A gentle trigger warning before we begin: This letter discusses sexual assault, rape, trauma, alcohol and drug use, suspected overdoses, and the lasting effects of sexual violence. I'm also sharing something personal I haven't spoken about publicly before. If this feels too heavy today, please take care of yourself. You can always come back when you're ready.

A Letter From Me to You 💌

Tuesday · October 13, 2026

Cornell Seven: The Conversations I’m Having With My College Freshman

By Jenn Board, Certified Menopause and Wellness Practitioner, author of Silent to Spoken · Published October 13, 2026

Hey you, it's me! 💌

How are you doing? I mean, really, how are you?

This past Sunday evening, I sat down to watch the first episode of The Cornell Seven: IMPACT x Nightline on Hulu, and y'all, I have so many thoughts.

I was taking notes, pausing the documentary, and sharing my reactions with you guys during our live watch. And the more I watched, the more I realized this was about so much more than one documentary.

It brought up questions about college life, consent, personal responsibility, and the conversations I'm having with my own children now that my youngest has started college.

So I wanted to bring that conversation here, too.

What follows are my reactions, the questions that stayed with me, and a few things I've been thinking about long before Sunday night. You might agree with me. You might disagree. That's okay. We don't have to believe the same thing to sit at the same table.

If you haven't watched the documentary yet, you can find it on Hulu. Then come back, read along, and tell me what you think.

Because this is a conversation worth having.

Watch the documentary on Hulu: The Cornell Seven: IMPACT x Nightline

I think part of the reason this story has affected me so much is that I'm in a completely different season of motherhood. My youngest is 17 and just started college. Seventeen, y'all. I know I've said that before, but sometimes I still can't believe it. I came home from spending 31 days on the Camino de Santiago in Spain, and while I was gone, my baby moved out. I came home to an empty bedroom and a house that felt a little too quiet. Suddenly, all those years of raising children, teaching them, correcting them, loving them, and preparing them for the world brought me to a place where I have to trust I've done enough.

And can I tell you something? That's terrifying sometimes.

I want her to have the best college experience. I want her to laugh with her friends, go to football games, make memories, fall in love, make mistakes, and figure out who she is. But then I watch something like this documentary, or I read about the two students who recently died at Ole Miss, and my mind starts going places I wish it wouldn't. Those are separate situations, and you need to understand their circumstances individually. But as a mother, both brought me back to the same question: Have I prepared my children for the things I can't protect them from?

As I watched the Cornell documentary, I found myself questioning a lot. The allegations involve a former Cornell student and seven fraternity members. The men have denied wrongdoing, and accounts of what happened are disputed. There are recordings, messages, questions about consent, and allegations involving alcohol and drugs. I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. I want to be careful about that because I think we've become far too comfortable deciding someone's guilt or innocence from a headline, a social media post, or a documentary.

But the group chat really bothered me. The messages being discussed and the number of young men reportedly included in that conversation made me stop. I kept thinking, where was the person who stood up? Where was the friend who said, 'Hey, this isn't right'? Being included in a group chat doesn't mean every person witnessed something or knew what was happening. I understand that. But it made me think about how difficult it can be to go against the crowd, especially when you're young and trying to fit in. How many times do people stay quiet because they don't want to be the odd one out?

Yesterday, I was talking to my daughter about this letter, and I brought up something I hadn't really thought about before. I told her, listen, I know it's easy for me to sit here as a 44-year-old woman and say I would've stood up and said something. But if I'm being real with you, when I was younger, if I'd had a few drinks and everyone around me was acting like nothing was wrong, I don't know that I would've had the courage to go against the crowd either.

And that's something we need to talk about.

Because standing up for someone doesn't always mean confronting a room full of people.

I told her, if you ever find yourself in a situation where something doesn't feel right, but you're scared to speak up, step away. Go to the bathroom. Find somewhere safe. Call 911 if someone is in danger. You can tell the dispatcher what's happening and ask whether you can remain anonymous. You don't have to announce to everyone that you're the one asking for help.

I kept thinking about that while watching the documentary. What if someone had stepped away and made a call? Could someone have gotten help sooner? Could some of the alleged harm have been prevented? We can't know. But it's a question worth asking.

Sometimes doing the right thing doesn't look like standing in the middle of a room and making a big speech. Sometimes it looks like quietly stepping away and making one phone call that could change someone's life.

I would hope that if my daughter saw a friend becoming too intoxicated or getting into a situation that didn't feel safe, she would step in or find someone who could help. I would hope my son would do the same. But have we really taught our children how to do that? It's easy to say we'd do the right thing when we're sitting comfortably at home. It's another thing entirely when you're standing in the middle of a party, and everyone around you tells you everything is fine.

I started looking into statistics surrounding sexual violence on college campuses, and some of what I found was heartbreaking. RAINN cites national survey findings indicating that approximately 13% of undergraduate students experienced rape or sexual assault after enrolling in college. Cornell's 2025 campus climate survey reported that 35% of undergraduate women who responded had experienced nonconsensual sexual contact since entering the university, compared with 23% in its 2023 survey. Cornell cautioned that the low response rate limits how broadly the findings can be generalized. These are survey responses, not findings about the specific Cornell case. Still, I found myself staring at that number.

