Sarah Wheatley
Faculty Speaker, HS Humanities

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Class of 2026: THIS. IS. IT.

The proverbial finish line.

I’ve been promised that by 7 p.m., you’ll have your diplomas in hand.
Tonight’s metaphorical medal that suggests: You’re done. Your race is over. Congratulations!

Except you haven’t finished the race. Tonight’s ceremony is not the finish line.

You’re leaving an aid station.

In endurance races, aid stations are designated checkpoints along the course where a team of volunteers provides athletes with support and encouragement. They keep participants safe and motivated. They make sure you get what you need to continue the race.

You are far from the end.

In fact, graduates, look around, and you can still see the starting line.

In the audience are those who have served at your earliest checkpoints: parents, siblings, grandparents, stepparents, and friends.

Your teachers, coaches, and counselors.

Your domestic helpers, who know your favourite meals and who have delivered your forgotten items to the front gate.

People who sacrificed time, sleep, comfort, and parts of themselves so that you could be more fully yourselves.

For parents, we wouldn’t mind if you lingered a bit longer. Tonight is a tug between sweetness and sorrow. We blinked, and your uncertain, wobbly first steps have become confident strides.

For a while, we may have to be content to be relegated to the role of spectator, hoping you know that we are following your race closely, cheering you on.

As teachers, we get to marvel at the students before us tonight. Young people who arrived at this aid station in the fall of 2022, shorter, still in Covid restriction masks, clapped into a gym that no longer exists, wondering what the course of the next four years might hold.

This leg of the course has held so much. You’ve composed symphonies, sang operas, written poetry, painted Baroque-style works of art, smashed it at a solo Hyrox, refurbished accordions, and taught yourself the ukulele.
You’ve tackled disappointment, lost the final game, forgotten your lines, got left on read by your situationship, and survived Mr. Longrie’s Brontë sister content quizzes.

As teachers, we often view your numerous future accomplishments from afar, guessing at our impact. It’s part of the job: we are what you grow beyond. So, we stay behind, ready for the next racers to arrive: your little brothers and sisters, and maybe one day, even your own children.

Tonight, you leave together, but in different directions. Your courses are diverting.

Comparison is inevitable, but it is essential to run your race at your pace.
There is a temptation to go out fast, to chase a finish time rather than enjoy the moment.

The race is your reward for the training you’ve put in.

And your training is the foundation that builds your character.

Even with preparation and training, the race will present challenges. An unexpected cramp means you limp to the next aid station. The weather may turn, and you’ll seek shelter. You may run low on fuel or water and have to rely on others to share their supplies.

You will rarely be the first to arrive at the next aid station.

Last month, at the London Marathon, Yomif Kejelcha competed in his professional debut, finishing 42 kilometers in an astonishing 1 hour, 59 minutes, and 41 seconds, faster than the world record.

Kejelcha wasn’t the winner. He was 11 seconds behind Sabastian Sawe.
Kejelcha did not wallow in despair at second place. He recognized his phenomenal achievement. He celebrated by thanking those who aided him, praising those who helped him achieve something earlier generations thought physically impossible.

Someone will always break a record.

Win the title.

Surpass someone else’s achievement.

Be the first to arrive.

And, someone else will be the last to leave.

The last to finish.

This year, at the Boston Marathon, two elite runners gave up their shot at a personal best to help another runner in need, one who collapsed 300 meters from the finish. Hundreds of other runners passed by, but they stopped. The clock kept ticking, and Strava kept recording. They put their arms around him, and they carried him across the finish line.

They paused to help, and it cost them the PB they trained for. But all of their final times were still fast enough to earn them qualifying spots for next year's race. Another opportunity for that goal.

Seniors, any anguished feelings of extra seconds gained will disappear when you get your PB. But the decision to stop and render aid: THAT will define who you are. May you rise to the challenge of helping, even if it requires sacrifice in the process.

THAT is your personal best.

Your final finish, if God’s grace allows, is far in the distance, with many checkpoints and many aid stations ahead.

Along the way, you may even get the chance to serve those who served you. Some of you have served already: in student government, at Vacation Bible School, mentoring new team members, playing music at Mr. Suh’s bedside, and countless other ways none of us are aware of because true service is giving selflessly, without the need to be noticed.

You’ll also be a spectator, watching those you love leave their last checkpoint and complete their race.

And one day, you will leave your last aid station, too. By then, I hope you’ll have learned to slow down, to stand on the precipice and plateaus and enjoy the views, to recognize that the race is the reward. You’ll want your finish line to extend.

30 years ago, in 1996, I graduated from high school. I left the aid station.
And tonight, I’m saying goodbye as my beloved son Huck and the rest of the Class of 2026 leave mine. It has been an honor and a blessing to serve you.

Graduates: Never be too proud to stop at an aid station when you need one, and never be too privileged to serve at one.

Class of 2026, enjoy the reward of the race ahead.