When a Place of Healing Turns Hostile: My Duquesne Story

By Kelly Rae Robertson, MS, MSCJ, LAPC, CCTS, NCC | Mindful Coast Counseling

There are betrayals you brace yourself for — and then there are the ones that shatter you in an instant, leaving you gasping for air because you never saw them coming. For me, the deepest wound didn’t come from family or work — it came from Duquesne University, a place that once represented safety, healing, and pride.

As an undergraduate, Duquesne was everything I needed it to be. Life at home was chaotic, abusive, and unpredictable. Duquesne was the one place in the world where I felt — and was — truly safe. No one there knew my story, so I got to start over — to be like everyone else. After years of carrying my father’s death, my mother’s blindness, and her abusive behavior, that chance meant everything. On campus, I could finally breathe. I could finally just be me.

Father Sean Hogan, the priest in charge of student life, became like a father to me. He was larger than life, despite being short in stature, and he carried himself with quiet strength. You’d see him strolling down Academic Walk in his Ray-Bans, stopping every few feet as swarms of students called out to him. His thick Irish accent, warm smile, and fierce compassion made you feel safe and seen with just a wave.

Campus life back then was filled with moments that made Duquesne feel perfect. We students used to joke about the infamous winds that whipped across campus. Duquesne sits high on a bluff along the Monongahela River, and it became like an old ghost story or unsolved phenomenon. No matter which way you walked, the wind always seemed to blow in the opposite direction, pushing you back. We weren’t just walking to class — we were fighting for our lives.

Thus, the “bear crawl” was invented and used extensively. It was always funny to see new students, especially those from warmer climates, spinning around with hats blown off, papers flying everywhere. As upperclassmen, it was our duty to take the young lads aside and give them the survival briefing: bend your knees, lean forward, head tucked down, no loose clothing, all papers secured in a zipped backpack with both straps on your shoulders.

This isn’t high school anymore, kids — you’re in the big leagues now. Nothing important or valuable in your hands unless you’re okay with watching it fly off to a land far, far away. Ski goggles are optional.

And as we veterans spotted the chaos unfolding, we’d look at each other and wordlessly assign rescue missions: “I got this one. You get that one over there stuck in the bush.”

I wrote for The Duke and took photos for the Alumni Association. I’ll never forget photographing the Homecoming football game — in the entirely wrong exposure. Every single picture was blurry. My defense? “Well, they lost. And for all we know, they were running so fast it wasn’t the wrong exposure — it was their superhuman power.”

Father Hogan was at the heart of it all. He was always the in-demand priest for marrying students, though he had retired by the time I asked. I called his office three days in a row, pestering his patient secretary, hoping for a different answer. On the third day, I finally said, “Tell him I’m the student with the blind mother and the dead father.” Two terrible things to be known for, but honestly, that’s how I’d been identified since I was 14. This time, the secretary returned with a new message: “Tell her I will marry her.”

I couldn’t wait for my soon-to-be husband to meet Father Hogan. When we sat down to plan the ceremony, I introduced them with a grin, already snickering because I knew something unforgettable was about to come out of Father Hogan’s mouth. He shook Eric’s hand and said, “Eric, marriage is a bureaucracy — lots of paperwork.” I glanced at Eric and whispered, “Told you he was awesome.”

At the reception, I overheard someone from Eric’s side whisper, “Did you hear the priest call Kelly ‘Carrie’? You’d think he’d get her name right.” I just smiled as I walked by, not bothering to correct them. He did get my name right (he’s known me since I was 18, and I was 29 at the time) — he just said “Kelly” in that thick Irish accent of his. Kelly, Carrie… same thing.

That’s who Father Hogan was. When a Duquesne loan I didn’t recognize suddenly went into collections, I emailed him to ask what it was. He quietly paid it off himself. When a financial aid advisor sneered, “If you can’t afford to come to Duquesne, then don’t!” Father Hogan set him straight: “This is Duquesne University, for God’s sake — you don’t treat a student like that!” His voice boomed with Irish-Scottish fire, and I felt protected. At Duquesne, I belonged.

It wasn’t until after my first semester that my dad’s twin, my Aunt Marge, said, “You know your father went to Duquesne, right?” I was stunned. What?! No, I didn’t know! A rush of emotion swept over me, and I thought: was my dad still with me somehow, guiding me?

Duquesne was my alma mater. Every hoodie — Duquesne. Every t-shirt — Duquesne. My debit card? Duquesne. My license plate? Duquesne. (Framed by a Duquesne Alumni holder, of course.) I bought the keychains, the baseball caps, and anything else I could carry to the register while in their bookstore. My husband said that I spent almost as much on merchandise as I had on my degree. I warned him, “If you have a problem, I’ll paint the house blue with a big red D on the front.” When I got married, Duquesne even waived the chapel fee. They knew my story, and they showed me empathy and kindness. They even asked the bride before me if I could use her flowers since I couldn’t afford my own. She kindly said yes.

That was my school. Correction: that was my dad’s and my school.

So, when I walked away from a career that no longer fit me, and — at the encouragement of the excellent staff and volunteers at the Highmark Caring Place — decided to pursue another degree, I didn’t even look at other programs. I applied to Duquesne. And only Duquesne. Just as I had the first time.

Twenty years later, I returned for my second master’s degree — this time in clinical mental health counseling — and I expected that same spirit of compassion and belonging. Instead, I walked into a bad dream.

