Imaginations are free, and I decided to explore the excesses of mine months after the previous graduation. The prompt was simple: what would I have said if I was invited to speak on behalf of non-graduates at the graduation? What'd my speech have been?
Well, If there was a speech for non-graduates, here would have been mine.
I stand here this afternoon in complete shock and utter humility. I stand here today trying so hard to remind myself that I am not a failure and that this is just a minor setback meant for the greater good. My heart is a tangled mess of shock, disappointment, and (weirdly) a bit of strange, quiet hope whose source I have no idea of.
I stand here looking back at the 19-year-old I was when I first landed my feet at the shores of this University. Yes, I was filled with hope, some optimism and a ton of fear. But no. This is not the triumphant stage I envisioned. Despite the fear, I envisioned being here on this stage, but as the valedictorian. I envisioned the broad smiles on the faces of my friends and family as I was called upstage to inspire the world and my fellow graduates.
I stand here lost, because in spite of my big dreams and all, how do I handle this misfortune? This was not a part of the agreement, neither was it part of the plan.
See, I won't lie. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and assuredly, I have passed through the five stages of grief. I've been through denial, desperate clinging to the hope of a miracle. The bitter sting of anger has pierced me deep in unforgivable ways, and I have lashed out several times at the school.
I have bargained with the circumstances too and questioned, "Maybe if I had...ABC DEF GH and I". Let me not mention depression because seeing all the "God did" pictures hurt the more. It hit differently.
There have been nights when I'd lie awake, silenced by the heavy weight of unfulfilled imaginations. The graduation photos I'd imagined, the captions and memes, the proud smiles of my parents, the cheers of my friends – all felt like damn.
The most difficult part of all of this has been explaining my situation to my family. How and where do I start? What do I say? How do I tame their about-to-be-crushed emotions? God, they'll be so disappointed in me. The people who see me as a role model? What do I tell them? The settings adey do? Aw, Lord God, my enemies have got me! Ɔmo enya me! Mewu ooo. Lawu!
Yes, I have been through all of these and more.
But finally and thankfully, I have reached acceptance. Acceptance, not as a surrender, but as a quiet understanding that my journey is not the same as that of others.
This experience has taught me three things.
- The value of vulnerability, for in vulnerability I have found my greatest healing
- The power of resilience, for I have had to push doors written pull, and
- The unexpected beauty of detours, for I have been blessed with the opportunity to chart a beautiful path.
To my fellow non-graduates, you'll be just fine. Cry if you have to. Cast blame if you need to. Rage against the unfairness if you must. Occasionally feel like you're a failure if that emotion comes up. But I need you to do one thing for me.
I need you to go through this.
Yes, go through it. Not by it, not on top of it, not under, but through. Feel it all. Allow yourself to be fully human, for it is through this that we find the strength to move forward.
This is not the end, but a slight teeny tiny bend in the road. It might look gloomy, but it is a chance to rewrite the narrative. I need you to remember that we are not failures; we've just had our plans re-routed. Rather than dwelling on the "what ifs", I recommend focusing on "what could be.
We are the unsung heroes of this graduation, and our stories are yet to be written. We have the opportunity to write them, beautifully. I am of the unshakeable belief that our stories, though rewritten, are no less worthy of being told.
I wish you all the best, and I hope to see you next year or the next, or even the next at our graduation ceremony. We will make it, we will graduate, and we will obtain this degree, whether it takes four years or ten.
The stage is ours. The journey towards the end begins now.
