From Olympic Gold to Mental Health Advocate: Derrick Adkins’ Story

Derrick Adkins’ story doesn’t follow the path you might expect.

On paper, it looks like a dream. He’s a 1995 World Champion. A 1996 Olympic Gold Medalist in the 400-meter hurdles. A coach who has worked with elite athletes at Georgia Tech and Columbia University, and mentored Olympic champions like Angelo Taylor and Dalilah Muhammad.

But behind the medals and milestones is a story that feels much more human. One that speaks to the complexity of mental health, the long road to understanding it, and the quiet role movement can play along the way.

Today, Derrick brings that perspective to Still I Run as a member of the advisory board, helping guide the movement forward.

A Childhood That Started Simply

Derrick didn’t grow up chasing Olympic dreams.

He grew up on Long Island, where running was just something to do after school. His parents wanted him and his sister to stay active and engaged, so they signed them up for track when he was around seven years old.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t intense. It was just part of life.

Through middle school and most of high school, he describes himself as average. Maybe a little above average, but not the kid winning every race or standing out in a big way.

That changed in 11th grade.

Something clicked. He started winning races. He started seeing what might be possible. That momentum carried him to a scholarship at Georgia Tech, where he became an All-American and began building the career that would eventually lead him to the Olympic stage.

When Success and Struggle Collide

For most of his running career, things felt steady.

Even as he improved and began competing at higher levels, he had a strong sense of control over his body. One detail stands out in his story: through years of hurdling, he rarely hit a hurdle. He didn’t fall. He didn’t struggle with the technical side of the event.

Until suddenly, he did.

During his senior year of college and into the early years of his professional career, Derrick started running at faster speeds than ever before. And with that came something new. The mechanics of hurdling became more difficult. His timing changed. His rhythm shifted.

For the first time, he started hitting hurdles.

And falling.

Over a relatively short period of time, he experienced three major concussions.

At the time, it felt like a physical challenge. Something to recover from and move past. The visible symptoms faded quickly. Within a few days, he felt physically fine.

But something else was happening beneath the surface.

A Shift He Couldn’t Explain

About three months after his final concussion, Derrick began experiencing depression.

It didn’t come with a clear cause. There was no major life event. No obvious trigger. No external explanation that made sense.

And that’s what made it so confusing.

He describes it as a lingering, unexplained feeling. A heaviness that didn’t match what was happening in his life. From the outside, he was still a high-performing athlete. Still competing. Still achieving.

But internally, something had shifted.

At the time, he didn’t connect the dots.

Like many people, he turned to therapy. He tried different medications. He searched for explanations, moving from job to job, relationship to relationship, trying to understand why he felt the way he did.

Nothing quite clicked.

The Missing Piece—Decades Later

It wasn’t until 26 years later that Derrick began to understand what might have happened.

At age 50, he came across a book by Dr. Daniel Amen that explored the connection between brain injuries and mental health. One idea stood out immediately: even a single concussion can have long-term effects on mood and brain function.

Derrick started thinking back.

His last concussion had been in the spring of 1994. His depression began in the fall of that same year.

For the first time, the timeline made sense.

That realization led him to seek out more information. He visited Dr. Amen’s clinic in New York and underwent a brain scan. The results showed underactivity in his frontal lobe, an area of the brain closely tied to mood and emotional regulation.

It changed everything.

Up until that point, he had been prescribed serotonin-based medications. But according to the scan, his brain needed something different—dopamine-based support.

The new approach worked.

After years of trying different treatments with mixed results, he finally found something that felt stable. Something that addressed the root of the issue rather than just the symptoms.

That was five years ago. And since then, he’s felt a level of consistency he hadn’t experienced before.

Why Isn’t Anyone Talking About This?

One of the most striking parts of Derrick’s story isn’t just what he experienced. It’s what he didn’t hear along the way.

No one asked about head injuries.

Not during therapy. Not during psychiatric evaluations. Not on intake forms.

And that’s something he still thinks about today.

Why aren’t we asking these questions? Why aren’t brain injuries part of the conversation when it comes to mental health? Why isn’t this information more widely known?

He’s shared his story with others, and the response is often the same. People immediately start connecting it to their own experiences. Their own injuries. Their own unexplained struggles.

It makes sense to them.

But the awareness isn’t there yet.

And that’s something Derrick continues to care deeply about—helping more people understand that mental health isn’t always just emotional or situational. Sometimes, it’s physical.

Sometimes, it’s neurological. Sometimes, it’s both.

Movement as a Steady Anchor

Through all of this, one thing remained consistent: movement.

Derrick continued running long after his professional career ended at age 32. For the next 20 years, running was a regular part of his life.

Not for medals. Not for records. Just for himself.

It became part of his mental health toolkit. A way to stay grounded. A way to feel better, even when things didn’t fully make sense.

Today, that movement looks a little different.

He describes himself as a run/walker now. And he’s completely at peace with that.

Because the purpose hasn’t changed.

It’s still about feeling better. Still about showing up. Still about taking care of his mental well-being in a way that works for him.

Advice for Getting Started

When asked what he would say to someone who wants to start running for their mental health, his answer is simple.

Start small. Really small.

One lap around a track is enough. Do that a few times a week. Then maybe add another lap the following week. Then another.

The goal isn’t to push yourself to the limit.

It’s to create something sustainable.

If it starts to feel stressful or overwhelming, it’s no longer serving its purpose. Movement is meant to help you feel better, not worse.

That perspective fits so closely with what we believe at Still I Run.

Forward is a pace.

And sometimes, forward looks like one lap. Or a short walk. Or simply showing up.

A Story That Expands the Conversation

Derrick’s story adds an important layer to the way we talk about mental health.

It reminds us that not every struggle has a clear explanation. That sometimes, the root cause isn’t obvious. And that understanding our mental health can take time—sometimes decades.

It also reminds us that movement can be a constant, even when everything else feels uncertain.

Whether you’re an Olympic gold medalist or someone just starting your first lap, the reason we move can be the same.

To feel better. To understand ourselves a little more. To keep going.

And that’s a story worth sharing.