Valedictorian Speech: How to Write Yours, With Examples

Good evening, faculty and staff, families, friends, and my fellow graduates of the Class of 2027.

My name is Priya, and I want to start with a confession. I am very nervous. So if my voice shakes, just pretend it's the soup can pyramid. It will wobble a little, and then it will probably fall over.

Every spring, our class built a giant pyramid of soup cans in the lobby for the canned food drive. Every spring, we won. And every spring, that pyramid came crashing down. We never did figure out the engineering. But we kept stacking.

Think about what we've stacked up together. We started freshman year with half our classes online. Many of us didn't really meet until sophomore year. Then the robotics team's robot caught fire at regionals, and now the whole school calls it "the toaster." Junior year, a flood closed the east wing. We had chemistry in the library and gym class in the parking lot. And this winter, the power went out during the concert. The choir finished the song in the dark, and all of us held up our phone flashlights.

That last one stays with me. Nobody planned it. Somebody held up a light, and then somebody else did, and soon the whole room was glowing.

That's what I want to talk about tonight. Asking for help is not the same as failing.

Here's my story. My first chemistry test freshman year, I got a 52. I hid it from my parents for a week. I had a whole plan to quit honors science and never think about it again. Then Mr. Okonkwo found me after class. He didn't give me a speech. He just said, "Come Thursday."

So I went. And I kept going every Thursday night for three years. I'm only standing up here because I finally raised my hand.

Here's what I've noticed. The people who did best here were not the ones who never struggled. They were the ones who asked sooner. Asking is not a weakness. It's a skill, and it might be the most useful one we learned in this building.

Our school motto is "Lift as you climb." I think that's the other half of the lesson. Someone lifts you, and then you turn around and lift someone else. We lost Danny Reyes junior year. His family asked us to remember him as the kid who always held the door. I can't think of a better way to lift someone than that.

Now, some thank-yous, because none of us climbed alone.

Mr. Okonkwo, thank you for three years of Thursday nights. You gave up your evenings for kids who weren't even yours. Ms. Linh, thank you for knowing everyone's schedule better than we did. To the bus drivers, the custodians, and the cafeteria staff, thank you for showing up early and working hard so that our days could run. We saw you, even when we forgot to say so.

And to our parents and grandparents, who worked extra shifts so we could be sitting in these chairs today, thank you. We know what it cost. We won't forget it.

Classmates, look at where we're headed. About half of us are going to four-year colleges. Others are going to community college, nursing programs, and electrician apprenticeships. Some of us are joining the Army and the Air Force. Some are heading straight into jobs. Every one of those paths takes courage, and every one of them will get hard.

When it does, here's what I hope for you. I hope you raise your hand early. I hope you find your Mr. Okonkwo wherever you land. I hope you hold the door for the next person, the way Danny did. And I hope you remember that you're the kind of class that finishes the song in the dark.

So when the lights go out, and they will, don't be afraid to ask for a flashlight. And when someone else is in the dark, be the one who holds yours up.

Class of 2027, we built something here. Even when it fell over, we built it again. Go build the next thing. Lift as you climb.

Thank you.

Good evening, faculty and staff, families, and my fellow graduates of Bramblewood Community College.

Let's start with something we all share. The library vending machine. The one that only takes exact change. Who here has fed it a dollar bill and watched it disappear forever? Yes, I see you. I'm pretty sure that machine has paid for a whole wing of this campus.

And think about our night classes. Half the room came straight from work. Scrubs, uniforms, name tags. I once sat next to someone whose name tag said "Ask me about our specials." I did not ask. I was too tired. But I respected it.

Most of us worked while going to school. A lot of us are parents. And some of our classmates took six years instead of two, and they came back anyway. That is not slow. That is stubborn, and I mean that as the highest compliment.

Here is my story. I'm 34. I started here at 19. Then Mateo was born, and I dropped out. I came back twelve years later. Twelve years! I studied for my biology final while Isabel napped on my lap, trying not to move, because if she woke up, the studying was over.

So here is my message. It is never too late. Slow progress is still progress. Finishing counts, no matter how long it took. Nobody looks at your diploma and asks how many years it took. It just says you did it.

Now, some thank-yous. Professor Adeyemi, thank you for answering emails at 11 p.m. in statistics. I'm not sure when you sleep, but we are grateful you don't. And to my husband Luis, and Mateo and Isabel, who quizzed me on anatomy flashcards at dinner. You know the bones better than some of my classmates now. You are in the third row tonight, and this diploma is yours too.

To the class of 2027: some of you are transferring to universities. Some of you are starting nursing jobs. I hope you keep going, at whatever speed works for you. Walk, run, or crawl, just keep moving.

And if you ever get stuck, remember the vending machine. Sometimes you just need the right change, and a little patience.

Congratulations, graduates. We did it.