Thirty-five percent of the undergraduate women who responded.

I kept thinking about the people behind those answers. How many might still be trying to understand what happened to them? How many told someone? How many didn't? How many went home for the holidays and sat at the dinner table with their families while carrying something nobody knew about?

I've talked with my daughter about drinking and drugs. We've talked about knowing her limits and having a sober partner when she goes out with friends. Take turns. If one person plans to drink, someone else stays sober. Look out for one another. But what happens if the sober friend leaves? What if everyone gets separated? What if the person you thought you could trust isn't someone you should have trusted? I don't want her living in fear, but I do want her thinking about these things before she has to make a decision quickly.

One practical thing I've done is make sure she has Uber downloaded on her phone, with my credit card saved in the app. She knows she can pay for a ride if she needs one. But I've also told all my children something I hope they never forget. Call me. Anytime. Anywhere. I don't care what time it is. I don't care what you were doing. I don't care if you made a mistake. If you need to leave somewhere, call me. If you need an excuse, I'll be your excuse. Tell your friends your mom is being ridiculous and making you come home. Blame me. I'll happily be the bad guy. Or call me, and we'll figure out a plan together right there in the moment. And if you're too impaired to get home safely, call another trusted adult or me so we can get you help. There will be no punishment for needing an escape.

I mean that with my whole heart. Because I would rather have an uncomfortable conversation with my child the next morning than spend the rest of my life wishing they'd called.

The recent news about the two students who died at Ole Miss also prompted a conversation with my daughter about Narcan. Their deaths were under investigation, and suspected overdoses had been reported while toxicology findings were pending. We talked about keeping Narcan in her apartment and learning how to use it. Sometimes I wonder whether my kids listen when I bring these things up. Am I overreacting? Have I already told them this five times? And then she looked at me and said, 'I was actually going to talk to you about it.' I can't tell you how much that meant to me. She had questions, too. She was thinking about these things. I was grateful she felt comfortable bringing them to me.

A quick note from me: I'm a mom sharing the conversations I'm having with my children, not a medical doctor. This information is for educational purposes only and isn't intended to replace professional medical advice or emergency care.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), Narcan is a brand of naloxone, a medication that can reverse an opioid overdose. If someone is unresponsive or not breathing normally and you suspect an overdose, call 911 immediately, administer naloxone if available according to its instructions, and stay with the person until emergency help arrives. Follow the emergency dispatcher's instructions, including CPR if directed.

I hope none of our children ever need it, but I'd rather they know what to do.

You can learn more about naloxone and overdose response through the CDC's official resources.

Official medical source: CDC: Lifesaving Naloxone

I've had these conversations with my son, too. We spend so much time teaching our daughters to be careful. Don't drink too much. Don't leave your drink unattended. Don't go somewhere alone. Watch who you're with. Those conversations matter. But what are we teaching our sons? I've told my son that if a girl has been drinking or taking drugs, wait. Even if she seems interested, wait. I want him to understand that consent matters and another person's vulnerability isn't something to take advantage of. I want him to be the kind of young man who will tell his friends when they're crossing a line, even if it makes him unpopular.

I also believe we have to talk about personal responsibility. I know that's difficult when discussing sexual assault, so please hear my heart. We should teach our children about the risks of drinking too much or taking drugs. We should teach them to recognize when their judgment might be impaired. But nobody deserves to be sexually assaulted. Not because they drank. Not because they went to a party. Not because they trusted the wrong person. Someone can make an unsafe decision and still be the victim of a crime. Those two things can be true at the same time.

As a parent, that's one of my biggest fears: one night, one decision, or one mistake could change my child's entire future. But eventually they'll make decisions without us standing there. Sometimes that's the hardest part of motherhood. Learning to trust them while knowing the world doesn't always offer second chances.

There was another part of the documentary I struggled with, and I know some of you may disagree. I'm concerned about how quickly accusations and names become public. I believe survivors deserve to be heard, and allegations of sexual assault deserve serious investigation. I also believe in the presumption of innocence. I don't think we should have to choose between those principles. I kept wondering whether everyone should have greater confidentiality during the investigative stages. I understand why people reporting sexual assault may need anonymity, and I also worry about the consequences of publicly identifying accused individuals before the facts have been fully examined.

I thought about the 2006 Duke lacrosse case. Three young men were accused of rape. The charges were dismissed, and North Carolina's attorney general declared them innocent in 2007. In 2024, the woman who accused them publicly admitted that she'd fabricated the allegations. False accusations can happen, and when they do, the consequences can be devastating. That case doesn't tell us what happened at Cornell. Every case deserves to be examined on its own evidence. But it reminds me why due process matters and why we need to be careful about deciding what happened before an investigation is complete.

I want people who have experienced sexual violence to feel safe coming forward. I want them treated with compassion and taken seriously. And I want accused individuals to receive a fair process. I want both. We should be able to talk about that without assuming someone is against survivors or against the accused.

