Remembering Greg Eells, Six Years On

Reflection on Mourning in the Shadow of a Giant at Cornell

By Lex Enrico Santí, LCSW, MFA

On September 9, 2019, the Cornell community lost Dr. Greg Eells, the former director of Counseling and Psychological Services. Though his passing by suicide came at a moment of transition—just as he was beginning a new chapter at the University of Pennsylvania—it sent quiet shockwaves through our campus and across higher education. Six years later, his absence is still deeply felt.

Greg’s national reputation in student wellness was well-earned. Yet for those of us who knew him beyond the headlines, he remains first and foremost a presence of warmth, steadiness, and conviction. In CAPS, we still talk about him—his integrity, his humor, his thoughtfulness. His presence lingers in staff culture, in hallway conversations, in how we still try to show up for one another. The song of Greg’s life—despite how it ended—still rings sweet for many of us.

This is an AI rendering of what a memorial for Greg might look like. We are hoping to partner with Cornell's leadership to begin a fundraising campaign to honor his memory and legacy at Cornell.

I never technically worked for Greg—but I wouldn’t be doing the work I do today without him. At the time, I was an administrator, not yet a therapist, and he took me under his wing. We’d meet for lunch and talk about the hidden layers of student distress, the long game of resilience, and how mental health work on a campus like Cornell’s could feel both overwhelming and profoundly meaningful. He once told me, “When you get your license, come back—I’ll have a spot for you.” That day never came. But those conversations stayed with me. They pushed me toward clinical training and helped me find my way to the role I now hold: standing in hallways, sitting in small rooms, having big conversations with some of the brightest, most driven students in the world. What an incredible chance—and what a place—to help others. I carry Greg’s influence with me into that work every day.

This year, that resonance is shaped by context. We live, collectively, in a haze—straddling the space between pre- and post-COVID life—trying to understand how our habits, rituals, and ways of gathering have changed. If grief once had structure, it now often floats untethered in our digital lives, without clear markers or communal pauses. That makes the act of remembering, and naming, all the more necessary.

On Tuesday, September 9 at 5:30 p.m., Greg’s family and local friends will gather at Stewart Park’s large pavilion to walk the Waterfront Trail to the bench dedicated in his memory. It’s an informal event—a ritual of movement and nature, two things Greg loved. Snacks and drinks will be shared at the bench, and those who prefer not to walk are welcome to join directly there. If it rains, the gathering will move under the covered area of the Ithaca Farmers Market nearby. All are welcome.

And still, many of us—clinicians, staff, students, and friends—are waiting. Not in anger, but in quiet hope. We’ve reached out to university leadership to begin a dialogue about how Cornell might formally honor Greg’s contributions. As of now, we haven’t heard back. We understand the weight Cornell leadership carries and the sheer volume of demands on their attention—but we also believe this conversation matters.

What might it look like to create a space on campus where Greg’s name, work, and values are remembered? A plaque. A lecture. A garden. Many of us want to see his bike, which he lumbered on back and forth from campus, his large frame inconically enduring in the face of Ithaca's many hills and trials. Perhaps though, simply, a place to sit and reflect. Something. A gesture of permanence that reflects his belief in resilience, in compassion, and in institutions capable of healing.

Because Greg gave his life to the work of helping others find strength. A memorial—not just for him, but for all who carry this work forward—would offer powerful closure to a wound that remains open for many.

For those who never knew Greg, or who wish to revisit his voice, I share his TEDx Talk, Cultivating Resilience—a beautiful reflection on how resilience is not fixed, but grown. It’s a message as relevant now as it was then.

Six years on, we are still learning how to grieve well. May we also learn how to remember well.

Namaste.