Blindsided: Healing An Unconscious Tendency

From assault on the football field to transcending an old pattern in midlife

Author’s note: This is perhaps the most personal and raw essay I’ve written. The names in this story have been anonymized to protect the identities of those involved. The events are as I recall them. I've spoken with friends who were present at the time, and they helped fill in some details I had forgotten or repressed. My intention behind sharing this story is to reflect on a traumatic experience and hopefully help others who may have gone through something similar. I chose to share this story with you since conscious transition and change involve reflecting on our past, identifying with curiosity and compassion how it shaped our behavior, and rewriting the script.

Trigger Warning: This essay contains descriptions of physical assault. 

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I settled in front of my computer, feeling the heat of the anger commingled with the chill of fear. My palms were damp, my heart pounded, and a turmoil stirred my stomach.

My frustration with Jim, my teacher and mentor, had reached its peak. I was nine months into my Conscious Leadership certification program, and he skipped yet another class, the class I was convinced he was supposed to teach. I couldn’t resist my feelings anymore. Thoughts of his missed classes and lack of communication consumed me—during bike rides, in quiet moments, even when I was with my daughter. 

His absences replayed in my mind like a never-ending loop. I was “Below The Line” and recycling drama in my head, just as he taught me to recognize. This inner conflict was distracting and distancing me from Jim.

Enough was enough. I had to reveal myself and share my frustration with him, so I opened Slack and typed him this message: 

“Jim, if you really knew me you’d know that I’m pissed at you right now. I’m undeniably “below the line.” 

How do I know? When you missed Monday’s class, I felt my anger and resentment build throughout the session. These feelings have only gotten stronger over the last few days. I can’t shift, so I have to reveal myself to you.  

I’m still on the drama triangle, and the villain within me is alive right now. During the session, I couldn’t help but think, where the fuck is Jim? This is the third session he’s missed. I’m telling myself countless stories right now. That you don’t really care about the program. That you’re mailing it in. That you think you don’t have to show up like you used to since you’re nearing retirement. That you have more important things like getting fitted for a new pair of golf clubs. That you don’t have to notify the cohort when you miss a class since Diana and others will be there. That you’re above the agreements that we committed to when we joined this program. That you don’t have to play by the same set of rules as the other facilitators and participants. That I’m missing out and not getting my full money’s worth. Yeah, I’m totally Below the Line right now. 

Several hours later, a notification buzzed on my iPhone, signaling Jim's response to my emotionally charged message. I hesitated for a moment before clicking on the notification, bracing myself for his reply.

“Schlaf, I appreciate you allowing me to know you better…I wonder how this is a familiar pattern of yours. I wonder how you keep older men at a distance. I wonder how you are untrusting of men, especially older men. I wonder how detaching from these relationships is familiar to you….” 

Jim’s words sank in, and reality gripped me. It felt like being draped in a heavy suffocating cloak. I could feel the pressure of it in my chest with each breath. The stark realization of this pattern, spanning decades, came bearing down on me with unyielding force. Fuck.

With some hesitation, I began to reflect on his inquiry. How is it true that I keep older men at a distance? How is it true that I’m untrusting of men? How is it true that I withdraw from these relationships at even the slightest breach of trust or disappointment?

Grappling with the weight of these questions, I came to an undeniable realization: I don’t have many close bonds with older men. In fact, I can’t even count them on one hand. More than that, I’m quite skilled at walking away from them. I often form these relationships only to retreat when feelings of abandonment or deceit surface. This pattern is evident with spiritual guides, mentors, business partners, and even close friends. I tend to push them away the moment I perceive—or convince myself—they aren’t fully committed to our relationship, to me.

As soon as I realized this truth, I had no choice but to ask myself some important questions. Where did these patterns stem from? At what point in my life did they take root? Going to the roots of this tendency became an imperative. After all, understanding our deep-seated patterns and their origins is a fundamental step in growing up and healing.

My mind traveled back to my childhood and adolescent years—this seemed like the logical starting point. My father, who I became close with as a teen, was notably absent during my childhood. I vividly remember his broken promises, the times he was supposed to show up and didn’t, and the various lies he told. While my dad’s influence on this behavior was obvious, my intuition suggested there might be other relationships worth exploring.