The tone was harsh and hostile from the very first day. I entered a cohort of young people who openly celebrated the Hamas attack and said America “deserved” September 11th. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They hated the police. They hated veterans. They hated the military. They hated everything I represented. And to my horror, most of the faculty supported them. I was outnumbered, and I was the enemy.

The first year and a half, I sat in silence. I tried to ignore it, tried to shrink myself down in a program that seemed fueled by hate and bias. But for those who don’t know me, there’s something you should understand: my expressions talk more than my mouth. I’ve never had a poker face. In fact, the first and only time I played poker, my look gave away every card in my hand.

By the second year, I couldn’t stay silent anymore. The continued celebration of terrorist attacks, the hatred toward law enforcement and the military, the antisemitism — it was too much. I thought, “Duquesne University is a private catholic university. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” I started to speak up. Just slightly, so as not to upset the herd. I wasn’t attacking anyone. I was asking for a show of empathy and compassion for others from a bunch of ‘counselors.’ I said, “You know, on 9/11, people had to choose between burning to death or jumping to their death.” I reminded them that the Hamas attack happened at a concert. “Didn’t you all just go to Taylor Swift a few months ago? Imagine it being you.”

The response? “That’s enough, Kelly!” barked a young, inexperienced doctoral student who later made formal complaints about me. Complaints that faculty, who had once given me rave reviews (yes, every semester the entire faculty reviewed you) and A’s, suddenly treated as gospel.

At one point, an older student quietly pulled me aside and said, “Maybe you should go tell Father Hogan what’s going on.” I couldn’t. By then, Father Hogan’s health had declined after a stroke. I knew if I told him, he would want to help — but he was too sick to do anything, and I couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting him, making him feel helpless, and worse yet, jeopardizing his health. I had done the same thing years earlier with my dad, never telling him during his horrific 16 months in a nursing home that, in his absence, my mother had suffered a breakdown and become physically, emotionally, and verbally abusive. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want him to be more upset or scared for me. He would have been horrified, and I couldn’t do that to him. He was suffering enough. I had two heroes I knew couldn’t save me, so I chose to protect them from that pain — even if it meant carrying it all alone.

The next thing I knew, I was told I “Needed DBT therapy” — not as a supportive suggestion, but as a weapon. They admitted they couldn’t force me, but the message was clear: fall in line, silence yourself, or be punished. I was made to write three papers cataloging everything they said was “wrong” with me and how I was “going to fix myself.” True story. If I didn’t comply, I would be removed from the program. In fact, I was threatened with removal from the program for anything I said or did that didn’t fit their mold. It's a little ironic that this program was for clinical mental health.

The program also made us write papers about the trauma we had suffered in our own lives. I remember classmates saying, “No way am I giving them that information. They’ll just use it against us.” I stood up for Duquesne. I said, “Duquesne would never do that.” But that’s precisely what they did. I followed the assignments, trusted the institution I had once loved, and shared pieces of my own trauma. Later, when they needed ammunition, they turned my story against me and used it as a weapon. That was the one thing the Gen Z students got right: they were suspicious of everything and everyone. I was too trusting.

This wasn’t education. It was intimidation.

And here is what makes the wound so deep: the Duquesne that once gave me hope, the Duquesne of Father Hogan’s fierce compassion and protection, no longer exists. What had once been my lifeline had become a place that treated me as unstable, incompetent, and disposable. They stripped away not only my pride in the institution, but the sense of safety and identity I had once found there.

I didn’t walk in the graduation ceremony, even though I had finally earned the honor cords my dad once dreamed of for me. Today, those cords hang on my office bookshelf, beside his war medals and pictures of him in his World War II uniform.

But here is what they cannot take away: my truth. My integrity. My commitment to the clients I serve and the people I try very hard to help heal every single day. The battles I fought, lost, and survived. The battles I fought and won. Being lost in the storm — to becoming the storm. Ray Robertson’s daughter.

If you are considering Duquesne, please know this: the institution I once loved no longer exists. It has become a place where intimidation replaces education, intolerance replaces compassion, and conformity is valued over integrity — at least in the School of Education, where my degree is from.

I share my story not just to reclaim my voice, but to warn others: do not make the mistake of trusting a system that silences, punishes, and destroys those who dare to think or feel differently. No one gets to do that. Not even them.

I hope someday I can forget the school and remember the University — and reclaim my blue and red pride. Many students graduate and come back, so much so that there is a name for us: a Double-Duke. I know I will get there one day, maybe 20 years from now, maybe 100. Because that’s who I am. That’s why I’m still here, no poker face and all. Love me or leave me. That’s the Scottish, natural redheaded charm of Kelly Rae. Strap in — it’s only going to get windier from here. 

Disclaimer: The following reflects my personal experiences and perspectives. It is not intended as a statement of fact about every program, faculty member, or student at Duquesne University, but as an honest account of my own journey.

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If you’re carrying the weight of grief and searching for a way to begin healing, you’re not alone. Whether you've lost someone, something, or a sense of yourself, please email me at mindfulcoastcounseling@gmail.com or call 412-376-3479.

I’d be honored to walk with you through this part of your journey.

—By Kelly Rae Robertson, MS, MSCJ, LAPC, CCTS, NCC

Grief, Trauma & EMDR Specialist

Owner & Founder, Mindful Coast Counseling

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The content of this post does not replace professional medical or mental health treatment or diagnosis.