Britt DiGiacomo is a New York–based writer with an MFA in creative writing from
Manhattanville College. Her novel, “The Pace of Nature,” currently in submission, draws from her time as a student at Hyde School and explores how trauma, silence and survival shape a young girl’s life.

It has been over six months since former student Jessica Fuller filed a lawsuit against Hyde School. She claims students endured abuse, forced labor and lasting emotional harm. The case is still active, but it is moving slowly, not because the claims lack merit, but because of legal rules.

Since the lawsuit was filed in Maine by a Massachusetts-based firm, Fuller needs a local lawyer for the court to proceed. At the same time, Hyde has asked the court to dismiss the case entirely before it even reaches trial.

Right now, the court has not ruled on whether the claims are true, and is only considering whether the case can continue. That means the story is far from over, even if the process feels frustratingly slow. The motion to dismiss, which would prevent the case from being fully examined, is telling.

What is most troubling, regardless of legal outcomes, is Hyde School’s continued refusal to acknowledge or take responsibility for the harm reported by former students over decades. Accounts include allegations of physical mistreatment, forced labor framed as discipline and systems of emotional manipulation that blurred boundaries and caused long-term damage.

Accountability is not solely about financial liability. It is about recognizing patterns of harm and addressing them honestly. Hyde cannot plausibly claim that nothing was wrong when numerous former students, across generations, describe similar experiences and outcomes.

Concerns extend to institutional practices, including the hiring of inadequately trained staff, failures in oversight and disciplinary systems such as the “Brother’s Keeper” model, which placed inappropriate responsibility on students to police and report one another. These methods, once defended as “character building,” fostered fear, shame and silence rather than growth or safety.

None of this suggests that every person associated with Hyde acted with ill intent, or that no one benefited from their time there. But complexity is not a shield. An institution can have moments of good while still causing profound harm. I know this because I experienced both.

Group therapy and journaling helped repair my relationship with my parents. At the same time, I often felt untethered, as though I lived inside an institution rather than a community. I did not know who I could trust. The constant threat of being held back a year for making a mistake created a sense of fear and entrapment that followed me long after I left. These contradictions are precisely why accountability matters.

What is hardest to understand is how some alumni reflexively defend Hyde, despite knowing what occurred within its walls. Accountability is not an attack. It is a necessary step toward truth, healing and prevention. The lawsuit may take time. It may even face dismissal. But the stories are not going away, and neither is the need for Hyde School to confront its past instead of hiding behind legal tactics.

Decades of trauma cannot be erased by motions, arguments or technicalities. Hyde School has a choice: live up to its own values of honesty, integrity and accountability, or continue hiding behind them. Will it accept responsibility and make meaningful change? The time to act is long overdue.

To Hyde, I say this: Own up. Apologize. You used to tell us to “clean our consciences.” Now it’s your turn. Do it. Admit the harm you caused openly, and take real steps to make sure it never happens again. Or keep hiding behind your slogans. But don’t call it integrity.