I wondered, who else—teachers, counselors, parents, or coaches—could have contributed to this old unconscious tendency? 

I sat with this question for the better part of a year. Then, a few months ago, during a trip to my hometown, a dormant memory emerged from the depths of my psyche as I drove past my high school football field.

“SCHLAFA! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? YOU’VE GOTTA TO BE KIDDING ME!”

Pain and Punishment on the Field

WHEEEEEEET! The whistle pierces the air. 

"Alright boys, time for a water break!" shouts Coach Bradley from the sideline.

Jogging across the practice field on this overcast and chilled New England afternoon, the soggy turf squishes beneath my cleats, and the scent of decaying leaves wafts up with each step.

Despite my thirst, my attention is preoccupied by the sharp pain emanating from my neck. Fuck, not again. As much as I want to shrug it off, the pain persists, pulsating and radiating underneath my shoulder pads. This pain isn’t new to me—it feels like a haunting echo of the past.

My memory flashes back to my sophomore season, right on this very practice field, where I had my first stinger—a pinched nerve in football speak. The pain and intensity were unlike anything I’d ever experienced. As my head slammed into one of my teammates, a jolt of electricity originated deep within my neck, surging down my arm and engulfing my entire body. I hit the turf instantly, consumed by pain, eyes flooded with a glaring white, as I rolled around like a wounded animal in agony. 

A wave of nausea washes over me just recalling what happened. I try my best to shrug it off. 

As the water break draws to a close, the stabbing throb in my neck coupled with the haunting memory of my first stinger has its grip on me. I’m worried that if I continue practicing, I’ll experience the agony, distress and embarrassment all over again. Worse, I’ll let my teammates down. 

WHEEEEEEET! WHEEEEEEET! 

"Alright, boys. Break’s over! Starting offense on the field in two!” yells Coach Bradley.

My nerves are now fully awake. The mental chatter and replay are incessant—the crunch, that jolt of electricity, the piercing intensity of the pain, the dust kicking up from hitting the ground. And the voice in my head saying: 

Steve, you can’t go full speed the rest of practice. You’re going to hurt yourself. Slow it down.

As I approached the starting offense in the huddle, I tried to downshift my racing heart, quiet those jitters, and suppress the fear tightening its grip on me. Another voice getting louder:

Steve, just get through this practice. Don’t focus on the pain. One more hour. Don’t give it everything today—seventy percent. There’s a huge game this weekend. You can’t let the team down this late in the season. They need you. You have to escape without an injury.

Stepping into the huddle, I still feel shaky despite my mental pep talk. I’m doing everything in my power to keep my shit together. Bent over, hands on my knees, I wait for the play call. 

Our quarterback, Packy, steps confidently into the huddle, bringing a sense of calm to the squad. With his unmistakable Boston accent, he barks, “Fellas, big game Friday. We need a solid effort today.” He takes a moment to survey the team before decisively calling out, "Alright, here we go. Forty-four dive on two. Forty-four dive on two. Ready. Set. Hit!”

The huddle breaks with a thundering clap. I trot to the line of scrimmage, swiftly sizing up the defensive formation. Knowing the play call, I have my sights on the linebacker just five yards in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I mentally prepare for contact. 

Alright, Steve, here we go. 

I position my feet two yards behind the line of scrimmage, dig my cleats into the damp turf, and rest my hands on my knees, preparing to drop into my stance. The weight of my helmet and pads press against me, reminding me of the physicality of the game. But instead of focusing on my task—to take out the linebacker—all that consumes my thoughts is the persistent throb in my neck and the desperate hope of escaping practice without a sidelining injury.

Pasky settled in under the center and barked out the cadence. “BLUE 52. BLUE 52.” 

I reach my hand down, feel the wet grass and mud beneath my fingertips. Set in a three-point stance, I brace myself for impact. You got this, Steve.

“READY. SET. HIKE. HIKE.”

Propelling forward, I surge past the line of scrimmage, eyes locked on the advancing linebacker determined to bust up the play–my target. My assignment was clear—to unleash a punishing block to pave the way for my running back, but a voice within urges me to slow down, whispering to ease off.

Two yards from impact. One yard from impact. Hesitation.

In the blink of an eye, the linebacker darts in front of me, I lunge, more to block his path rather than take him on directly, trying to shield my already injured neck. He grabs me by my shoulder pads, throws me to the ground, sidesteps my block, and stuffs the running back just behind me. 

