THE EVOLVING LEGACY OF HALE ROSS’S LIFE AT YALE
By Jack Ross, ‘79
“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”
(Quotation from Steve Prefontaine on poster in Hale’s bedroom)
“Be the best version of yourself as measured in light of the circumstances in which you find yourself, not by some Platonic ideal.”
(From The Dark Lining of the Prefontaine Mantra: Lessons From Hale Ross’s Life at Yale)
Content Warning: Suicide
It has been 4 ½ years since my son Hale, Class of 2018, ended his life in his suite in Calhoun (now Grace Hopper) College on a Sunday afternoon in October. Recently, I was re-reading my piece about Hale that was published in the Yale Daily News Magazine several years ago: The Dark Lining of the Prefontaine Mantra: Lessons From Hale Ross’s Life at Yale. [https://yaledailynews.com/blog/2018/05/05/the-dark-lining-of-the-prefontaine-mantra-lessons-from-hale-ross-life-at-yale/] I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion when I reached the passage where I described our final conversation on a Saturday evening after he had turned in a disappointing performance in the Ivy League cross country meet at Princeton.
I wrote: “That final conversation is forever etched in my memory. He was distraught about his performance. I fumbled for things to say to make him feel better. I later wondered whether I could have been more supportive or asked more questions.” Sobbing as I read these words, I wondered what I might have told Hale that perhaps could have altered the tragic events of the following Sunday – “I love you. Nothing with cross country or at Yale really matters that much. You will always matter more than anything.”
But I didn’t say anything like that. I didn’t see the need to. I had been there before with Hale’s disappointments. I was frustrated. Nothing I could say would change what happened in Princeton or, more importantly, Hale’s assessment of his performance. I probably said something like “well, there’ll be more meets. Don’t dwell on it.” But there would be no more meets. No more anything. I was oblivious to Hale’s innermost thoughts, unaware that he stood on a fateful precipice. Maybe Hale didn’t even see that he was close to the ledge that Saturday night.
. . . . .
Over the past several years I have often dissected the events of October 2016, struggling to find answers to the question I posed in my article: “So what we can we take away from Hale’s life and death? How can such a vibrant soul and accomplished athlete participate in a meet on Saturday, socialize with friends that evening, run with his team the next morning, then perish quietly in his dormitory in the afternoon?” The truth is, we will never know what thinking pushed Hale to his tragic decision. I theorized about this in my article. But theories are unsatisfying, and even the best theory can’t bring back a life that has been lost.
I did the best I could to help Hale navigate the mental turbulence that beset him in October 2016 after “the dreaded demons returned.” Probably nothing I could have said or done would have averted the tragedy. But over the past few years since my article was published, I have come to understand that out of the most painful and tragic loss can come meaningful self-reflection, inspiration, and hope; that Hale remains a guiding force in my life; and that sharing his experience has changed – even saved – the lives of others.
. . . . .
As time passed, I had sporadic thoughts of writing about Hale. But these thoughts never crystalized. I sensed that I would write something when the time was right. Perhaps some of the same traits that plagued Hale – perfectionism and unrealistically high expectations – created a barrier to facing the task.
Hale had been inspired by Steve Prefontaine’s all-out commitment to running – giving nothing less than your best. So it is only fitting that inspiration for my writing struck serendipitously when I picked up my copy of the New York Times on March 4, 2018. The front page contained an obituary of Roger Bannister, who broke the four-minute barrier in the mile run in 1954.
I was enthralled with the account of Bannister’s life and the parallels to Hale’s intense dedication to running. Bannister had written about “the mental agony through which an athlete must pass before he can give his maximum effort.” I knew well that competing in running represented a supreme mental and physical challenge for Hale. Echoes of the daunting Prefontainian mantra emanated from the pages of the newspaper. The time to write had arrived. Without giving any thought to an outline, I relocated to my kitchen table and just started writing. I wrote most of the day, churning out about 4,800 words.
As the piece evolved (writing projects like this take on a life of their own, often meandering down unforeseen paths) it became more than just a tribute to Hale. Although there is much about his remarkable life deserving tribute, Hale’s story and mine are intertwined in a number of ways. We struggled with similar demons (I very nearly met the same fate as Hale at age 46) and faced the challenges of living up to exceedingly high expectations at Yale, where we followed in the footsteps of our fathers.
Moreover, I was an intimate part of the last, fateful leg of Hale’s journey. We had grown closer through his mental health struggles – starting with his shocking leap from the fourth floor of Bingham Hall his second semester, which resulted in stints at Yale-New Haven Hospital and Yale Psychiatric Hospital and necessitated a leave of absence.
