Eden’s Story
The below is an anonymous former student’s personal reflection on her time at HLS. Her name has been changed to protect anonymity.
Reflections on Accountability, Faith, and the Need for Change
From 2013 to 2016, I attended a private, faith-based school, many know as the Latin School. I had hoped Highlands Latin would provide a transformative education and a strong sense of community. My story did not begin in early childhood at the Latin school; instead, my family moved eight hours for this opportunity, believing the Latin School would be a place where values of faith, love, and intellectual growth would shape my most formative adolescent years. Unfortunately, my time there instead highlighted the opposite, and the most valuable lesson I learned was how leadership within certain private institutions can radically misuse authority, creating environments that cause very real harm rather than support students in their individual and unique journeys.
I began at the Latin School with an eagerness and commitment to succeed, even taking extra courses online through Memoria Press in 8th grade, on top of my normal school day, to prepare for its rigorous curriculum, as entering at high school was an uncommon path. But soon after, a single misunderstanding escalated into a deeply troubling pattern of behavior. Within the first two weeks, I was the student first accused of writing a poem that contained a curse word. My only crime was having the poem in my hand when he confiscated it, a poem that never should have elicited the reaction it did; a childish poem which never should have resulted in expulsion, shame, or self-harm for any child. Though I hadn’t written it, which is largely beside the point, the principal at the time pulled me out of class, confronted me, and cornered me in the stairwell, threatening expulsion and demanding I reveal the writer’s name, in a manner loud enough for my entire high school class to overhear. I felt like predator and prey in that moment, I had never had an adult behave this way towards me before, and I was both physically and metaphorically backed into a corner, a thirteen-year-old girl alone with a strange man she didn’t know or trust. I quickly learned public humiliation was their bit. He could have pulled me into his office, he could have asked me questions calmly before jumping to conclusions, but that was not the approach.
When I refused to betray the writer—a friend I had just made as a new student—he took drastic measures. He contacted my parents, suspended me from family events like the annual Hayride, and contacted other students’ parents to discourage their children from befriending me, effectively isolating me from my peers and publicly labeling me as someone to avoid. I remember one of my very first friends immediately abandoning me out of fear of retaliation; as a child, and as the “new kid” for the fourth time in a row, this was soul-crushing. Our family was heartbroken and confused; we had uprooted our lives for the opportunity of an elite education. When we finally recognized that it was not elite education, but a form of elitism, the sadness we felt was profound.
This wasn’t just a simple disciplinary action; it felt like a message. Through this experience, I sensed a chilling misuse of power—not for guidance or correction, but for control. And while this incident was only the beginning, it set a tone that lingered for years. During my time at the Latin School, I was frequently scrutinized and often pulled aside for “corrections,” making me feel as though my presence was barely tolerated. The principal’s attention seemed constant—there were too many instances to recall. It felt like he was always watching, waiting for my next mistake. He would inspect my uniform and even measure the width of my headband (it had to be no more than 1 inch). On at least one occasion, he entered my class, took my textbook from my hands, and flipped through my notes without explanation. He even went so far as to uninvite me from an alumni brunch, despite the fact that I had been invited by another member of Highlands Latin School staff. The list goes on, marked by behavior that often felt mean-spirited and vindictive.
My academic progress, friendships, and sense of belonging were all threatened by a constant undercurrent of judgment and control. I felt that my success, independence, and personal faith were not valued because I didn’t fit a certain mold. As I look back, I see how the school’s approach to discipline and control directly contradicted the gospel message it claimed to promote. The gospel calls for compassion, understanding, and support, especially for the vulnerable, especially for children. Yet, the messages I received were that my individuality and independence were threats. The very teachings I cherished—those of love, grace, and acceptance—were often distorted into tools for intimidation and exclusion. The school’s actions suggested that my worth was conditional, based on my conformity to an incredibly narrow and dangerous set of expectations. I quickly fell into patterns of self-harm like many other students there. I remember reading the Scarlet Letter in 9thgrade English and feeling as if I had my own, branded scarlet letter on my back. I remember reading Wuthering Heights and longing for relief of any kind, just as Heathcliff and Cathy did, even if that relief came through death. The gift and irony of the education was that it taught me exactly how to survive them, not the world.
Eventually, the environment became so stifling that I chose to leave after my junior year, transferring to the University of Louisville’s Speed School of Engineering at just 17 and pursuing an intense collegiate program as opposed to spending another second under Latin School Leadership. While this decision was difficult and presented its own unique challenges, it was also freeing. In an environment that valued my contributions and allowed me to pursue my goals without fear, I was able to flourish academically and personally. I realized that I could hold on to my faith without the toxic overtones that had been imposed upon it during my high school years. My experience at the Latin School had taught me the importance of discerning the true nature of faith from its misuses, and it also underscored the need for accountability in institutions that claim to be built upon Christian values. This experience has shaped my understanding of faith, authority, and resilience. I found that even when human institutions failed me, my faith and values sustained me. I now understand as an adult that when leaders allow ego, fear, and control to overshadow compassion and integrity, they betray the very principles they are called to uphold. The trust that parents and students place in schools—especially those that identify with a faith mission—requires an unwavering commitment to safety, respect, and the emotional and spiritual well-being of every student. The failure to meet these responsibilities is not just a personal failure but an institutional one.
This account goes beyond my personal experience and is rather a greater call to action to examine how some institutions shield deeply harmful practices under the guise of faith. When an institution claims to uphold the gospel, it bears a profound responsibility to ensure that its practices align with values of compassion, support, and understanding. Leadership at the Latin School failed to uphold these principles. My experience is a testament to how misuse of authority, when coupled with unchecked power, can lead to serious consequences in young lives, causing significant pain and trauma that often follow us into adulthood.
Today, I am grateful for organizations like Reviving Hope, which create space for survivors to tell their stories, advocating for systemic change and accountability. Speaking out is not about placing blame but about encouraging educational institutions to be more intentional in cultivating environments that are safe, supportive, and genuinely aligned with the values they espouse. Every child deserves to be seen, valued, and treated with respect. Private institutions, especially those that claim to be grounded in faith, must hold themselves to the highest standards of integrity. There should be no room for those who would misuse religious values as a means of power or control. My story is ultimately one of resilience, faith, and the unwavering belief that love and compassion are the true foundations of any community. Despite the challenges I faced, I continued to pursue my goals, drawing strength from the values I had always cherished—values that, thankfully, were embodied by other mentors along the way. I succeeded in my academic and professional endeavors, and I now share this story with the hope that it will spark a greater conversation about the responsibility of leadership within faith-based institutions. Only by fostering accountability, transparency, and genuine compassion can these institutions truly honor the values they claim to uphold.
If you are a student or a parent seeking a supportive educational environment, know that your voice matters and your story is important. Together, we can push for schools that not only teach values but live them, ensuring that every student feels safe, supported, and empowered to grow into their fullest potential.
From a child who deserved so much better, and a woman advocating for accountability,
Eden