Fuck.

WHEEEEEEET! The whistle from Coach Bradley ends the play.  

I slowly lift myself up and drop my head, praying that my coaches don’t notice my moment of hesitation.

“SCHLAFA. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME. THAT WAS PISS POOR.”

Oh, shit. 

That voice is all too familiar. It’s a voice I’ve heard countless times over the last four seasons and even in my sleep. I quickly look up to see Coach Fitzpatrick’s compact, powerful frame storming toward me. Ten yards out.

He saw my hesitation. This is not good. I’m screwed.  

He’s closing in. Five yards now. With each step, his presence grows more imposing and intimidating. His scrunched and disgusted face is now just centimeters from my facemask. The pungent stench of stale Marlboro Lights mixed with sharp peppermint Tic-Tacs emanate from his stout body.  

“THAT IS NOT HOW YOU HIT A LINEBACKER. THIS IS HOW YOU HIT A LINEBACKER.”

Before I have a moment to brace myself, Coach Fitzpatrick lunges, leading with his head. BOOM. The sudden impact of his bare forehead against my helmet sends a shockwave through my skull and down my spine. Stunned. Disoriented. I lose my balance but catch myself. His left forearm smashes into the side of my helmet, again knocking me off balance. BOOM. Then his right. BOOM.

A blinding flash of white fills my retinas, followed by an electric jolt coursing from my neck down my arm. Consumed by this pain, I crumble to the ground like a puppet whose strings are snipped, my screams filling the air. AAAAHHH! I have a stinger, a pinched nerve in my neck. 

Above me, Coach Fitzpatrick looms, his voice demanding, “GET UP SCHLAFA. GET UP!” 

All around, my teammates look on, and in the crowd of spectators, I catch sight of my father and my twin, who happen to be at practice, bearing witness to this spectacle.

Several coaches swiftly intervened, restraining Coach Fitzpatrick and quelling his violent outburst. 

The full weight of what just happened hasn’t settled in. I’m in shock. My surroundings and senses fade away, including the stabbing pain in my neck. I can’t feel or perceive anything, other than the ground underneath me. I’m numb.

In what seems like an eternity, Coach Bradley and our athletic trainer sprint over to make sure I’m okay. With their support, I managed to lift myself up and slowly trudge towards the medical cart with my head down, avoiding eye contact with any of the bystanders. With each step, my senses and feelings come back online, and by the time I sit down, I quickly become overwhelmed with pain and embarrassment.

While my day on the field was over, I remained on the sidelines, watching practice and feeling helpless and distant, still in my pads with a massive bag of ice pressed against my neck.

When asked by both Coach Bradley and my father if I was ok, I muttered a quiet "yes," even though my insides screamed the opposite. I was injured and in pain. But I didn't want to draw further attention to myself or create more drama. I wanted, if anything, to project an image of strength and resilience. I wanted everyone to see how tough I was. And I didn’t want to cause a huge distraction that would overshadow the big game later in the week. I just wanted it to be over, so I bit my lip and insisted I was fine.

For a while, Coach Bradley tried to smooth things over. In what seemed like an attempt at damage control, I was even awarded the game ball the following week after our blowout win. It now sits in a box stashed in my basement, deflated—much like my passion for the game after that day.

My neck took several weeks to heal, sidelining me for two games. Though I did finish the season, even playing in the Massachusetts Super Bowl, I was never the same player after that day. The thrill of the game, the camaraderie, the wins, were overshadowed by my mistrust of the coaches, the men I believed were supposed to guide and support me. Each practice and game was a countdown, marking the time left in my football career—I wanted to put it all behind me.

And, though it would take two decades for me to fully comprehend, my trust in male figures had also been further damaged.

The attack by my coach was swept under the rug. There was no reprimand for Coach Fitzpatrick, no team meeting to address his behavior. The incident, though deeply traumatic for me, was left virtually unacknowledged. It wasn’t until many years later, well into my adulthood, that I received a sincere apology from Coach Fitzpatrick.

