Former Notre Dame OL Trevor Ruhland searches for purpose through love, work

Editor’s Note: This is the second in a three-part series from former Notre Dame offensive lineman Trevor Ruhland (2015-19). He shared with Blue & Gold his perspective on the physical aftermath of his college football career, finding purpose in the working world, his ongoing relationship with the game and much more. 

Follow these links to read Part 1 and Part 3. Read Part 2, in his own words, below. 

Stepping away from the life of a college football player, from the structure, the meals, the grind, and the singular focus of being an athlete, left a cavernous void. It wasn’t just the sport I missed; it was the entire identity wrapped up in it.  

For so long, my purpose was clear: get bigger, get stronger, dominate. Every rep, every meal, every hour was geared towards that. And then, poof, it’s gone. What do you do when your life’s mission statement suddenly expires?  

It’s like being a ship without a rudder, just drifting. I bounced around for a while, trying to grasp onto new objectives, but nothing felt as concrete or as demanding as that athletic pursuit. The world outside of football felt … softer, less defined.  

How do you find that same fire, that same absolute commitment, when the goal isn’t staring you down from a scoreboard? 

Finding love after college

In college, the idea of a steady girlfriend never really fit into my world. I was living the quintessential bachelor athlete life — busy, self-absorbed in the pursuit of football, and frankly, too selfish to ever truly settle down with a girl.  

My focus was singular, and anything that detracted from that, including serious relationships, felt like a distraction. I was a bit cynical about finding a girlfriend, let alone a future partner. I never gave it much thought, never had a plan for that part of my life.  

When I finished school and moved home, the challenge of finding and even just talking to girls became almost impossible. To make that all worse, COVID hit, and the social life basically went out the window. I felt utterly hopeless trying to find a woman in that isolating landscape. 

Then, out of the blue, I met Nina through Bumble. I had never been big on dating apps; they seemed superficial and not really my style. But being locked in at home, with no other real options, I figured I’d give it a shot. And lucky for me, she swiped right, giving me a chance that would change everything.  

I remember our first couple of “dates” vividly — walking our dogs, Maggie and Oakley, in the parks near us. I was so nervous meeting her, stepping into the unknown of an online connection. But the chemistry was clear right away. She was this gorgeous blonde, with beautiful blue eyes, effortlessly funny and smart. She had this incredible ability to talk to anyone, and they would instantly like her. We just clicked, right from the start. I felt so unbelievably blessed to have met her. 

Our first few weeks and months together were a blur of those dog walks, sneaking around with all the COVID restrictions, and long, late-night FaceTime calls that stretched on for hours. We were finding our own little world within the isolation.  

One of the craziest, almost unbelievable, things happened when I typed her parents’ address into my GPS for the first time. It was only eight minutes away! That’s when it hit me, that’s when I thought, this has to be meant to be. When I was with her, the world simply seemed to make more sense. Life felt easier, lighter, and suddenly, I had a new kind of purpose that had nothing to do with a football field. 

I remember the nerves bubbling up when I decided to tell my mother about this girl I’d met. My mom had seen me at my college peak of chasing women, and I was so unsure how she’d react to me finally opening up to someone else. But my mom was great, just asking to see what she looked like, and then, in typical mom fashion, immediately invited her over for our new tradition of Pizza Fridays. It felt like a gentle, reassuring welcome into a part of my life I hadn’t shared in so long. 

I quickly fell for her, faster and harder than I ever thought possible. Maybe it wasn’t love at first sight, but it was quickly after that first meeting that I knew I loved her.  

I was falling for her quiet strength, her unwavering kindness, and her infectious drive. It was her empathy, the way she could understand and connect, even when I was at my most difficult. And more than anything, it was the way she looked at me – not as the former athlete, but just as Trevor. She saw the man I was, and the man I was becoming, and loved him fully. 

Nina has been my absolute rock since the moment I met her. She is truly my best friend. We could sit around doing absolutely nothing, just enjoying each other’s quiet company, or we could go out on a long bar crawl.  

It didn’t matter what we were doing. As long as we were together, that’s all we needed. That simple truth became the bedrock of my new existence. She became the constant, steady presence that anchored me when the world felt like it was spinning out of control. 

Nina challenges me every single day, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. She pushes me to be a better man, to look at things from different perspectives, to expand my horizons beyond the narrow scope of my past. She helps me try and be a more empathetic person towards others, reminding me that the world is bigger than my own internal struggles.  

She has given me a profound sense of purpose outside of sports, a reason to strive and build that is entirely selfless. I do things for us now. I work to build a future that she deserves, a life filled with security and joy, and honestly, I just want to spoil her. Her calming presence in my life is invaluable, a quiet strength that steadies my sometimes turbulent mind. She is the greatest blessing I could have ever asked for. 

Navigating the business world

Transitioning into the working world was another jarring shift. There’s no spring ball, no training table, no perfectly orchestrated schedule designed to optimize your performance. It’s just … work.  

And for someone who had a clear, measurable goal for so long — gain X pounds, lift Y weight, block Z defender — the objectives in a corporate setting felt amorphous. It wasn’t about brute force or sheer size anymore; it was about navigating personalities, understanding complex systems, and often, sitting behind a desk.  