I visited Hale a number of times in New Haven after he returned to Yale; we sometimes played golf on the Yale course where I had watched him compete in his first cross country meet. Over dinners, I listened to his stories about his college exploits and realized how much he loved Yale even as the stress he placed on himself took him to dark places.
During my last day with him in October, as we took in a football game in the Yale Bowl and enjoyed a leisurely dinner, I assured him that he could weather the bump he was experiencing. I subsequently shared details of my personal struggles with depression; he seemed to find hope in my recovery. He was willing to reach out and talk – until October 30, when the demons took his brain to an irrational place and he lost perspective on “the vast worth of his life that far transcended Yale.”
As I continued to write, I sensed the need to do more than relate Hale’s life and struggles. I wanted to put Hale’s life in perspective, to send some message to students at Yale. I wrote: “I would urge you to endeavor to maintain a healthy perspective on who you are as a person – your intrinsic worth – apart from all the accomplishments and goals that drive much of what you do and how you think about yourself.” In retrospect, I wish had conveyed this message more clearly and forcefully to Hale on our last day together in New Haven. I just didn’t know he was so close to the precipice.
I cautioned in the article against the wholesale adoption of the Prefontainian mantra that Hale lived by: anything less than your best is unacceptable. I observed that sometimes the standard of “our best” must be tempered by our human frailties and the unexpected bumps we encounter. That it is okay to ask for help. And that the intrinsic value of one’s life is not defined by GPAs, graduate school admissions, and job placements. Yet, I had doubts whether students at Yale would be able to hear such a message through the din of unrelenting expectations and hyper achievement that enveloped Hale.
I sent the piece to New Haven, figuring that publication was a longshot. But the editors at the Yale Daily News Magazine found my piece moving and important in light of Yale’s continuing struggle to better grasp and address the historically taboo problem of mental illness, and made an exception to their policy of publishing only student work. I worked with my editor to trim 1,000 words. It emerged a much better piece.
There was one final hurdle. A faculty member who knew Hale well and with whom I had made a connection through his ordeals expressed concern about the emotional impact of the article on his friends. I was sensitive to these concerns. The last thing I wanted to do was inflict emotional distress on students. After discussing the matter with the editor, I concluded that, on balance, the article was likely to do far more good than harm. The piece was published in May, shortly before Hale would have graduated.
. . . . .
The reaction to the article dispelled any lingering reservations about the decision to publish. I was overwhelmed by messages from students, professors, alumni and others who found the piece moving and even lifechanging. I was struck by the outpouring of emotion in some of the emails I received. Some shared intimate details of their struggles with mental illness, or the loss of family members and friends to suicide. Readers admired my courage in writing the piece. Many were touched by Hale’s character and wished they could have known him. I even heard from runners who found a link to the article on a running website.
I also heard from many of my Yale friends. Some were brought to tears. Several were surprised to learn of my struggles at Yale, and wished they could have helped. Like Hale, I did a pretty good job of concealing the demons. One classmate who was struggling with difficult mental health issues told me that my article was instrumental in regaining emotional balance.
Many of the emails that I received testified to the deep impact of the article on the Yale community:
I read your essay: incredible. Your love for Hale, your honesty, your message about the inherent worth of people superseding self-imposed mantras, comes through thoughtfully and beautifully. This must have been painful to write? And cathartic perhaps? It’s a loving and magnificent tribute to Hale. [A Yale classmate]
I wish the campus had been more aware – indeed, talked about it more, as you suggest, even when it’s hard. Thank you for your call to action and for your comforting words for the students of today. You are a wonderful father and a powerful writer. [Recent alumnus]
Please know that words like yours, from experiences that are incomprehensively horrible, do improve and even save the lives of others. I know I will not be the only one to read, save, and re-read your essay. Thanks for writing it. If there is anything I’ve learned from facing sudden loss it is to be kinder, to reach out to people, and to offer love when I can. You are doing that in bearing your heart on your sleeve, and helping the rest of us learn from your experience. [Student email from Sterling Library]
Thank you for the beautiful, heartbreaking, and courageous piece about your son Hale and your relationship. What an extraordinary gift to the Yale community and beyond. I cannot fathom the depth of your loss and my heart goes out to you. I know how many people were deeply touched by Hale’s life and death. [Yale Professor of Psychiatry who in his private practice had treated some of Hale’s teammates after his death]
I was heartened to read of your journey to recovery, as well as the fact that you have been able to free yourself of responsibility tied to Hale’s passing. I know that writing this piece was likely no simple task, but I felt so moved by it that I thought I would let you know it affected me deeply. Thank you for writing it, and thank you for your continued work in helping students address this issue. [Recent graduate who lost a classmate to suicide his sophomore year]
Thank you for the immeasurable contribution that you have made to our community in your reminiscence of your son’s life. I’m very sorry that I never had a chance to meet this extraordinary young man. Skewed values and insecurities are endemic to Yale, and it’s very dangerous and wasteful to define yourself by externals such as GPAs or financial success. Rather, we should focus on what we can do for others. [Yale College professor]
But the most powerful letter arrived out of the blue on Thanksgiving Day, six months after the article was published. I was in Michigan with a good friend for the holiday. It was from a Yale student. The subject line of the email read “Thank you.”
