Catalina Smith ’25’s Commencement Speech

A few weeks ago, the task of finding a roommate for my first year of college arose. Trying to find someone online who’s clean, perfectly active, and hopefully nice is a challenge many of us know all too well. Connecting with someone without ever meeting them, then suggesting living together for a year is nerve-wracking, and exciting, and terrifying.

I messaged countless prospects, fane ing interest in majors ranging from environmental engineering to international studies, all while recycling the same set of questions: “Where are you from?”, “What time do you wake up?”, “Neat or messy?”

As some of you know, I am a lifer: the term coined for students that have spent their entire educational career at Wheeler, a total of 15 years at 216 Hope Street. I started out as one of the lower schoolers walking out hand in hand with a giant senior, and since then, I have spent 15 years running to the courtyard at breaks, waiting in the torturous cafeteria line, rushing through the Hope Street gates minutes before assembly, and learning to navigate a world that grew with me.

For these 15 years, I have been absorbed in the process of growing up, alongside many of you, focused on the next big freedom I could earn. Whether it was getting the clearance to climb the jungle gym without supervision, being allowed to buy lunch at the café instead of the cafeteria, or finally getting permission to go off campus and spend too much money on Thayer Street (after our sophomore year copresidents Max and Sonia had to practically beg Ms Levanos), each step felt exciting and earned—a rite of passage into a slightly bigger world, and a chance to catch up to the “big kids.”

In lower school, middle school felt impossibly far away. In middle school, high schoolers looked like full-grown adults. And yet, grade by grade, we treaded closer and closer to becoming one of them. Through these small but meaningful changes, Wheeler transformed year after year into an unfamiliar place, filled with new opportunities to explore.

This thrill of “growing up” always felt positive, a compliment when adults used it to describe me. It was a comfortable phrase—I had watched Mateo, my older brother, complete every phase before me, with no question about what was coming next.

But this year, throughout my roommate search, I grew less and less motivated, and more and more anxious about settling down with someone new. I convinced myself that it was because of all the unknowns, the risks that came with committing to a year of coexisting with a stranger. But after futile attempts to delay the decision, I was forced to come to terms with my avoidance. For years, I had chased the thrill of change and wished I could rush into the next chapter of my life. Now, suddenly, I didn’t want to turn the page.

This year has brought overwhelming change: we’ve chosen where we’re going next, imagined new lives, new rooms, new cities. We’ve made big decisions about our classes, our futures, and our friendships. And while there’s undeniable excitement in that, there’s also grief—for the loss of the simplicity, comfort, and joy we’ve found here, and grown with each year. I no longer have a big brother at school to fall back on for direction, or a preview of what’s ahead. The meaning of growing up has shifted—from a phrase full of anticipation and excitement, to one that stirs nostalgia.

I spent so long rushing to grow up that I never realized how much I’d miss the people and place I did it with, once it finally happened. I have now since picked my college roommate, but I still don’t know exactly what comes next. I won’t get to see Max and Sonia on stage every other day, or look forward to Holiday Fest, or ignore the missing item emails. I won’t get to cheer alongside the small but mighty student section at soccer games in the fall, or run to Aroma Joes with Hannah and Sofie in the mornings, or panic study for physics with Sonia, or listen to Nate and Seamus argue about almost anything.

I will miss Evenlyn’s incredible performances at talent shows, witnessing niya own class discussions, getting a hello from Sam every time I see him, calling for Bodhi whenever there is a tech problem, giving Mr. Borbeau fist bumps in the hallways, and seeing Ella and Robert gift another warrior of the week with seasonal fruit.

But I do know this: everything I’ve been part of here—every hallway, every class, every laugh— has made these 15 years joyous, and challenging, and memorable, and will without a doubt prepare me for the next ones. And I’m especially lucky to have spent them with all of you. I want to thank the amazing teachers I have gotten to learn from, the faculty and staff that have done so much incredible work behind the scenes, and my family for bringing me into the Wheeler community, and always supporting me outside of it. And finally, to the Class of 2025: thank you—for growing up with me.