Regrettably, this was par for the course. I wasn't the first player attacked by our coach on the practice field. Several times each season, he'd resort to physical aggression, head-butting, or striking players when his temper flared. This kind of behavior was both expected and accepted. No one ever fought back, no one spoke up, no one took action, perpetuating a toxic cycle of silent consent. I, too, was complicit—and then it happened to me.

Unfolding From the Trauma

Even after all these decades, the hurt from that afternoon still lingers, despite attempts to shield myself from the ache of sadness, the intensity of anger, and the burden of shame. Instinctively, I pushed away those feelings, burying not only the emotions but also the events of that afternoon. They lay dormant, tucked away in the shadowy recesses of my mind for years. It’s unsurprising that my suppression sowed the seeds of this unconscious pattern, of distrust and distancing from older men, that extended into midlife.

I never believed that I deserved to be hurt by anyone. But I continued to blame myself for causing the scene to unfold—I hesitated on the play, I didn’t go full out like I’d been coached to do. My brother and teammates would have said I was pussyfooting. I provoked the assault. Twenty-five years later, through writing about my experience, and discussing that day with my closest friends who were there, I've come to see things differently.

I now understand that I was just trying to protect myself and my injured neck. 

I see that I was putting the team before my well-being because I couldn’t possibly let them down. Not only was I injured and disoriented after the attack, but I was also frightened to speak up, to stand up for myself, and to make a scene. I was just a teenager, barely old enough to drive. I now see what happened wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong that day.

It pains me that not even my teammates and buddies rushed to my side that day. They just stood there and watched. I realize that I too remained silent when Coach Fitzpatrick hit and bullied my teammates. It’s hard to imagine standing by now, but that complicity was a byproduct of the culture–I learned from my coaches and other adults that this was normal, and not to question authority. The very people who should have protected us, the coaching staff, turned a blind eye, allowing this cycle of violence to persist season after season.

From this new perspective, I’m overwhelmed with compassion for that young man and what he endured. He was scared, hurt, and just longing to play the game he loved and belong to a winning team. Out there on the field, he was truly alone. No one, not his father, twin, nor his closest friends, came to his side and rejected the blatant misuse of power and toxic masculinity. For years, he shouldered the weight of that day, amplified by a silent complicity that he, too, had been a part of it. Now, as I hold up a light for him, he can finally speak his truth, reclaim the power that was taken from him, and put down the heavy burden he had to carry. What happened was deeply wrong, on so many levels. It wasn’t his fault. He’s carried this weight for far too long—he’s no longer alone and can lay down that burden.

In the journey of healing, I’ve found a space in my heart to forgive Coach Fitzpatrick. I’ve come to understand that he, too, might have been a victim of unconscious conditioning when he was younger. While I can't claim to know the depth or nature of his personal battles, it's evident he carried his own pain. My heart has compassion and appreciation for him, even as I grapple with the scars from that afternoon. I sometimes feel anger when I think about that day, but I'm gradually finding a sense of peace through introspection and writing. 

As I work towards reshaping my relationships with men, I recognize the pivotal role of forgiveness. It's not only about forgiving Coach Fitzpatrick, but extending that same grace to my father, to other men, and even to myself.

As I look to the future, I’m ready to move beyond my tendency to retreat from older men. I want to build lasting and meaningful bonds, grounded in mutual respect and trust. I’m ready to welcome these elder brothers, acknowledging and honoring the profound wisdom they carry, having walked life’s path before me. I especially value those who exhibit and embody the attributes of the mature masculine—integrity, wisdom, emotional depth, responsibility, protection, strength, and service. I’m particularly drawn to men who stand as pillars of strength as fathers, speak out against injustice, remain unwaveringly true to their word, actively give back to their communities, champion the health of our planet, tend to their own wellbeing, and consistently treat everyone, especially women and children, with the dignity and respect they deserve.

With this clarity of intention and understanding, I recognize that forging these relationships is both an external journey of connection and brotherhood and an internal one of healing and faith. While there might be moments where old fears and tendencies compel me to flee, I'm committed to facing them head-on, seeing them as relics of my past rather than predictors of my future. 

In my elder brother, like my teacher Jim Dethmer, I see not only the reflection of the man I aspire to be, but also bridges to a richer, more connected life. By embracing my brothers, by traversing those bridges, I’m not just seeking mentorship and camaraderie. I’m granting my younger self the support and forgiveness he has long craved and deserved.