People often think football saved my life. That someday returning to the field and becoming one of the best was what helped me rise from the ashes of my addiction. Truth is… if anything saved my life, it was music.
I decided I was going to start making music just days after I got drafted into the NFL in 2015, unbeknownst to anyone for the first couple years. And let me tell you: those years were fucking dark! But writing a song and figuring out how to record myself (terribly, might I add) always produced a flicker of genuine joy that helped me to keep trudging through that darkness that was my life.
During that time, my use of painkillers, alcohol, and weed had skyrocketed in an attempt to cope with the depression, anxiety, and constant attack of negative thoughts that held my mind captive. Mind you, this was while I was in the NFL, with every box checked on the list of things I wanted to accomplish. Or at least I thought I wanted to…
Making music throughout the time painted the picture of a stark contrast that I was blinded to. As Darren Waller the football player, I was successful, but I was successful at what I thought others wanted me to be. In the quiet moments of making music by myself, I began to see that the excitement and satisfaction I would feel was because, for the first time, I was tasting the freedom of doing something that I wanted to do, detached from the expectations of others. What a foreign concept that was…
Early on in my life, I kept finding myself in situations where I never felt a part of the whole. I was often told I wasn’t “black enough” or that I was basically white. I was too nerdy for the kids I played sports with, but was usually the only black kid and athlete in the advanced classes I was enrolled in. I always felt like I had to go out of my way to impress the people that were cool so that I could extract validation from them. It made for a pretty lonely existence as a kid, and addiction feeds on isolation.
That isolation led me to death’s door on August 11, 2017 when I overdosed on fentanyl (which I thought was my usual Percocet pickup) in my Jeep in a grocery store parking lot. I went to rehab and returned back home ready to build a new life now that my football career was over, at least in my head.
Around that time is when my music began to shift from just trying to rap in impressive fashion to using music as a form of therapy and authentic expression of what was actually going on inside of me. On my first project, Better Call Wall (2017), I wrote a song called “Made Of” which began with these opening lines: “For me to still be alive, yeah a ***** lucked up, shit/Surprised God still love me but I’m glad He do, even though a ***** in some fucked up shit”. Pretty authentic, I’d say. That song was a powerful step for me. A step forward into embracing exactly who and where I was. Something I was too afraid to do before.
And let me say this: There is nothing wrong with having that fear. It’s something we all face whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. Becoming self-aware is hard, uncomfortable work, and it can often be more comfortable to wallow in the thoughts and patterns that keep us miserable. Trust me, I know all too well. But what lies on the other side of that fear is a life that is infinitely more meaningful and fulfilling even with all the difficulties that life hands us. I write this letter today closer to eight years sober and I am seven, maintaining my core spiritual and mental practices daily, happily retired from the NFL, and exploring who I truly am and what I want my life to look like going forward.
All that being said, I’d be lying to you if I said I’m completely at peace. The uncertainty of my future can create feelings of anxiety and feat that can be pretty intense. Nobody has retired while still having seemingly so much left in the tank. I’ve played ball since I was 4, and I’m 32 now. So, naturally, there is grieving and discomfort that comes with change. I often have to remind myself that I would rather pursue a path with no certainty that my intuition is leading me down than to remain trapped in a life that is successful at the surface but suffocating beneath it. That’s not a decision that everyone is making, but, for the sake of my mental health, I can no longer base my life off of the opinions of others.
Trying to maintain that mindset and protect my peace requires daily discipline and resilience. The world we live in is always tempting us to move faster than we want to go, so a lot of my tools center around slowing down and remaining in the present moment. My days are undoubtedly more peaceful when I start with prayer, meditation, and a morning walk outside. I have two therapists (one talk therapy, one EMDR-focused) that I see once a week that help me navigate daily challenges, rewire belief systems, and change the relationship I have to traumatic events in my past. A journal is rarely outside of arm’s reach, because I always benefit from a good word vomit to clear out my head. On top of my creative process, I consistently make time for activities in nature, recovery meetings, intense workouts, service work and deep conversations with family and friends. Staying rooted in these practices helps keep me anchored when waves of life get choppy, as they often do.
I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, but I do know that this chapter of creation will move me closer to where I’m heading, if it does nothing else. There are so many parts of me that have been suppressed that I’m finally getting to know through the music I’m making today. May you find yourself through every work of art you bring to life.
Peace,
Darren
