I attend the graduation ceremony for LM seniors each year. I watch, eyes wide, as a stellar student takes the stage and spends five minutes highlighting all of the other stellar accomplishments of similarly stellar students sitting in front of them. It is traditional, it is expected, and for many, it is accurate. But this year taught me what it was like to go from being one of those students to the complete opposite, in the blink of an eye. I was hospitalized, ostracized, and effectively removed from my roles in the LM community.

I spent the last five months more isolated than I’ve ever been. I couldn’t show my face within the halls of LM without hearing that someone I had never spoken to just announced to their whole class that I was on academic probation, and that because of that, I shouldn’t be voted for my senior superlatives. I did, however, win “most senioritis.” That stung.

I had my autonomy taken from me this year. Now, as I sit here, thinking of what message I want to convey in my parting from LM, I think back to the version of myself from the start of my senior year. That version of Aliyah was the President of LM. That Aliyah had a whole lot to say, and enough confidence that there were a whole lot of people who would listen. I couldn’t feel any more disconnected from her as I sit here writing my farewell. And so, I will embody the version of myself who would have, in another timeline, stood before you all and spoken at our high school graduation. If that was still my reality, here is what a reformed Aliyah would say to you all: a graduation speech not given.

“Good evening, everyone.

Like most of you, I imagined this moment a certain way. The way it’s supposed to feel. The way we’re told it should feel. But the truth is, for many of us, this year didn’t go the way we planned. For some, it was the best yet. For others, the hardest. And for most of us, it was probably a strange mix of both.

LM has given us countless memories—the excitement of Radnor Week, the music echoing through the halls on Fridays, those big orange stickers on our cars when we were illegally parked. We’ve lived in a school full of moments that have shaped us. But for all the applause and the trophies, there’s another side we’ve all come to know: the side where things didn’t always go as planned.

I’m not standing here as your Student Council President. I lost that title this year. And with it, I lost the version of myself I thought would carry me to this stage.

But I’m learning that no one gets to this moment untouched. Whether your struggle was public or private, loud or quiet—we’ve all had to let go of something along the way. And maybe that’s what makes this moment matter more.

This year broke me in ways I didn’t see coming. There were days I didn’t recognize who I was. Days I didn’t want to show up. Days where everything felt louder than my ability to keep up.

Failure doesn’t always look like falling. Sometimes, it looks like silence. Like being passed over. Like letting go of a version of yourself you worked hard to become. But in that silence, there’s clarity. And in that loss, there’s truth.

School gives us metrics: grades, roles, rankings. It teaches us how to perform, how to aim high, how to win. But it doesn’t teach us how to lose. It doesn’t teach us how to sit with disappointment. How to admit when we’re overwhelmed, or how to navigate success when it feels emptier than expected. We all experience this system differently, but I think we’ve all felt the pressure to live up to something. No one tells you what to do when those numbers that once defined your self-worth don’t show up for you. It doesn’t teach us how to rebuild when the identity you worked for starts slipping through your hands. It definitely doesn’t teach you how to sit down and write out all of the ways you fell short while the system that once applauded you no longer knows your name.

But I’m here anyway. And maybe that’s the point. Because here’s what I learned the hard way: you can lose the title. You can fall behind in class. You can be passed over, overlooked, misunderstood—and still be worth listening to.

Still be you.

I lost my title not because I gave up or didn’t care, but because my grades—just numbers on a page—fell below a line that said, “not enough.” What those numbers didn’t show was that part of my year was spent outside the classroom, in a program where I had to put my mental health first. And for a while, healing became my full-time job—and that cost me things I cared about. But the hardest part wasn’t losing the role. It was wondering if losing it meant I had failed. Wondering if I still mattered without the title I’d worked so hard for.

And I know I’m not alone in that. Whether it was a title, a goal, a grade, or a version of yourself you didn’t quite become, so many of us are walking away from this year with something left behind. The world will try to measure you by systems and standards it built without knowing your story. But the truth is, your worth lives outside of that. Outside the score. Outside the title. Outside of what was taken from you.

You are still whole. You are still here. And that is enough.

Some of us needed to slow down this year. Others found their drive. Some of us broke records. Some broke down. All of it is valid. All of it belongs here. What matters is not how fast you moved, but that you kept moving.

So here’s the truth: this year, I didn’t win in the way I once defined winning. But maybe it’s time we redefine what that even means. Because, I didn’t check all the boxes. But I did survive. I kept going.

And when I got back up, I didn’t recognize the version of me that had fallen down. I think many of you know exactly what that feels like.

Maybe you sat in the back of the class hoping no one would notice the chaos inside you. Maybe you smiled through tears no one saw, passed classes you don’t even remember taking. Maybe, like me, you lost a version of yourself you thought would carry you through senior year. And yet—you’re still here.

No report card will ever measure the courage it took to just keep going. To show up when the weight of grief, disappointment, or burnout told you to stay in bed. No one hands out medals for that. But they should. Because surviving is an achievement. Supporting others quietly, showing up without recognition, learning who you are when no one’s watching—those are the quiet victories that shape who we become.

So to everyone who feels like they’re walking away from this year with less than they hoped, know this—you didn’t fail. You evolved. And you’re not behind. You’re just becoming.

If this world insists on grading us, let us rewrite the rubric. Change the metric as you enter this new stage of life. Let’s start measuring success by how much we’ve grown. By the empathy we’ve gained. By the courage it took to keep going when things got heavy.

Maybe we’ve been asking the wrong questions all along. Instead of “What did you achieve?”, what if we asked, “What did you survive? What did you learn when no one was clapping? Who did you become when it wasn’t easy?”

And if I could leave you with just one truth, it’s this: The most important things you do in this life will not come with a certificate, a sash, or a title. They will come quietly, in how you treat people, in how you rise after falling, and in how deeply you choose to love the parts of yourself the world tries to grade as “not enough.”

This year broke me in some ways. But it also rebuilt me with truth. That’s not something I would trade for the title of president.

As we leave this school, it’s important to remember that our futures aren’t written in ink. They’re written in the choices we make, the risks we take, and the love we give along the way. The next chapter of our lives isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being real. About taking chances, making mistakes, and giving ourselves permission to fail and get back up.

We are stepping into a world that will throw all kinds of challenges our way. We will face rejection, uncertainty, and moments when we feel lost or broken. But those moments do not define us. How we rise from them does.

So, to my classmates—whether we’re celebrating high honors or simply celebrating the fact that we made it here today—I want you to know that you are enough. You are worthy of all the dreams you carry, the hopes that fill your heart. And no grade can ever diminish that.

Whether you finished senior year with a list of accomplishments or barely made it through—you made it.  We made it through a system that wanted us to be impressive. Now we get to build a life that’s true. And that deserves to be honored.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from losing so much this year, it’s that who you are when everything falls apart is who you really are. Not the version with perfect grades. Not the version with the title. Not the version you post when you’re smiling but dying a little inside. The real you is who shows up without applause or a spotlight. Who keeps going with no guarantee that it’ll all work out.

And if no one’s told you this yet—that version of you is already enough.

So here’s how I’m finishing out my senior year: Not with a crown. Not with any title. But with my truth. With all the cracks that let the light in. With a heart that’s been broken and rebuilt. And if you’re sitting here, with your next four years bedazzled on your graduation cap, still thinking you don’t know what comes next, then you’re free to make it mean something.

So cry if you need to. Grieve what you lost. Let go of who you were supposed to be. Then look up, take a breath, and begin. Because this is not the end. It’s the first time we get to write the story ourselves. No grades. No boxes. No ceilings. Just us. Still here. Still becoming.”