Day: 29 June 2026

A Letter to the Class of 2026

I think there are people you meet in your life who are truly special—people who inspire you to get up in the morning, who make your days something to look forward to, who are there for your worst and your best moments, for all your successes and failures. I haven’t been sure about a lot of the things in my life, but I can say with certainty that the 84 people in this grade have created a bond that I am proud to be part of.

Two years ago, when we were in Grade 10, we were asked to write letters to our future selves. I remember this moment vividly. We sat on the cold Theatre floor, picking out coloured paper and pencils, writing to people we had yet to know. We were excited and curious about what was to come, somewhat like how the future feels now. A few months ago, when we were on the grey, carpeted bleachers for our final Grade photo in this very theatre, we received those letters. When I opened mine, I felt overwhelmed with nostalgia.

There is a lot of impermanence in life—a fleeting feeling that every moment is going too quickly. So, I thought writing a letter to you all would be fitting, as a bittersweet memory cemented in time. I think the point of the valedictorian is to reflect on our life stories and to say goodbye for the moment. Over 15 years, I’ve had the privilege of not just hearing your stories but growing up with you. I don’t think it’s possible to take those years and put them into one little letter; there have been so many moments that have shaped our lives that simply can’t be written down. So, I’ll try to tell you one all-encompassing story instead.

Last year, I took Writer’s Craft with Mr. Sylvester, and he asked us, in our culminating project for our travel writing unit, what the difference is between a visitor passing through a place and a place passing through a person—a quote from novelist Cynthia Ozick. For the past years, whether you’ve been at this school for fifteen years or for one, we have passed through this building. We have passed through the glass-walled windows and polished tiled floors, through morning late slips, long lunch lines, and new common areas that quickly turned familiar—from blue plastic chairs and stuffy classrooms to assemblies and semis.

On the last day of school, after we had rung the last bell and popped bottles of champagne on the grass (don’t worry, non-alcoholic), when the noise had died down and our things were packed, I walked towards the front reception door for one of the last times. For a moment, as I opened the door—stepping out of this chapter and into the next—I looked back.

And when I looked back at the building in which we had grown up, it was difficult to see it for what it is, but rather what it was. When I looked at the glass-windowed walls, the hallways we walked a thousand times, and the familiar warm lights of the learning commons shining through the windows, I felt this place passing through me. It was one of the few times where I have truly recognized impermanence—where time has humbled me and shown me that good things can’t last forever, and good people won’t always be there.

But I know that even when we are far away, when we look at a sunrise, we’ll see ourselves having breakfast in Sunnybrook Park; when we feel warm sand against our toes, we’ll think of our skip day at the beach; and when we feel like we truly belong, we’ll think back to our days at Bayview Glen.

Now, I suppose an idea that was sparked from a letter to our future selves should end with one too. So, here are a few things I hope you can look forward to reading in a little while:

I hope you live with time in mind, because time passes sooner than you think.
I hope you take risks and try hard things, and pursue your passions—not out of the need to fulfil someone else, but for yourself.
And I hope above all that you remember this place, and these people will always be a home to come back to.

It is impossible to pass through a place without passing through the people in it. There are so many extraordinary people who have led to our success today. So, to the staff and teachers who have guided us through frantic emails and pre-test support, to our parents who have dropped us off early and picked us up late, and to our families and siblings, thank you for getting us to where we are today.

As with all things, change is inevitable. Two years ago, we wrote letters to people we had not yet become. And now, as I write to those people we had so yearned to meet, it feels strange to be saying goodbye. But even as we move on to the next chapter of our lives, our bond—fortified through loss, failure, and success—remains. Remember, you’ll always have a little letter to look back on.

And with that, I say congratulations to the Class of 2026.

Love,
Amali