Weight of reality: Trevor Ruhland shares post-playing career struggles

Editor’s Note: This is the first in a three-part series from former Notre Dame offensive lineman Trevor Ruhland (2015-19). He shared with Blue & Gold his first-person 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 2 and Part 3. Read Part 1, in his own words, below. 

All of this shit is always on my mind … that is why it is so strange that writing these first couple of sentences is challenging. When you finish something you invested so much time and effort into, it feels like a part of you is over. Or a part of life is over.  

I do consider myself lucky that I knew it was going to end only a few years into college. Becoming a working stiff and hustling for that white picket fence American Dream was the new goal in life. I knew this was my future while still having years left of college and sports.  

That being said, I do not think it made the post-years any easier. 

Battling weight issues

At one point, I weighed 305 pounds—3-0-5. That is a large man!  

Weight has always been something my family has talked about. Being in a family that has many athletes gaining weight and being a big, strong offensive lineman is a topic that has been on the minds of not only me but also my parents.  

I went from 300 pounds to about 150 pounds in two years. I lost half my body weight, lost my strength, lost my personality, lost my faith, lost my drive, and almost lost my family. I spent 23 years building myself up, about two years tearing myself down, and now working to find the right balance.  

This journey has changed me. Shit, that’s a cheesy line, but it is true. I am not the same person I was five years ago, but that’s normal. Or is it? How much did fighting through an eating disorder change me? 

Why I’m sharing my experience

My story is just one among countless others of athletes finding their way when the game ends, or individuals battling unseen struggles. If sharing my journey can offer even a sliver of hope, a moment of recognition, or a push toward seeking help for someone else feeling lost, then every painful step was worth it.  

I am forever indebted to those who carried me when I could not carry myself. And as I look to the future — to a home, a family, shared beers with friends, and a life truly lived — I do so with an overwhelming sense of blessing, knowing that the greatest game of all is simply living each day with purpose, presence, and unwavering love. 

By sharing this story, the raw and ugly truth of it, I’m hoping to connect with others who feel that same lostness. My hope is that my experience can become a guiding light for someone else, a signal that it’s OK to not have it all figured out, and that the greatest comeback isn’t on a football field — it’s in putting your life back together. Sharing this is the first step in turning my personal hell into a source of hope. And in that, I’ve found a purpose more meaningful than I ever could have imagined. 

My perception of weight growing up

I remember sitting at the dinner table, watching my little brother force food down his face, because he needed to get big like me to see if he could live his college football dreams. He would sit there crying and could not leave the table until he finished the last bite of chicken or had to finish his PB&J sandwich.  

Myself, I was always bigger, and weight was not something I struggled to put on growing up. I was in the mid 200s most of high school. Giant for most people, but right where I needed to be. I always knew I was going to need to be in the 300s and never really considered myself fat. 

My father — a former defensive lineman at Iowa, who had a cup of coffee in the NFL — is 6-foot-5 and weighs about 300 pounds. A large man with the widest shoulders you would ever lay your eyes on. 

Growing up in his shadow and wanting to be just like him, it was my goal to get as big as him. He taught me the ropes of how to work out and play ball. My father and I never really talked about his weight growing up — post-college, that is a different story. When I was a kid, I always considered him healthy and a normal weight. I was pretty ignorant of the struggles he goes through and what commands his attention on his health.  

He has former teammates that when their career ended, they would go one of two ways. They would either continue to eat and not work out. They would balloon up and become overweight. On the other hand, you would have people who would focus on their health, and you would never even know that they played.  

My post-playing career was not a main focus, but reflecting, this was always on my mind. What did I want to look like post-career? 

Monitoring weight gains and losses in college

College rolled around, and while redshirting my first year it was all about gaining weight and strength.  

I had friends like wide receiver Chris Finke, who would struggle to eat food and even keep food down. He would sit by his locker and lose his breakfast almost every morning.  

Coaches and trainers would ride our asses to eat more at training table, take an extra meal home and finish our weight-gain protein shake. This sounds like heaven to most people: being forced to eat steak, chicken, potatoes, fruit, grains, and all the snacks you could imagine. For people like Finke, this was not the case. This was almost harder for someone like him than the actual workouts!  

It was a full-time job eating and training as a redshirting player. Sitting in some of our first-year business classes, it was funny looking around and seeing my teammates eat eight-egg omelets during a lecture. Basically, going from morning workouts to eating all day in class, back to afternoon practice and then back to eating all night.  

