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Accepting retirement from professional football has felt like stepping into a landscape shaped by loss and uncertainty. Even when the decision is rational, even when the body is signalling that it’s time, there is something profoundly emotional about acknowledging that an era of your life has ended.
To me, it felt very much like grief. The shock, sadness, anger, confusion and numbness mirror the emotional responses that accompany any major loss I’ve experienced. But instead of mourning the loss of a loved one, you are mourning the loss of a part of you – a big part. For years football provided direction, belonging, inspiration, purpose and validation. A sense of being part of something bigger.
Letting go of that has meant confronting the void left behind: the routines that no longer exist, the purpose that now feels blurred, the identity that suddenly feels uncertain.
There’s also the weight of stepping away from the fight. As a footballer, adversity is normalised: you battle injury, compete for selection, push through fatigue and constantly strive to prove yourself. It shapes your mindset and becomes part of how you understand yourself.
So, when retirement looms, letting go of that instinct to push harder becomes its own emotional challenge. Your mind whispers that the battle can’t continue indefinitely, the body sometimes shouts it, and part of you knows it’s time to listen. But a deeper part resists, because fighting and blocking out pain is what you’ve always done, and in many ways has been an important part of your success.
Recognising that compassion for your body is now the healthiest path forward takes courage. It is a step into the unknown, where uncertainty breeds fear and anxiety. But, as the author and psychologist Susan David suggests, “Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is fear walking. It’s moving toward what matters.”
When I reflect on why leaving the game feels like losing a source of validation, it leads me back to childhood. Growing up with a neurodiverse brother meant that a large share of my parents’ emotional and practical energy understandably went towards him. My perception as a young child was probably that achievement would be my way of securing attention and connection. Success – the goals scored, the praise earned, the good behaviour, the “impressive” outcomes – became a mechanism for reassurance: I’m seen, I’m valued, I matter.
Professional football, with its constant cycle of judgment, selection, performance and validation, is a continuation of that early psychological pattern. The sport rewarded the very protective behaviour that once helped me feel safe and loved.
So, retiring also means dismantling a coping strategy shaped across decades. It means facing the parts of myself that still crave external validation, and learning to anchor self-worth in something less conditional, less dependent on the highs and lows of performance. Therapy has helped immeasurably with this process, but there is still work to do.
This underlines why it is essential for players to build and maintain identities beyond football. When the whole self is wrapped up in a single role – athlete, performer, competitor – the loss of that role can feel devastating. The transition becomes not just a career shift, but an existential crisis. Encouraging athletes to cultivate other domains of meaning – relationships, hobbies, education, professional development – creates psychological resilience that pays dividends when retirement arrives.
Preparing players early doesn’t diminish their commitment to football; it strengthens their wellbeing and longevity, during and after their playing careers. It helps athletes understand themselves as more than their stats, their squad number or their matchday performance. It provides continuity, purpose and a sense of competence not dependent on physical capability or selection decisions.
The extremely high prevalence of mental health difficulty post-retirement is cause for pause for anyone involved in the football industry, especially players, parents and those involved in player care. I was aware of this but felt that my qualifications and outside interests would insulate me from the hurt of saying goodbye to the game I love. So why didn’t it? On reflection, the answer is simple. I was using a square peg for a round hole, trying to solve the intangible complexity of emotion with the tangible practical career planning I’d done.
The connection you get with your teammates and fans when you score; the approving nod from a manager; the feeling of belonging and being valued; looking your teammates in the eyes in the dying minutes knowing: “We’ve got this”; the feeling you get seeing everyone celebrate a promotion you’ve helped bring about. This is all intangible. None of it goes into numbers. But it matters, these human connections. It’s what makes the game beautiful.
In football, especially men’s football, we tend to want solutions now and in black and white, because often the nature of the game demands it. But there is real value in patience, care and compassion for players and the environment around them. It is only now I see that the road to my healing of emotional loss and becoming whole again lies next to my chosen path of becoming a sport psychologist. Because it is therapy from a sport psychologist that will heal the psychological wounds inflicted in early life, throughout a football career and in the wake of one. And it is in becoming a sport psychologist that will allow me to provide the therapy to players and teams also in need of healing and deliver the remaining pieces of the puzzle that brings success on the pitch.
David Wheeler made 627 career appearances for clubs including Exeter and Wycombe
