Thank You, Auburn Family!”, written in a bold and dramatic tone, perhaps from the perspective of a player, coach, or prominent figure leaving Auburn and delivering a message that is not full of gratitude—instead filled with truth, raw emotion, and unfiltered opinions.

No Thank You, Auburn Family!

For years, I wore the orange and blue with pride. I bled for this program, gave everything I had on and off the field, and poured my soul into Auburn. But now that I’m stepping away—whether by choice or circumstance—I’m done sugarcoating it. No thank you, Auburn Family. I said what I said.

You don’t get to treat people one way when they’re winning and another when the scoreboard turns. You don’t get to call yourself “family” when that word clearly doesn’t hold the same meaning for everyone. For a long time, I stayed silent. I smiled, nodded, and said the right things in interviews. I kept my head down when fans booed. I stayed in the program when I could have transferred. Loyalty? I gave it. Respect? I showed it. But now it’s time you hear the other side.

At Auburn, they sell you a dream. They tell you it’s a family—tight-knit, loyal, unshakable. They show you pictures of legends like Bo Jackson and Charles Barkley and promise you’ll be part of that legacy. What they don’t tell you is how conditional that love really is.

If you’re not a five-star recruit, you better overachieve. If you don’t bring immediate glory to the Plains, the whispers begin. If you speak your mind or stand up for yourself? You’re labeled “ungrateful” or “a distraction.” Auburn Family? No. Auburn Conditional.

Behind the scenes, coaches play favorites. Boosters play politics. Fans turn on you the moment a mistake is made. There’s pressure to smile and wave while battling injuries, family issues, and mental health breakdowns—just so the program can keep a clean image. It’s fake. It’s performative. It’s exhausting.

Let me ask you something: where were you during the bad times?

When I was playing through injury, trying to give the team one more drive, one more play, one more spark—who cared? Not the message boards. Not the fans who screamed for the backup. Not even some coaches. I was expected to be a robot. Show up. Perform. Don’t complain. And definitely don’t tell the truth.

When I missed that one assignment or dropped a key pass or turned the ball over in a clutch moment, my DMs were filled with hate. The same people who wore my jersey in September were cursing my name in October. Some “family,” huh?

I’ve seen teammates get death threats. I’ve seen coaches hung out to dry. I’ve seen fans cheering injuries if it meant their favorite backup would get a shot. It’s a toxic cycle, dressed up in Southern charm and tradition.

Here’s something Auburn fans need to understand: you don’t own us. Players are not property. We’re not characters in your script. We’re young men and women trying to make our way through life, navigating an impossible spotlight where one mistake gets amplified and one success gets minimized.

When NIL opportunities came along, suddenly we were “selfish.” When we entered the transfer portal to chase better fits or better futures, we were “quitters.” But when coaches leave for money, or when schools cut scholarships, it’s just “business.” Double standard much?

Auburn has churned through more quarterbacks, coordinators, and captains than most programs in the last decade. That’s not just a coincidence. That’s cultural. There’s a toxicity rooted deep in the expectations and entitlement that come from people who think yelling “War Eagle” makes them part of your life story.

Newsflash: it doesn’t.

Let’s talk about leadership.

Bruce Pearl? I have respect for the man. He fights for his players. But don’t let the charisma fool you—he also plays the game. He knows when to protect his image and when to distance himself. If you’re winning, he’s your biggest fan. But if you’re slipping, prepare to be replaced—quickly.

As for Hugh Freeze? He was sold to the Auburn Family as some kind of savior. Redemption story. God-fearing leader. Maybe that’s true. Maybe he’s the real deal. But don’t forget—this is a business. And like any business, performance comes first, people come second.

We weren’t players in their story—we were chess pieces. Move us here. Rotate us there. Bench us. Hype us. Forget us. Next up.

Let me pause here and say this clearly: not every fan is toxic. Some of you did care. Some of you checked in, supported us when we were down, and treated us like people first, athletes second. To you, I say thank you.

But you’re not the majority. You’re drowned out by the angry crowd. The ones who call into radio shows and trash players who are 19 years old. The ones who start Twitter wars over teenagers’ decisions. The ones who think yelling at practice is “passion” and booing at home is “tough love.”

I’ve heard it all before—“It’s just passion. Auburn fans care so much.” Yeah, I get it. But when passion becomes entitlement, and support turns to abuse, that’s not fandom. That’s delusion.

You care about Auburn, sure. But do you care about the people behind the helmet? Do you care enough to not blast them on social media? Do you care enough to let them grow and fail without labeling them forever?

Because let me be clear: most of us don’t forget what you said. That comment you posted. That sign you held. That boo you shouted. It sticks. It eats at you. It changes how you see this “family.”

I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just telling the truth.

I don’t regret playing at Auburn. I had moments here I’ll never forget. I met teammates who became brothers. I worked with staff members who genuinely cared. I grew as a person in ways I never imagined. But let’s not rewrite history.

I’m not going to stand at a podium and say, “Thank you, Auburn Family,” when I know the truth is much more complicated. You don’t get a thank you just because you wear the logo. You have to earn it. Some of you did. Most of you didn’t.

Maybe you’ll see me playing somewhere else next season. Maybe I’ll be in the league one day, or coaching, or stepping away from the game entirely. But wherever I go, know this—I’ll carry the lessons I learned at Auburn with me.

And I’ll carry the scars, too.

This place was never just a school. It was a battleground. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I survived it. Barely. And I’m stronger now because of it. But that strength didn’t come from unconditional love. It came from having to fight for respect in a place that only offered it when convenient.

To the next kid who puts on that Auburn jersey: be ready. It’s not all what they promise you on the visit. Be smart. Be careful. Protect your mental health. Surround yourself with the right people—not just the loudest ones. Play for your brothers, your coaches who believe in you, and most importantly, play for yourself.

And to the Auburn Family—check yourself. Before you scream “War Damn Eagle” at the top of your lungs, ask yourself: do you actually care about these athletes, or are they just entertainment?

Because if the love is real, it lasts through the losses. If the family is real, it forgives. It supports. It listens.

Until that happens, don’t expect every player to thank you. Some of us have a different story to tell.

And mine?

No thank you, Auburn Family.

Let me know if you’d like this from the POV of a specific player or situation (like a transfer, firing, or graduation), or if you’d like a more measured or satirical tone.