The Hilinski Family Won't Stop Fighting a Tragic Issue That’s Not Going Away
Sports Illustrated
Editor’s note: If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide or is in emotional distress, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
Sometimes, Pat Fitzgerald’s mind still drifts back to last October. His players at Northwestern traveled to Nebraska for a pivotal game in a difficult season. Their coach would prefer to forget the final score—a 56–7 thumping—and the 3–9 record from last year. No, Fitzgerald’s mind lingers on the start of the third quarter and what happened in the stands.
Inside the Cornhuskers’ home venue, Memorial Stadium, both teams took part in College Football Mental Health Week. They wore H3H wristbands, No. 3 decals on their helmets and lime green ribbon pins in support of Hilinski’s Hope, a nonprofit organization that provides resources to support the mental health of college athletes. The players were joined by coaches, administrators and fans who packed into a stadium with a 90,000-seat capacity.
At that moment, when the third quarter kicked off, so did this week defined by raising—money, awareness and, most of all, hope. Everyone held three fingers high, same as the jersey number of the Hilinski family’s middle child, Tyler, who died by suicide in January 2018. His younger brother, Ryan, played quarterback for the Wildcats, layering in additional significance. Ryan threw for 256 yards and a touchdown, despite heavy pressure that netted Nebraska four sacks. And he, too, thought back: to the brother he lost, the work his family immersed itself in and the lives they’ve saved in the last three years. “Definitely a highlight,” Fitzgerald said in a phone interview last week. “It was a special opportunity to be a part of.”
When the Hilinski parents, Mark and Kym, started College Football Mental Health Week in 2020, that’s precisely what they wanted: for those seven days—always in early October—to elicit the kind of emotions, deep and visceral, that led to more widespread change. They were cautious about asking Northwestern to participate, because they didn’t want to push anything on the university where Ryan played. But Fitzgerald wasinterested, in part because he believed that Northwestern already did a lot of work in the same area. When school officials signed off, the choice was easy.
Hilinski’s Hope will hold the same event this year, according to the Hilinski family, Oct. 1–8. It will feature an expanded roster of participating programs, stronger ties to other entities (like the Pac-12 and its broadened mental wellness efforts) and more engagement with athletes from other sports.
That part—the broadening of aims and reach—is what’s important. When Tyler Hilinski played for the Cougars, Washington State didn’t have a full-timer staffer focused on mental health. Every athlete at the university went to the same part-time mental-wellness practitioner, and the volume of those who needed appointments made it difficult to schedule them. Every program that partakes in the week will at least be thinking about these issues. The Hilinskis hope that coaches and administrators consider adding staff, or programming, or even simply put deeper thought and consideration into a tragic issue that’s not going away.
For all the work that the Hilinski family and many other groups have done, for the millions of dollars raised and the thousands of eyes opened, college athletes continue to die by suicide. In recent months, that included Katie Meyer (Stanford soccer goalie), Lauren Bernett (James Madison softball catcher), Robert Martin (Binghamton lacrosse goalie), Jayden Hill (Northern Michigan track) and Sarah Shulze (Wisconsin track and cross country). “It’s heartbreaking,” Fitzgerald says, “just tragic.” All competed in the same complex, difficult incubator, their days jammed with practices and classes and immense pressure. They might have seemed invincible compared to their non-athlete peers. But that’s the exact kind of faulty expectation the Hilinskis are trying to change.
It’s also why the foundation’s work continues. Why they convinced more than 50 universities to participate this time around, from Baylor to BYU, Drake to Duquesne. Washington State will partake for the second-straight season, as will its rival, Washington. All any school must do to join is: 1. wear the pins or the decals (or both); 2. encourage those three fingers held high during the third quarter kickoff; or 3. undergo an internal assessment of its mental health resources, along with training for players, coaches and staff. Many programs choose to do all three.
Hill says the Wildcats in particular feel the impact of the Hilinski family. Ryan had chosen South Carolina over Northwestern during his initial recruitment, but Fitzgerald liked him and saved his number. In the spring of 2021, a text message popped up on his phone. Ryan wanted to transfer; he was interested in the Wildcats. After Fitzgerald checked with his compliance department and confirmed Ryan was in the transfer portal, they began another recruitment—one that, this time, ended in a match.
When Ryan’s family moved with him to Illinois, they created another mental health awareness cocoon, and not by pushing anything on the program but by the example that they set. Fitzgerald says they were easy to embrace. He found Ryan, now 21, wise beyond his age. He saw more awareness in his players, along with more empathy and understanding. Ryan, meanwhile, got familiar with PURPLE (Peers Urging Responsible Practices through Leadership and Education), a Northwestern organization that focuses on the metal wellbeing of all its athletes. Ryan spoke to them and many other groups, hoping to remind all of his brother. Tyler Talks, the family calls those.
None of the typical fears—that a player who’s struggling with mental health rather than a physical injury will be considered “weak” or benched—materialized. When Harry Miller, an Ohio State offensive lineman, “retired” from college football and told the Today show that he had fought depression and suicidal thoughts, his decision was labeled a “medical issue.” As it should be, but rarely has been. That, too, marked progress.
Much work remains, on all fronts. But while the Hilinski parents plow forward and onward, Fitzgerald hopes they can see what he does.
“From a heartbreaking tragedy came an amazing legacy,” he says. “We could all learn from that—and them.”
