This Isn’t Goodbye — A Farewell Story in Words

Aidan Rivera, Class Speaker – Senior Farewell Address

Good evening everyone—teachers, parents, friends, and most importantly, my fellow graduates of East River High School, Class of 2025.

I know I’m standing here to give a speech, but really, I want to tell you a story. Our story.

It starts not with cap and gown or final exams, but on the very first day of freshman year. September 3rd, 2021. I remember because it rained. Not the kind of romantic, Instagram-worthy rain—just wet socks and that awkward shuffle through the hallways as we figured out where Room 205 was and how to pretend we weren’t terrified.

We were smaller then. Some of us still wore braces. Some still tried to hide their nerves behind sarcasm or silence. I was one of them. I walked into school thinking high school would be some mix of “Mean Girls” and “Stranger Things”—drama, bike chases, and maybe a demogorgon or two. What I found instead was something far less predictable. Something real.

Let me introduce you to the characters of this story.

There’s Jade—who once forgot her science project on the bus but still managed to explain it from memory in front of the class, winning not just a top grade but our admiration. There’s Anthony—who failed Algebra once, maybe twice, but came back every semester with more determination than anyone else I’ve ever met. And who can forget Mr. Castillo, our U.S. History teacher, who taught us about the Civil Rights Movement with so much passion, I swear he made half of us cry during the lesson on Selma.

These weren’t just classmates and teachers. They were chapters.

As we moved through freshman year into sophomore, junior, and now senior, the story changed. The pandemic was still whispering in the background. Masks came off, but the fear lingered. We lost time. We lost some people, too. I want to pause here and remember Sarah Kim, who passed away sophomore year. She was light in every hallway she walked down, and I think she would have loved to be here, dressed in maroon like the rest of us.

We learned a lot in these four years, though not always from textbooks.

We learned how to unlearn. How to listen. How to have a conversation without always needing to be right. I remember one heated lunchroom debate about the dress code—some of us outraged by the double standards, some defending the rules. It could’ve turned ugly, but instead, people walked away understanding each other a little better. That’s growth.

We learned how to fail and how to get back up. We learned that college rejections don’t define you. That friendship can be messy and still beautiful. That mental health matters, and that it’s okay to ask for help.

That last one was a hard-earned lesson. I’m not afraid to say I had days where I couldn’t get out of bed. When the pressure to be perfect felt like a stormcloud that followed me everywhere. But there were always people—real ones—who pulled me back. Friends who left soup on my porch. A counselor who didn’t give up on me. A principal who told me, “It’s not about bouncing back. It’s about not bouncing alone.”

And now here we are. Four years of drama, inside jokes, cafeteria chaos, and cramming for finals—over. Tonight, we stand on the edge of something new. But before we leap forward, I want to tell you how this story ends. Or rather, how it continues.

Let me take you into the future. Just a little.

Imagine ten years from now. One of us is working night shifts at a hospital, keeping people alive while everyone else sleeps. Another is coding the next big thing in tech. One might be teaching seventh-grade English, changing the life of some awkward kid who doesn’t yet know who they are. One might be raising a child. Or two. Or running a bakery. Or learning to fly a plane. Or still figuring it out—and that’s okay.

But no matter where we go, we’ll always carry this story.

We’ll carry the hallway echoes of our laughter. The tears shed after breakups or bombed tests. The euphoria of opening a college acceptance email or getting cast in the spring play. The way we cheered when the football team finally beat Northside. The silly inside jokes written in yearbooks. The dances, the games, the awkward hugs at prom.

We’ll carry the voices of those who believed in us when we didn’t believe in ourselves. I see Ms. Garza in the crowd now—thank you for telling me I had a voice when all I saw in the mirror was someone trying too hard. To every teacher who stayed late to help, who answered emails at 10 PM, who saw us as people, not just students—thank you.

To our families—biological, chosen, near or far—thank you. You held us up when we were ready to fall apart. You gave us rides, advice, and sometimes the tough love we needed. You rooted for us even when we couldn’t explain why we wanted to drop out of AP Bio or switch our major to “undecided.”

And to the Class of 2025—thank you.

Thank you for being weird and wonderful. For making memes about each other. For dancing in the hallways. For showing up for the protests, the spirit weeks, the talent shows. For being vulnerable. For being brave.

Before I finish, I want to tell you one last story. It’s short, but it’s mine.

In junior year, I auditioned for a play and didn’t get a part. I cried in the bathroom—not because I thought I was good, but because for the first time, I’d tried something without hiding behind sarcasm or fear. And I failed.

But a week later, someone slipped a note into my locker. No name, just five words:

“I’m proud you showed up.”

That moment changed everything. I never found out who wrote it, but I think about it a lot. It reminded me that showing up matters. Even when it’s scary. Even when you don’t win. Even when you think no one sees you.

So, as we walk out of these doors tonight, I want to leave you with that same message.

Wherever you go next, show up. To the job interview. To the open mic night. To the difficult conversation. To your own life.

Show up messy. Show up real. Show up for others. And when you feel like quitting, remember: someone out there is proud you showed up. I am.

This is not the end of our story. This is the prologue to a thousand stories still waiting to be written.

And years from now, when someone asks you what high school was like, you might smile and say, “We were a bunch of misfits who didn’t know what we were doing, but we had heart. We made it matter.”

Congratulations, Class of 2025.

We didn’t just survive. We lived. Together.

Thank you—and goodbye.