And I think part of why I feel so strongly about how we treat people who come forward is because there's something I haven't told you before.

I've been sitting with whether to share this. I know once I put it out there, I can't take it back. But I've thought about it, and I'm ready.

I was sexually assaulted. And I didn't speak. For years.

Even writing those words feels strange because I couldn't have imagined saying them publicly. I wish I could tell you I understood everything that happened to me right away. I didn't. I wish I could tell you I knew how to process it. I didn't know how to do that, either. And I wish I could tell you that once the experience was over, it stopped affecting me. But it didn't.

It followed me into other parts of my life. Into relationships. Into intimacy. Into moments when I couldn't understand why something that was supposed to feel good didn't. There were years when I struggled to enjoy sex, and for a long time, I didn't understand the connection. I didn't have the language for what I was experiencing. I didn't have the tools I have today. I was trying to figure out why certain things felt the way they did.

I wonder how many men and women reading this have quietly asked themselves similar questions. Why can't I relax? Why don't I enjoy this? Why do I feel uncomfortable? Why does something from years ago still seem to affect me? Maybe you've experienced sexual assault. Maybe you've been pressured into something you didn't want. Maybe you've had a consensual sexual experience that was rougher than you expected and left you frightened or confused. Those experiences aren't all the same, but they can affect how we experience intimacy afterward. Sometimes we don't recognize those connections until years later.

I'm in my mid-forties, and I'm still learning things about myself. Still understanding parts of my past. Still finding words for things I carried quietly for a very long time.

When I think about the younger version of myself, the woman who didn't speak, I know what she needed. Compassion and understanding. That's it. Someone who would listen without immediately judging her. Someone who would help her make sense of what happened. Someone who would tell her she didn't have to figure it all out alone.

Maybe that's why I care so much about the conversations I'm having with my children now. I can't go back and give that younger version of myself everything she needed. But I can try to give those things to my children. I can make sure they know that even when they make mistakes, even when something happens they're afraid to tell me, they can still come home. They can still tell me the truth.

My children and I don't agree about everything. We have different views on religion, politics, and plenty of other things. But I hope they know they don't have to agree with me to be loved by me. I can listen without agreeing. I can ask questions without attacking. I can be concerned without making them afraid to tell me the truth. And when something difficult happens, I want my first response to be, 'Are you safe? What do you need? How can I help?'

I know I won't always get that right. I'm human. Sometimes my fear comes out sounding like frustration. Sometimes I want to rush in and fix everything. Sometimes I have to remind myself that my children are becoming adults. That's where I come back to my P.A.U.S.E. Framework™. Pause. Acknowledge. Understand. Surrender. Emerge. Sometimes the most important thing we can do is pause long enough to hear what someone is trying to tell us before deciding what they need.

I think about how different my own experiences might have felt if someone had known how to do that for me. And I hope I'm becoming that person for my children.

That's part of why I wrote Silent to Spoken. Because I know what it feels like to become so comfortable with silence that you almost forget you have a voice. I know what it feels like to carry things you don't know how to explain. Sometimes finding your voice isn't one big moment. Sometimes it's a hundred little moments where you decide you're not going to hide another piece of yourself.

So here I am. Silent to spoken. I'm going first.

If you've experienced sexual trauma, it's never too late to speak. You don't have to tell the whole world. You don't have to share details you're not ready to share. You don't even have to know exactly what to call your experience before reaching out for help. But you deserve compassion, understanding, and the opportunity to work through what you've been carrying, with support from someone you trust. RAINN's National Sexual Assault Hotline is available any time at 800-656-HOPE (4673).

As I finished the first episode, I kept thinking about how much parenting is learning to let go. We spend years teaching our children how to walk, talk, make decisions, and find their way. Then one day they pack their bags, move into dorm rooms and apartments, and begin lives that no longer revolve around us. We're supposed to trust that all those little conversations mattered.

This is a heavier conversation than the ones we usually have around here, but I think it's an important one. If you're a parent, talk with your children about drinking, drugs, consent, and looking out for friends. Ask whether they have a safe way to leave an uncomfortable situation. Ask what they'd do if someone needed help. And please, make sure they know they can call you.

If you've watched the Cornell documentary, I'd love to know what stood out to you. Did something make you uncomfortable? What do you think about confidentiality during investigations? What conversations should we be having with college students? Write to me through my pen pal page. We don't have to agree, but I hope we can listen with compassion.

And if you're the man or woman reading this who has carried something quietly for years, I hope you know you're not alone. I hope you find someone safe to talk to, someone who will listen and offer the compassion and understanding you deserve. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can hear is that someone else understands.

And one more thing. If this letter made you think of someone, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a mother, or someone carrying something quietly, please share it with them. Share it with a parent who needs a reminder to have these conversations. Share it with someone who may need to hear that it's never too late to speak. You never know who might need these words today.

Don't quit in the quiet.

I love you. Stay sweet out there.

~ Jenn

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