Every night before I would head back to the dorms I would load up my backpack with all the snacks you could imagine. Most would be for me, but I would also distribute the free grub to my roommates and other people in the dorm. Almost felt like Santa bringing the “toys” in my bag for all my friends. 

On the other hand, I had teammates who needed to cut weight. Now this was actually hell for them. There were cases of people eating poorly, and it was their fault. Many people were not educated in what and what not to eat.  

A lot of these teammates used sheer size as a way to dominate throughout high school. Being bigger than everyone else is simply not an option for most in college. Finding the right weight for each individual, where they can maximize their ability, is key. Some guys lost the weight and realized their potential. Many really struggled throughout the years to eat right.  

I had a roommate who would come back from a weekend of eating and drinking and would be up 15 pounds on Monday morning weigh-ins. We were college athletes. Eating pizza and drinking beer is what we did! His body simply did not lose the weight from a big shit or a Sunday morning sauna session.  

For this teammate, his weight was always on his mind. He would constantly get texts from coaches asking where he was at that morning weight-wise and would hound him about being five pounds overweight.  

I would feel so bad for him sitting at training table. I would be eating my steak and ice cream sundae, while he would sit there with chicken breast and a bowl of yogurt. He would still gain weight after two workouts and fasting all day. His body just responded to the food differently than others.

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

The difference in diet choices 

While it was hell to not eat or hell to be force-fed food, we all faced these battles. 

I can joke about all of this, but honestly, we were spoiled, and it was truly awesome to get to know the cooks and the nutrition advisor at Notre Dame. These are world-class people, who will do anything to help you accomplish your goals.  

We had lots of picky eaters, and they would adjust just about anything to accommodate these needs. I had teammates who would not eat any fruit or veggies, teammates who would not eat any seafood, and teammates who would not eat if their food touched other food. Some weird eating habits, but the nutritionist would work with each one of us and build out a custom program.  

One of the craziest eaters had about 5% body fat, and I am not exaggerating when I say he would only eat chicken fingers from Dairy Queen. If anyone else ate this diet, they would be 30% body fat and be a terrible athlete. This guy was just built differently, I guess!  

We had meals after wins on Sundays called “Victory Meals”. This is a death row-type meal. Steak and lobster. Crab rangoons and fried rice. Ice cream and cheesecake. Just about anything you wanted you would get. Winners get good shit as coach Brian Kelly would always say.  

When I reference my teammate above, the wild thing is that he would walk upstairs to dinner, check in and show face and then go get some fast food fried chicken. Never understood, but to each their own. He was in a lot better shape than I was! 

Pros and cons of weight gains

I was a pretty basic eater and did not need any special treatment. Gaining weight and strength was not a struggle. I knew the task. I came into college at about 275 and needed to be at least 290 to really compete with some of the specimens I would be playing with and against.  

As you started to gain weight, you could honestly feel your body changing. I still never considered myself fat. I was never embarrassed to take my shirt off. My non-athlete friends never made fun of me at all. I felt strong, powerful, and on the right path! Still, I had that voice in the back of my head talking to me about what I wanted to look like post-career.  

I mentioned my body changing. A lot came with gaining weight. I was stronger and able to compete on the field more effectively. I could now take a bull-rush from a 300-pound D-lineman! I would not get pushed around like a little freshman. I could bench press 225 pounds 20-plus times! I was on the path to being an ass-kicker. These were the positives. 

The negatives also came with this body change. I was getting beat up. Waking up with a hurting back, a knee that would ache walking downstairs, and consistent concerns about more serious health issues. We would all live in the training room and walk around with ice wrapped around every joint. 

How an eating disorder impacted my life

My struggles didn’t end with the eating disorder, but it certainly cast a long shadow. 

When I finished my Notre Dame football career in the 2019 Camping World Bowl, I weighed 305 pounds. I dropped all the way down to 155 in May 2023. I started losing weight gradually at first, but then I resorted to not eating once the weight loss slowed down. 

That period of rapid weight loss, the complete unraveling of my physical and mental health, left scars. It’s not something you just “get over.” It’s a daily negotiation with yourself, a constant awareness of food, of my body, of the voices in my head that used to dictate so much. The discipline that made me a successful athlete became a weapon against myself.  

Now, it’s about re-channeling that intensity, that drive, into something constructive, something healthy. It’s about recognizing the triggers, understanding the patterns, and actively choosing a different path.  

