Good evening, and welcome to St. Paul's Graduation Ceremony!

Welcome to our families. To our faculty and staff. And most importantly — to our graduates.

I have known this class since they were in third grade. I remember the Zoom boxes — little faces on little screens, and sometimes, no faces at all. Cameras off.

We knew what that meant. You were tired, or distracted, or just done. And your teachers showed up anyway, every single morning, for you. What strikes me now, years later, is that you know that. You said so this week at Baccalaureate Chapel. That reflection, that gratitude — that is not nothing. That is the beginning of wisdom.

I covered lunch duty with you in fifth grade. Even then — the energy, the big hearts, the hunger to be known. You played hard and you played together. And some of you, in the quieter moments, just wanted to sit with me and talk. You were already becoming yourselves.

At Baccalaureate Chapel, you told your own stories, and I won't retell them here. But I want to name what they added up to.

The second graders who stayed in the room when Ms. Rincon fed Picante — every single one, even the one who got sick — stayed because they wanted to understand something real, even when it was hard. The fourth graders who published a newspaper covering fashion tips and the war in Ukraine in the same issue were paying attention to the whole world, not just the comfortable parts. The seventh graders who fell asleep hiding from Mr. Eddy in a two-person tent were, in the end, just a group of kids who wanted to stay together a little longer. These are not small things. They are exactly who you are.

And then, there was the tornado.

A real one. In Washington, D.C., on your eighth grade trip. The sky had other plans. Hotels changed, schedules dissolved, and your chaperones found you a parking lot, a meditation, a Chick-fil-A, and eventually — solid ground. But here is what I keep thinking: a tornado was not new to you.

Middle school is its own kind of tornado. Swirling emotions, the chaos of social dynamics, the tumult of figuring out who you are while the ground keeps shifting. And the people who love you — your teachers, your families, all of us — we get swept up in the flurry with you. That is the nature of it. That is the nature of this journey.

But here is what makes this class different from an actual tornado: the quiet after your storm is not wreckage.

It is clarity.

It is the knowledge of who you are — hard-won, specific, real. You carved yourselves into being during your time at St. Paul's. And what you leave behind is not damage. It is depth.

That clarity matters more right now than perhaps at any moment in recent memory.

You are graduating into a world that is not just complicated — it is contested. A world where facts are disputed and science is treated as opinion. Where empathy is mistaken for weakness. Where the rights of people of color, of women, of the most vulnerable among us, are being actively, deliberately narrowed. Where those in power sow division because division keeps them there.

I do not say this to frighten you. I say it because you are not frightened — and because the world needs exactly what you have built in yourselves.

Your empathy. Your discernment. Your willingness to sit with difficulty without flinching. Your ability to hold complexity without collapsing into easy answers. Your fearlessness.

Haven said it at Baccalaureate, and I want you to hear it again as the wisdom it is: "When something goes wrong, make the best of it and have a good time." That is not naivety. That is the philosophy of someone who knows herself, trusts her people, and refuses to be undone by chaos. That is exactly the kind of leadership this moment demands.

When I reflect on who this class is, three things rise to the surface.

You grew into yourselves here.

The arrival has been something to witness. You are not the same people who first walked through these doors. You are more fully, specifically, beautifully yourselves. Not just academic growth — transformation of identity, of voice, of understanding. Some of it happened quietly. Some of it happened loudly, messily, beautifully. All of it happened in community — with one another, with your teachers, with all of us. That is not something St. Paul's handed you. That is something you built — here, together, with all of us.

You know who you are — and you act on it.

Your moral compass is not decorative. You move on your values. You stayed present when it would have been easier to look away. You spoke up when silence would have cost you nothing. You led, and you made room for others to lead. In a world that rewards certainty and punishes nuance, you have learned to hold complexity — and to act anyway. That is rare. Hold onto it.

You make things — and you make space for each other.

The breadth of creativity in this class — the music, the art, the writing, the ideas — is extraordinary. I had the privilege of critiquing your silkscreens before they went to Farley's. But what moves me most is the other kind of making: the belonging you have extended to one another. You know how to find each other. You know how to keep each other. You came through a tornado — literal and figurative — still together. That is not luck. That is the work of years.

Before I close, a few words of gratitude.

To your teachers and staff — thank you for the love, the patience, and the belief you have  poured into this class, year after year, through more than a few challenging seasons. Thank you for showing up, even when the cameras were off. Especially then. You have been extraordinary.

To your families — you have been on a long road with us. Some of it required a trust that had to be rebuilt, together, over time. Thank you for staying. Thank you for the partnership. Austin Murphy said after Baccalaureate and I want to say it back to you: thank you for sending your children to this school. For trusting us. It has been an amazing time.

And to you, Class of 2026 — You already know what it feels like when the storm passes and the air goes still and clear. You've been there. You found each other in it.

Now take that clarity into the world. Make things. Act on what you know is right. Keep making space for the people around you — because that instinct, in this moment, is a form of resistance and a form of love.

The road ahead is yours.

And when it gets long — and it will — you know where home is.

The quiet after your storm is not the end. It is the beginning.

Your spark is lit. Let it burn bright.

Congratulations, Class of 2026. We are so proud of you — and we cannot wait to see what you do next.