How UConn handled my friend’s suicide still affects me over a year later 

I felt my body begin to tremble as I shot up from my living room couch. I yelled out to my father. My voice cracked in pain and disbelief, “Dad… my friend Jackson is dead.” In that moment, I knew that my soul had forever changed. Suddenly, the chair next to me in all my classes was empty. His name no longer showed up in my notifications when he would have texted me. I would never watch him draw and I’d never be able to show him my drawings again. No more late-night adventures. No more hugs. Just… pure silence.  

On March 7, 2024 at around 9:30 in the morning, my close and dear friend Jackson had committed suicide by jumping from South Garage in front of Gampel Pavillion. The screeching of the emergency sirens resonated, and within minutes it seemed like everyone across campus had heard about what had happened. What followed were the worst months of my life. Countless tear-filled, sleepless nights followed by mornings where I found myself unable to find the strength to lift myself out of bed. It was hell, but his absence was not the only pain I was suffering from. I was also in deep pain from feeling as if the administration at UConn was indifferent to my loss.  

For many months after Jackson’s suicide, I found myself in deep, pain-filled confusion. How can my friend, who I had just seen the night before and who showed no signs of suicidal ideation, take their life in such a public, violent and gruesome manner? While I will never understand why he took his life, I have found my own semblance of peace in knowing that his passing amplified a universal truth. His final act disrupted the normalcy of the suffering we witness in our daily lives. It forced people to see that suffering isn’t just some background noise that we hear in the news on a day-to-day basis, but instead something that is deeply ingrained into each and every one of us. We cannot plug our ears to the screams of the suffering. Our suffering, no matter what form it takes, deserves the utmost attention, compassion and respect.  

Immediately following Jackson’s suicide, I stared at my inbox, waiting patiently for what I assumed would be the university’s reassuring, supportive campus-wide response to such a traumatizing and heartbreaking moment on our campus. I remember those days where I was revisiting my inbox numerous times. Day after day, I thought, “it’ll come tomorrow.” I’ll never forget the tightness I felt in my chest, waiting and anticipating when the university was going to acknowledge those of us who had their lives shattered into a million pieces because of the tragedy that occurred on their soil. But that acknowledgement and support never came, although there was an email sent to the Digital Media & Design department, of which Jackson and I were both students, along with one for the School of Fine Arts in general, one of the smallest departments on campus with minimal reach to the overall UConn community. The only campus-wide administrative acknowledgement was one small link among many in the Daily Digest one day, left to sit unopened in students’ inboxes among the many unread blast emails they receive. I was shocked. Even though the news of his passing was known by a vast majority of people on campus, the university refused to address it with their community directly. Their lack of acknowledgment instantly made me feel as if my suffering didn’t matter. Jackson’s life didn’t matter. I felt abandoned, and I was forced to carry that. I still feel that shock to this day, I will probably always feel it.  

The most painful moment in my grief was just a few months after Jackson’s passing. Immediately following his suicide, a makeshift memorial was created where he had done the unthinkable, filled with flowers, notes and gifts to him. As I was working a year-round job on campus, I revisited the site in the summer. I couldn’t help but notice that almost all off those little gifts and trinkets were gone somehow. So, I decided to freshen it up to keep his memory alive. I went to Price Chopper and bought a beautiful bouquet of roses. I pulled over next to the garage, and I wrote a note expressing how much I missed him and how lost I felt without him. I got out of my car, left my gifts and sat beside them. Even though I still felt hopelessly lost in life, I found comfort in physically honoring his memory. Later that same month, I drove past where I left my flowers, only to see that the flowers and note were gone as if they were never there. I found myself feeling angry and confused. I instantly wondered who would think that touching my flowers was justifiable in any way, but that anger quickly changed to hopelessness. My love for Jackson was physically wiped away, and there was nothing I could do but look at the empty concrete. 

The message was loud and clear. The university that I had poured my blood, sweat and tears into, the one that tells us to “protect our pack,” the place where Jackson had touched the hearts of many people and the place I had called home for nearly 3 years, told me that my grief was unwelcome here. That even though you will never look at that garage the same way ever again, you cannot change the way anyone else sees it. You cannot make those that idealize this university see it in any other way than that. You cannot view it as Jackson’s final resting place, and any attempt to do that publicly will not be tolerated. But even more heinous than that, they are telling everyone that Jackson’s pain should be silenced. That his final act should not be known. That suffering does not deserve empathy. It does not deserve respect, only indifference. This is how I feel about the place that I attend nearly every single day, and people still tell me that I should be proud to be a Husky. To turn a blind eye to the pain they have inflicted upon me and so many other countless people, and to instead be proud. This moment told me, “We will be the first to tell you about the fact that we won a national championship but will remain silent when we lose a Husky on campus in a brutal, public act. The idea that we are the basketball capital of the world and that so many people would do anything to be in your position is far more important than the pain you have endured here and now.” 

I still remember how I felt when I knew I was going to go to UConn. When I was in elementary school, my class visited the campus. It was one of my favorite field trips I took as a kid. We got free ice cream from the Dairy Bar, and the breakdancing club dropped some crazy moves in our faces that my 11-year-old mind was barely able to comprehend. I never forgot what I said when I came home that day. With my face bright-eyed, filled with optimism, and high on Dairy Bar ice cream, I ran to my mom and told her, “Mom! I want to go to UConn!” And now, nearly 10 years after that campus visit, my bright joy for UConn has been completely dismantled. Now when I walk around on campus, I feel an extra weight I have to bear. Simple everyday actions and places bleed with Jackson’s shadow. Every time I see a campus tour, I don’t look at the families and feel excited for them. Instead, I feel a sense of sadness. What if one of these kids loses their close friend in the future? What if one of these parents loses their child in the future? Sometimes, when I see these people near me, I feel the need to warn them, “Life will be a lot harder in the future than you’d think. Please don’t take the path that Jackson took. Please… take care of yourselves and each other. Because at the end of the day… that’s what I know what Jackson would’ve wanted people to know. To take care of each other. Don’t let the world continue to be so relentless that you have to bear witness to a tragic loss like his.” 

I am grateful to Jackson in many ways. He was the first artist I had ever had such a strong bond with, and I don’t think I will ever meet another artist whose work impacted me in the same ways that his did. He was sensitive, empathetic and sought the beauty, fun and love of this world. And even when we had our differences, neither of us let that dismantle our connection. I feel confident in saying that if Jackson continued to live his life, we would’ve both remained in each other’s lives for years to come. Even though the institution that was responsible for helping him develop ended up failing him in death, many of us still remember him and keep his memory alive within us. 

I will never forget the time I left flowers for Jackson once again in the fall semester. Even though my previous flowers were wiped away, I didn’t care. I was going to continue doing it for as long as I felt I needed to. The sky was overcast, and the breeze had a bite to it. I once again sat next to the flowers I had brought for him. But this time, something different happened. A random student I had never met previously approached me. After explaining that I was close with Jackson and was still struggling with grieving him, she offered me a hug. Even though the world has been so incredibly harsh, I have also met beautiful compassion. Important people may not have felt the weight of Jackson’s final moments and the sentiment it resonated, but many others did. As long as I am here, I will continue to pick up exactly where Jackson left off. Until the day I die, I will always emphasize the importance of compassion, love, dignity and respect. No matter what it takes. I’m still here.