Graduation Address: Sawyer A. '25

Some say we’re just students passing through these halls. But standing here today, I see we’re more like origami, the same paper transformed with each careful fold, creased by experience, shaped by challenge, and still unfolding into something the world has never seen before. We’ve been leaves on the same tree, growing in our own directions, shaped by wind, rain, and sun, yet all nourished by the same roots. 

I used to think growing up would feel dramatic. That there’d be some moment where I’d wake up and suddenly be older, wiser, ready. But it’s not like that at all. It’s quiet. It happens in between the big moments, in the sound of chairs being stacked at the end of class, in voices that crack without warning, in the last time you sit with your classmates on a carpet without thinking about it. 

I remember first grade, the world felt both impossibly large and wonderfully intimate. Words were just puzzles I couldn’t quite solve. Then came that ordinary morning when something shifted. Those black marks on white pages started whispering their secrets, and worlds appeared where once there were only symbols. That first book trembled with possibility in my hands. That experience taught me something profound: We don’t just learn to read, we read to discover who we might become. 

By third grade, we were asking the big questions. Why does the moon follow us when we drive? What happens to tadpoles in winter? Why do some friendships last and others fade? The world opened its arms, and we stepped in hesitantly but with that spark of curiosity that would never quite leave us. We tested boundaries and learned that being wrong was just another way of getting closer to what was right.

And then, middle school arrived.

It didn’t come quietly. Middle school arrived like weather, loud, unpredictable, impossible to ignore. Our bodies betrayed us in a thousand small ways. On some days, we laughed until our stomachs hurt, while on others, silence sat between us like fog. Yet even when we felt invisible or out of place, we were still becoming.

This year in eighth grade, we’re finally starting to see the shape that each individual fold has crafted. We’ve discovered that all those experiences have shaped us into something complex. Through every test, challenge, celebration, and setback, we’ve become people we couldn’t have imagined back in first grade, entirely new and intricately designed, yet still the same blank sheet, still recognizably ourselves.

Look around this tent. What connects us isn’t just shared classes, but shared moments. And the most meaningful moments weren’t planned. They happened, in laughter echoing down hallways, in the shaky breath before a presentation, or while plotting victory dances before our lacrosse team scored, then going for it in the moment, looking ridiculous, but not caring. They happened when someone slid a note onto your desk on a day when you needed it most, or when something broke, a project, a friendship, a heart, and someone bent down to help pick up the pieces. Tomorrow we become the keepers of these stories that will only exist when we remember them together.

That’s the essence of middle school. A slow, sometimes painful, sometimes joyful unraveling of who we were to make space for who we might become. It taught us to hold contradictions: that we could be both strong and vulnerable, both independent and connected, both utterly unique and fundamentally the same. Along the way, we let go of childhood certainties, but like the leaves in fall, we bent before we broke, carrying the colors of this place with us even as we learn to dance in different winds.

To our teachers, “thank you” feels inadequate, but it’s where I’ll begin. You saw potential in us that we couldn’t yet see in ourselves. You pushed when we needed challenge and pulled back when we needed space. You created classrooms where it was safe to be wrong, to ask questions, to simply not know. You didn’t just fill our minds with facts; you gave us mirrors to see ourselves more clearly. Thank you for being not just educators, but mentors, guides, and even, friends.

To our parents and families, thank you for the thousand invisible things you do every day. For the early morning drives when we moved with all the enthusiasm of especially reluctant turtles. For sitting through concerts and plays where we might have had only the smallest parts but felt like stars under your gaze. Thank you for believing in us when we barely believed in ourselves, for loving us through all the versions of ourselves we’ve tried on and discarded. Thank you for letting us grow away from you, even when it must have hurt to watch us need you a little less each day. Your love is the foundation upon which we stand.

And to my classmates, thank you for being the community in which I’ve discovered myself. Though we’re closing this chapter together, we’ll always carry echoes of each other’s voices. Some of us will stay close, texting about nothing and everything. Others will become beautiful memories, people we think of fondly when certain songs play or when we smell autumn leaves. Growing up means collecting last times, the last time we were all together like this, the last time these hallways belonged to us, the last time we could call this place home. This isn’t failure; this is the way growing up works.

Don’t rush to shed your middle school self. That person, with all their questions and uncertainties, has wisdom you’ll need later. Remember that growing up isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about getting comfortable with the questions. 

And hold onto your curiosity, even when it feels childish. Keep asking “why,” even when it annoys everyone around you. Stay open to wonder, to possibility, to the idea that being wrong isn’t a failure, it’s necessary for growth. Be kind, especially when it’s difficult. The world may try to convince you that kindness is weakness, but we’ve learned here that it’s actually the strongest thing we can offer each other.

Here’s what I hope we remember: We were never meant to stay the same. We were meant to change. To bend. To reach. To fall, sometimes. And to grow anyway. 

Perhaps it’s fitting that our school chose a leaf as its symbol. Like leaves, we were meant to eventually let go and find new ground. And leaves don’t just fall and disappear, they become part of the soil that nourishes new growth. They become the foundation for what comes next.

Look around one more time. This is the last moment we’ll all be in the same place, the last moment we’ll all be who we are right now, before we become who we’re going to be. This is the moment our shared childhood finally, officially, beautifully ends.

But we were meant to write stories without endings, stories that keep unfolding with each new chapter, even when the chapters get harder to read, even when we miss the simplicity of the earlier pages. Because middle school was the place where we learned we were stories worth telling, stories worth continuing, stories that deserve to unfold in ways that surprise even us.

We are ready. We are unfinished. We are exactly who we need to be. And this is not the end. This is the moment our real stories begin.

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