Thank you, Dean Hazlett. Thanks as well to President Porterfield, members of the Board of Trustees, members of the faculty, distinguished alumni, friends and families—and, of course, to my fellow students. It's an immense honor to speak to all of you today.

It is natural, on a morning like this, to reflect on our beginnings. One of my earliest memories from my first year at Franklin & Marshall is of passing the bookstore coffee shop, which at this point was still unfamiliar and on its first of many different names, and feeling distinctly undeserving and overwhelmed. Why had this experience been given to me, as opposed to somebody else? Why had so many factors converged to situate me here in Lancaster, passing by Stager Hall on my way to my Connections seminar, rather than at some other college? 

As we graduate today, we find ourselves, individually and collectively, asking these questions again. How can it be that, in just a few minutes, we will be graduates of a leading liberal arts college in one of the world's richest countries, achieving a level of education and expected quality of life that places us in a distinct minority of the global population? Why are we now poised to begin the new lives we are planning, and why do we feel as we do about our futures? Who will we meet? What will we accomplish?

The answers to these questions defy logic and justice, almost as if they are impenetrable to our efforts to make sense of them. As an overwhelmed first-year on my way to class, the only solution I could imagine was to immerse myself in the educational resources we had, for some reason or another, been given. In these four years, we have challenged ourselves and mastered concepts that our first-year selves could not have even comprehended. On the late nights we spent studying for exams, or while making seemingly endless revisions to our papers, we nevertheless felt grateful. We were fortunate to be in school, to be on a pathway toward accomplishing our dreams. This gratitude pushed us through the discomfort of stress and of being wrong.

While we studied, bypassing our anxieties, something almost miraculous happened. Slowly, the skills and bits of knowledge we were accumulating began to overlap and intersect with someone else's interest, someone else's need. We helped each other with homework, explored new ideas in conversations, applied our newfound skills in internships or while volunteering, and created knowledge in our independent research to inspire other researchers. Through our vigilance and curiosity, we made sense of the situation into which we had been thrown by connecting with each other.

Someone said to me in the summer before my first year at F&M, "In college, you do not find yourself. You become yourself." His meaning, I took it, was that it would be faulty to go through these four years searching for some inner truth. We all contain multitudes of truths within us. We are infinitely capable -- I know this of all of you, who have succeeded in so many varied ways. Every minute, we reconstitute ourselves in the words we say, the decisions we make, and the way we treat others. Even if there is a true self, perhaps that is not what is most important.

Last week, I turned in my last final — another rite of passage I deeply savored. Less than an hour later, another person bookended my college years with another morsel of advice. He said to me, "Go where the need is, not where your interests lie." Indeed, our interests are malleable and responsive to our situations. The key to a truly happy and fulfilling life is not to yearn for things you think might make your life more enjoyable, but instead to take a deep and passionate interest in whatever you are doing.

I congratulate all of you, members of the Class of 2018, and have loved getting to know the people you are continuously becoming. Never stop learning, trying to understand, or growing into the people our world needs.

2018 Williamson Medalist Caroline Lawrence Image Credit: Eric Forberger