I am writing to you about a piece you wrote in the Yale Daily News last May. Today, as I think of things that I am thankful for, I thought it would be appropriate to write to you.
Your piece truly touched me, and it is something that I think I will carry for the rest of my life. Many of the things that you wrote about were things that I felt but couldn’t articulate.
By writing that piece, you helped me to understand some of the internal hardships that I have been struggling with – this sense of ‘Prefontaine Mantra.’ By putting those feelings into words for me, you have allowed me to seek the resources and support that I have needed.
I wanted to write to you today to express my sincere thanks. Your courage saved me.
Thank you for your bravery, and thank you for sharing the story of your son.
It is hard to describe the sense of gratitude that washed over me as I read that email. I realized that the article not only had an impact on the Yale community and beyond, but might in fact have averted another Prefontainian tragedy. What endeavor could be more important?
. . . . .
After my article was posted to the Class of ’79 Facebook page, I was asked to give a TED Talk about Hale at my 40th Yale reunion two years ago. I started the talk with a reference to a sign placed by the Samaritans (a suicide prevention organization) on the Bourne Bridge leading to Cape Cod: “DESPERATE? CALL US. WE’LL LISTEN.” I explained that it is often difficult for people struggling with a mental health crisis to reach out, and that it is critical to listen carefully when they do. A slideshow of photos of Hale ran on a loop. I ended the talk the same way Hale ended his high school graduation speech in the wonderful tradition of the Potomac School in McLean, Virginia. I entreated my classmates to “go well.” They, in turn, responded “stay well.”
The talk marked a reorientation in my relationship to Yale, where my own demons often had relegated me to the fringe of the academic and social order. In fact, I had skipped most of my reunions, warded off by a haunting sense that my years at Yale fell far short of their potential. Now I received a standing ovation from my classmates in the same auditorium in SSS that I once stumbled into for 9:30 a.m. history lectures barely awake, unprepared, and feeling unworthy of my place at Yale. I was overwhelmed. A classmate told me that my talk broke down barriers and changed the tenor of the weekend.
Over the remainder of the weekend, I had extended talks with people I never knew during college, some of whom shared intimate stories about battles with mental illness. As it turns out, I was far from the only person in my class who struggled with depression and anxiety but managed to conceal the anguish from his peers. I believe that, over the past 40 years, Yale has made strides in fostering conversation about mental illness, expanding treatment, and reducing stigma. Much more work remains to be done. The Prefontainian mantra is an intractable foe.
Paradoxically, although Hale’s life ended tragically that Sunday afternoon in October 2016, sharing the lessons from his life in my article and my TED talk revived my own connection to Yale. The reunion represented a culmination of my work over many years to forge a more positive and grounded sense of myself, attain acceptance, and ultimately to make a meaningful contribution to my Yale community. I might have reacted to Hale’s death by distancing myself from Yale; instead, talking about his life actually brought me much closer to my class and my college. I fully belonged. I think that would please Hale.
. . . . .
Was it serendipity that led me to spot that obituary in the Times? Or was it Hale’s spirit that dropped the newspaper at my door? Life unfolds in unpredictable ways. It is somewhat ironic: while Hale emulated Steve Prefontaine, Roger Bannister was instrumental in dislodging whatever barrier had impeded my writing about the painful, incalculable, and still perplexing loss of my son. By sharing Hale’s story, I believe I have brought some meaning from his death, helped others come to terms with their struggles, boosted awareness of mental illness at Yale, and quite possibly have saved lives.
Hale’s story is not over. He inspires me to live life as he did, trying my best to embrace the world with kindness and compassion. Helping others when I can. Listening carefully to people who are struggling. Striving, as he did, to be “the best version of myself” but always with an acceptance of my flaws and limitations. We can all keep a little bit of Hale alive in the world if we focus on these fundamental truths and values. The world will be a better place if we do.
I couldn’t save Hale. But sharing the story of his remarkable life has changed me profoundly, and, it seems, has helped others wandering in psychic darkness to find light and hope. My journey continues, but with a new focus. Hale is a part of that journey each day. I am walking in his footsteps.
By Jack Ross.
