When Flight 217 crashed into the Colorado mountains on a foggy morning, the news spread across the country. Among the four victims was a name that silenced the Illinois State University community: Professor Harold Bennett, 52, who had just been named “Inspiring Teacher of the Year.”
That day, at 9 a.m. sharp, his “Applied Psychology and Resilience” class began its first session. Students flocked to the classroom, still thinking the teacher was just running late. When the news flashed on their phone screens, the classroom fell silent. A few students burst into tears. But then, just minutes later, the unexpected happened: they all received an email from Harold Bennett himself.
“Hello,
This week we’re going to learn about the true meaning of resilience.
Imagine if everything you depended on—your faith, your loved ones, your goals—suddenly disappeared. What would you do?
Don’t look for the answer today. We’re going to explore it together.”
No one knew that the email was scheduled to be sent an hour before takeoff.
Bennett was someone every student remembered—a teacher who didn’t like to grade on a numerical scale, but always asked, “How well do you know yourself?”
He lost his wife in a car accident 10 years ago, but he never talked about the pain. He just said, “There are some inevitable breakdowns, but you can still choose to rise up beautifully.”
On the fateful flight, he was scheduled to go to Washington to give a lecture on “The Psychology of Post-Traumatic Stress Recovery.” No one knew that it would also be his last lecture—not on a podium, but with his life.
Sarah Miller, a senior, was the first to open the email. She was crying uncontrollably. She had told him she wanted to drop out because of depression after losing her father. Bennett had said,
“If you can’t find your reason to continue, help someone else find theirs.”
Three days after the memorial, Sarah wrote a brief note on the department bulletin board:
“You never finished your research project on human resilience. I want to continue in your place.”
At first, only five people signed up. But the number grew — 10, 20, then more than 100 students from across the department. They didn’t just want to do research; they wanted to take his final lecture out of the classroom.
The project was called “Stand Again.”
The goal: to understand what makes people continue to live after great loss.
The students traveled across the United States, interviewing survivors of natural disasters, accidents, and wars. Each story they recorded was a small piece of resilience.
Sarah interviewed a former firefighter who lost both legs but still became a trainer for people with disabilities.
Ethan, an engineering student, built software that analyzed emotions in voice to measure a “mental resilience index” based on people’s stories.
Maya, a communications major, created a documentary called “The Resilient” — chronicling that journey.
Whenever the group felt tired or wanted to give up, they would open up an old email from their teacher:
“Resilience is not about not falling down. It’s about choosing to keep going, even when your heart is broken.”
The project was completed exactly one year after Mr. Bennett’s death. They submitted it to the National Social Research Awards. No one expected to win; they just wanted him to be remembered.
On the day the results were announced, Sarah took the stage on behalf of the group. When the MC announced the name:
“First Prize goes to the University of Illinois – Stand Again Project.”
The audience stood up and applauded. Sarah burst into tears, pulling out an old letter from her pocket — one that her teacher had sent her in 2022, when she was at a point of despair:
“Sarah, sometimes we can’t teach anyone anything except to live our own lessons. If I leave first, remember that my last lesson is:
No one can teach you resilience — except the times you stand up.”
The hall fell silent. Sarah said, choking up:
“Sir, your lecture is still going on. Today, more than 300 students stood up for you.”
After the awards ceremony, the organizers announced something that stunned the group:
When they checked the school’s systems, they discovered that the email the student received the day of the crash had not been sent just to that class — but to all 3,000 students in the database.
The email had been scheduled to be sent at 9:02 a.m. — just eight minutes before the plane crashed.
Bennett never had a chance to cancel the send.
And the strangest thing: in the email’s signature, there was an extra line that no one had seen before — possibly added right at the airport.
“If one day I can no longer stand on the podium, let you be the ones to teach this lesson again.
The world doesn’t need more perfect people. It needs people who know how to stand up.”
Two years later, “Stand Again” became a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping people who have experienced psychological trauma. More than 10,000 people have been helped.
A new hall was dedicated on the University of Illinois campus, named:
“Harold Bennett Resilience Hall.”
In the center of the main lobby, a plaque reads:
“This week, we learn the true meaning of resilience.”
– Harold Bennett (1972–2023)
Every year, on September 5—the day Mr. Bennett died—students and faculty gather to tell their own stories of how they fell, and how they got back up.
Sarah, now a psychologist, stands at Mr. Bennett’s old podium, opening the lesson with the same words he once said:
“If you ever feel like everything is falling apart…
Remember, resilience is not the strength to win, but the will to not give up.”
The morning sun shines through the old glass window, illuminating a picture of Harold Bennett hanging on the wall. He smiles—as if he’s still teaching a lesson that will never be finished.