And honestly, it’s exhausting sometimes. It’s a reminder that even when you’ve seemingly conquered a beast, its shadow still follows you. The biggest struggle now is accepting that this is a part of my story, not a detour, but a fundamental shift in who I am and how I perceive myself. 

The eating disorder wasn’t just my battle; it was a bomb that detonated in the middle of my family. I saw the worry etched on my parents’ faces, the way my mom would watch me at dinner, trying to subtly gauge what I was eating.  

I felt the immense pressure of being the “big brother,” the one my little brother looked up to, the one who was supposed to be strong and invincible. Instead, I was a shell of myself, physically wasting away, emotionally distant.  

I felt a profound sense of shame, like I had failed them all — failed as a son, failed as a big brother, failed the image of strength I had always projected. They cried about me, and knowing that, knowing I caused them that pain, is a burden I still carry. 

My low point is etched in my memory with brutal clarity: standing in an airport, and having my wife, the woman I love more than anything, carry my backpack, because I was simply too weak. Me, the former offensive lineman, the guy who could bench press 225 pounds twenty times, was reduced to a state where a simple backpack was too much.  

The shame burned through me. I felt utterly useless, exposed, and vulnerable. I had no energy to do anything. Every movement, every conversation, felt like I was going through the motions, operating on fumes. 

People looked at me differently. I could feel their eyes, their silent questions, the pity or concern in their gaze. The athletic build that had defined me, that had been a source of pride, was gone, replaced by gauntness and an unmistakable fragility.  

That perception, the shift in how others saw me, only amplified the self-loathing. I felt like I was losing everything — not just my physical self, but my connections. I almost lost a lot of my closest friendships, because I was so consumed, so detached. And honestly, I almost lost it with family as well. 

During that time, I couldn’t enjoy anything. Parties, gatherings, simple jokes, even times that were supposed to be celebrations — they all felt like a chore. The joy was sucked out of life. I became angry, short-tempered, and perpetually tired. I found myself snapping at people, lashing out, not caring about others because I was so lost in my own suffering.  

I hurt people I loved. My mother-in-law, who had always been so kind and supportive, bore the brunt of some of my misplaced anger. My sister-in-law, too, felt the sting of my bitterness. And my wife, the one who deserved endless patience and love, often received my frustration and despair.  

I scared my parents with how little I resembled their son. There were times I would just cry by myself, huddled in the dark, overwhelmed by the mess I had made of myself and the pain I had inflicted on those who cared most. It was a dark, isolating hell, and the ripple effects of that period still echo in my life.

The lasting physical toll of football

Beyond the internal battles and the mental shifts, there’s the undeniable, constant reality of the physical toll that football demanded. The aches and pains from college weren’t fleeting; they were precursors to a lifetime of maintenance.  

My body, once a finely tuned machine built for collision, now carries the indelible marks of countless battles. I have the battle scars to prove it: multiple surgeries, a torn pec from a particularly brutal hit, a broken wedding ring finger that still sometimes aches in the cold. And always, the quiet, lingering fear of head injuries, the long-term unknowns that hang over so many of us who played the game. 

The most recent, and arguably the hardest, physical challenge came last August when I got my knee replaced. It was nothing short of miserable. After years of grinding, that joint finally gave out, a culmination of all the stress and impact.  

The recovery was brutal — a level of physical pain and helplessness I hadn’t experienced since perhaps my worst days of the eating disorder. Moving felt impossible, and daily tasks became monumental efforts. Thank God for my incredible nurses, who also happen to be my mom and my wife. Their endless patience, their willingness to help with every mundane, painful step, was everything.  

Living for a couple of weeks on an ex-teammate’s couch in South Bend, away from my own comfort, while trying to navigate that level of recovery, was pure hell. The irony wasn’t lost on me — I was back in the shadow of Notre Dame, but in the most vulnerable, un-athletic state imaginable. 

Even through that haze of pain and medication, the drive, in a twisted way, was still there. I actually logged in and worked the day after getting my knee replaced. It sounds insane, probably was, but there was this stubborn refusal to fully succumb, to completely stop moving forward.  

That, too, I owe everything to my wife, Nina. She was my constant through that hard physical process, cheering me on, pushing me when I needed it, and simply being there when I felt utterly defeated. She saw me at my weakest, and her unwavering support was the fuel for every agonizing physical therapy session, every slow, painful step. 

The process of rebuilding has been agonizingly slow. For months, just walking without a limp felt like an impossible dream. But recently, the light at the end of the tunnel has become a reality. I just started to jog again, a simple act that felt like a monumental triumph. And incredibly, I just finished walking a marathon. It’s a testament to how far I’ve come, a quiet victory in a life that once celebrated only the loudest ones.  