I missed the physicality, the camaraderie of the locker room, the immediate feedback of a good block or a missed assignment. This new kind of grind felt different, less tangible. You don’t get a standing ovation for closing a deal, and there’s no coach telling you to eat more steak. It’s a different kind of discipline, one I’m still learning to master, a discipline that sometimes feels mundane compared to the high-stakes world of Division I football. 

Finding what I actually cared about in the professional landscape has been incredibly hard. For so long, the passion was pre-programmed: football. Now, it’s like being dropped into a vast ocean and told to find treasure without a map.  

I’ve dipped my toes into sales roles, chasing quotas and commissions, which in a way, felt familiar — a clear objective, a scoreboard, a direct link between effort and outcome. But even in that, there’s a difference. It’s not the same kind of visceral reward as driving a D-lineman into the dirt. It’s a job, and the shift from “living to play” to “working to live” has been profound. The dream isn’t about the corner office anymore; it’s about financial security, pure and simple.  

That financial security, that ability to provide for my wife and support our lifestyle, is a constant hum in the background. The fear of the economy, of layoffs, of not making enough to keep pace with the life we envision — it’s a real and persistent anxiety. It feels like a silent, daily pressure that replaces the roar of the crowd.  

How do you balance the drive to succeed in your career, to make enough money, with the desire to build a meaningful life outside of it? It’s a constant tightrope walk, especially with the blurred lines of working from home. The commute used to define the start and end of the workday; now, the laptop can always be open, the emails always checked, making it harder to truly disconnect and find that balance. 

I’m always being asked about my “dream job,” and honestly, it’s a question that makes me roll my eyes a little. My dream job isn’t a specific title or company. My dream job is financial freedom. It’s the ability to truly invest in the other aspects of my life that matter most: being a devoted husband, a future father, a better Catholic, a connected friend. It’s about having the time and resources to enjoy life, to travel, to spend quality time with family, to pursue hobbies without the constant gnawing worry about the next paycheck. 

This wrestling match with how much my job should define me, how much it should be used to measure my success in life, is ongoing. In football, your success was quantifiable, public, and directly tied to your role. In the working world, it’s often more opaque, more personal.  

Do I need a job that energizes me every single day, a job with a “greater purpose” that aligns with some grand personal mission? Or is it OK for work to be just that — work — a means to an end that allows me to build the life I truly want, a life filled with purpose found elsewhere?  

I think I’m leaning towards the latter. Maybe the “purpose” isn’t in the job title, but in what the job enables me to do outside of it. It’s about being disciplined enough to excel at work but also disciplined enough to carve out space for everything else that truly defines a rich and balanced life. 

WATCH: Trevor Ruhland joins this week’s Third & Gold Podcast

Searching for the next step

So, where next? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?  

The easy answer would be to say I’m just trying to live a “normal” life, but what the hell is normal after all that? I’m learning to define success not by pounds gained or tackles made, but by inner peace, by healthy relationships, by finding joy in the small, everyday moments that I was too focused (or too sick) to appreciate before.  

The goal now is balance — finding that sweet spot where I can be strong without being obsessed, driven without being consumed. It’s about building a future with my wife, about nurturing a healthy body and mind.  

This new dream isn’t about being an All-American or making the League. It’s about being a good family man, the kind of husband who shows up fully, present and healthy, for the woman who stood by me when I was at my lowest. It’s about trying to succeed in my work not for the accolades, but for the stability and the freedom it provides, allowing me to build that life. 

It’s about being a better Catholic, reconnecting with a faith that got lost in the shuffle of performance and pain, finding solace and guidance in something bigger than myself again. And yeah, it’s about that white picket fence dream, buying a home, laying down roots, creating a sanctuary for my future family. 

But none of that comes easy, and sharing this part of my life — the raw, ugly truth of it — is a challenge in itself. It’s one thing to live through it. It’s another to lay it bare for the world. There’s a fear, I guess, that people will only see the “before” picture, or that they won’t understand the depth of the struggle. Yet, there’s a deeper drive that pushes me to talk about it.  

So many former athletes, especially linemen like me, struggle with finding themselves when the lights dim. We’re trained to be a certain way, to embody a certain physical and mental toughness, and when that structure is gone, a lot of us just flounder. We lose our identity, our purpose, and often, our health.  

If my story, with all its messiness and vulnerability, can reach just one other person who feels that same lostness, that same gnawing emptiness, and make them feel less alone, then it’s worth it. 

It’s about turning the pain into purpose, transforming a personal hell into a guiding light for others. I want them to know that it’s OK to fall apart, and it’s even more powerful to put yourself back together, piece by piece, on your own terms. 

The discipline I learned in football, the relentless pursuit of a goal, it’s still in me. But now, it’s being redirected. It’s the discipline to show up for therapy, the discipline to eat mindfully, the discipline to be present in my relationships, the discipline to work hard at a job that doesn’t always offer immediate gratification.  

It’s a constant tightrope walk, finding the balance between that ingrained drive for perfection and allowing myself to just be, to have fun, to enjoy the simple pleasures without overthinking every calorie or every decision. 

Life after football, after the eating disorder, it’s about embracing the grey areas, finding joy in the small victories, and understanding that real strength isn’t always about being the biggest or the strongest, but about being resilient, adaptable, and most importantly, truly, honestly, yourself.

Part 3: How Trevor Ruhland’s journey helped redefine life after football