rest of the world has moved on.
This post isn’t about answers.
It’s about that space that remains — the space filled with silence, questions, and love that has nowhere to go.
To those left behind:
You are not alone.
There are no words that can undo the pain, no explanation that will make sense of what happened. But there is compassion for the ache you carry.
You may find yourself replaying conversations, wondering what you missed, feeling anger one moment and guilt the next. You may feel numb for a while, and that’s okay. Shock is the mind’s way of protecting the heart.
None of these reactions mean you’re doing grief wrong.
They mean you’re human.
They mean you cared deeply.
The ripples of loss
When someone takes their life, it leaves a silence filled with echoes — echoes of their laugh, their presence, their potential.
And in those echoes, the rest of us are left holding stories that suddenly feel unfinished. Teammates. Coaches. Parents. Friends. Every one of them touched by a loss that can’t be seen, but can be felt in every corner of their lives.
You might feel the need to do something — fix it, make sense of it, honor it — but sometimes the most honest thing you can do is feel. Sit in the sadness without rushing it.
Talk. Cry. Remember. Breathe.
Grief, like sport, asks for endurance. But this is a different kind — one that has no finish line, only forward motion.
If you are someone who loved him — or love someone who’s struggling:
Please remember this: it’s not your fault.
You did not fail.
You are not responsible for someone else’s pain.
Love cannot always save a life, but it can help us survive the aftermath.
Let it surround you now — from others, from memory, from the small ways you care for yourself in the days ahead.
For those in the athletic community:
Loss like this shakes more than a team — it shakes identity, culture, and connection. Athletes are taught to be strong, to push through, to keep going. But grief is not something to “tough out.” It asks for softness, honesty, and presence.
If you’re part of Marshawn’s wider circle — a teammate, a coach, or someone simply watching from afar — your heartbreak matters too.
Let’s keep talking about how athletes hurt, heal, and find help. Let’s make space for pain, not as weakness, but as part of being human.
To everyone who’s hurting right now:
May you find moments of comfort, even in this storm.
May the memories that ache today someday soften into gratitude.
May you keep breathing, even when it feels impossible.
And may you know — deeply, unshakably — that you are not alone.
May I remind you,
you are always an athlete.
In heartbreak. In healing. In the moments you question your worth.
You are still here — and that matters.
In solidarity,
Laura
Note: This and every Athlete Illuminated post is for educational and supportive purposes only and not a replacement for mental-health treatment. If you are in urgent need of help, please call 9-8-8 (U.S.) or 9-1-1 for emergencies. If outside the U.S., visit findahelpline.com for international resources.
The Athlete Psychotherapist 
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