This challenge, this ongoing physical reality, will always be a part of me. There’s no undoing the wear and tear. But when I look back, even with the surgeries, the pain, the fear, I can honestly say: it was all worth it.  

To live the dream of playing college football at Notre Dame, to follow in my father’s footsteps and experience that unique brotherhood and challenge — my only regret is only having one body to give to Notre Dame. It was worth every single ache, every scar, every single moment. 

Gratitude for my support system

Through all the darkness, through the periods of profound weakness and isolation, there has always been a light, a network of incredible individuals who became my absolute rock. It’s easy to get lost in the depths of despair, to feel like you’re alone, but looking back now, with clearer eyes and a healthier mind, I see just how many people refused to let me fall completely.  

My high school friends, the guys who knew me before the Notre Dame hype, before the weight, before the sickness — they never wavered. They were there, steady and unwavering, offering a normalcy that felt like a lifeline when everything else was chaos. They saw the “old me” even when I couldn’t, and that quiet consistency was a powerful anchor. 

But if there’s one person who deserves endless credit, it’s my wife, Nina. I truly could not have done anything without her. She witnessed the absolute worst of me, the skeletal figure, the raw anger, the distant stare, the complete unraveling of everything I thought I was.  

She carried my backpack when I couldn’t carry myself, but more importantly, she carried my spirit when it felt utterly broken. She never gave up on me, never stopped seeing the person I was, and the person I could be again. Her love was fiercely patient, stubbornly hopeful, and entirely unconditional.  

She didn’t just stand by me; she stood for me when I couldn’t stand for myself. Nina’s presence, her unwavering belief, was the single most powerful force in my recovery. She taught me what true love means, not just in words, but in action, day after brutal day. She celebrated the tiny victories and weathered the crushing setbacks right alongside me. I am forever in her debt. 

Today, looking in the mirror, I can finally say it: I feel like myself again. And not just the old self, but a stronger, more resilient version forged in the fires of that struggle. The fog has lifted, the gnawing hunger for control has receded, and the world looks vibrant again. I actually look forward to all those times I listed above — enjoying parties, genuinely laughing at jokes, being present with friends and family.  

The energy has returned, not the manic, driven energy of my playing days, but a steady, sustainable vitality. Work no longer feels like an endless, meaningless grind; I’m finding purpose in providing, in building, in contributing. The passion for life, that intrinsic desire to engage with the world and experience its joys, has come flooding back. 

I know I’ll always be working on my relationships, nurturing those bonds that were strained but never broken. My family, every single one of them, played an indispensable role in pulling me back from the brink. I will forever be grateful and in debt to them for their patience, their love, and their unwavering support.  

My dad was there, pushing me, yes, but pushing me back towards health, reminding me of the strength he knew I still had, even when I couldn’t feel it. He showed me how to pick myself up, reminding me that feeling bad for yourself only gets you so far; at some point, you just need to work harder, fight harder, and climb your way out.  

My mom was the emotional rock, a constant source of comfort and unconditional love, always there to listen without judgment, to offer a hug when words failed.  

My siblings, they let me vent. They listened to my frustrations, and they remained my best friends through it all, even when I was at my most difficult.  

And my in-laws, Nina’s parents, embraced me with such loving acceptance, never making me feel like a burden or a disappointment, only a beloved part of their family. 

Now, I genuinely enjoy going to the gym, not as a means to achieve an arbitrary weight, but as a way to feel strong and healthy. I’m actively working on becoming more easygoing, shaking off the rigid control that once defined me, letting loose and becoming a bit more of the old me — the one who enjoyed life’s simple pleasures without constant internal calculation.  

I know I won’t ever fully recapture those moments I lost, those years that were consumed by illness, but I am fiercely committed to being the best brother, son, and family member I can be, making up for lost time with presence and love. 

I look forward to the future with a deep, abiding sense of optimism. I envision building a home with Nina, starting our own family, sharing beers with friends on a patio, and simply enjoying the everyday beauty of life.  

I am profoundly, undeniably blessed with this incredible support system, this constellation of people who refused to let me stay lost in the darkness. They are the reason I am here, vibrant and whole, ready to embrace whatever comes next.  

My story is a testament not just to personal struggle, but to the overwhelming power of love and perseverance. 

Part 2: Former Notre Dame OL Trevor Ruhland searches for purpose through love, work