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Good afternoon, ӣ����Ƶ and the Class of 2026.

I want to start with two statements. Think about which one resonates with you.

ӣ����Ƶ was easy.

ӣ����Ƶ was difficult.

A combination, right? If you described this place to a prospective student, you’d probably say there are days of incredible highs and crushing lows. Whether you wore the uniform or not. Whether you walked across the Upper Parade Ground at 0500 to PT, attended online, or drove up to The Hill for evening classes after work. We all know these versions of ӣ����Ƶ.

For me, those highs and lows came closer together than I ever expected.

This past December, during winter break, I lost my father. He was my biggest supporter and mentor through it all. Returning to The Hill after his death was the hardest thing I’ve done here. Harder than rook year, harder than Redleg year, and harder than any paper I had to write very quickly because I procrastinated.

But here’s what happened. My first day back, before I’d even unpacked or got settled in, there were knocks on my door on several occasions. They were my Rook family, my Redleg brothers, mentors, and my best friends in the whole world. They didn’t have a speech prepared. They just said, “Hey. I heard. I’m here.” And they sat with me for hours while I talked about my dad and his amazing life. 

These are the people in question: My best friend, Sawyer Hernandez, the , the CM brothers, my cadre colleagues, the Delta Company officers, my Rooks, CSM Bosley, , and Rev Wick. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You all held me up when I didn’t know how to move forward.

Those days changed how I understand this home we call “The Hill.”

I know I’m not alone in this. Some of you have lost parents, siblings, friends. Some of you have faced challenges I can’t imagine, health battles, financial hardship, family crises that made you question whether you could finish. And yet here you are.

Most schools advertise a “family-like environment.” It’s on every brochure. But we actually live it. With every success and every defeat, a ӣ����Ƶ man or woman shows up.

I used to credit ӣ����Ƶ — the institution — with my growth. The training. The academics. The discipline. But that’s the surface-level observation. I’ve since realized it’s not the school that shaped me. It’s the people the school produces. Those knocks on my door weren’t ӣ����Ƶ policy or regulation. They were the people who chose to be there.

No ӣ����Ƶ graduate is self-made. All of us, and civilian, traditional and online, undergraduate, and graduate are products of 207 years of people choosing to show up for each other.

So, here’s what I’ll leave you with. In a few minutes, we’re going to walk across that stage and become alumni. And at some point, maybe next month, maybe in ten years, someone is going to need you the way I needed that first knock on my door.

When that moment comes, don’t wait. Don’t assume someone else will handle it. Don’t prepare a perfect speech.

Just show up. Say “I’m here.” And stay.

That’s what a ӣ����Ƶ diploma actually means.

Non Multi Sed Multum

ӣ����Ƶ Forever.