"Learning, people, and lessons: Class of 2024" by professor Kristen Mudrack

The hardest part of my job is saying goodbye.  

I am a college chemistry professor, and I spend four years investing in my students, teaching them, living life with them, learning from them, and giving them advice on classes and life.  I love what I do – it is a great job.  But the hardest part comes every May, when I watch them walk across the stage at graduation and out of my classroom for the last time.  

Some of these students have babysat my kids or watched my dog.  They’ve been over to my house for breakfast or dinner.  They’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of my life for four years.  I’ve walked with them through the death of friends and family, the deferral of dreams, the joy of engagements and acceptances to graduate of medical school, and so much more.  

My job is to prepare them to enter the world – as a servant, as a leader, and as a scientist.  My job is to show them what life can look like when you live it well – no matter the struggles and difficulties placed before you.  My job is to prepare my students to leave (and for that matter, my kids too – but that’s a blog post for another time), and if I have done that job well, then saying goodbye should be easy – because I have succeeded.  

But when I succeed in my job, it means that I have to let them go.  I have to watch from afar as they start careers, publish papers, make amazing scientific discoveries, care for patients, achieve further degrees, and more.  

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, when I do my job well, part of my heart leaves with my students.  And that hurts.    

These particular seniors have watched my kids enter the world and have watched them grow for nearly three years.  They have walked with me through the ups and downs of foster care, and cried happy tears with me when we got news of my son’s adoption.  They have challenged me and helped me to grow, and I have learned from them as they have learned from me.  

As I watch them go this weekend, I wish them all the best in the world.  I know that they will experience heartache and hardship, and I hope that what they have learned here will help them through it.  I hope that when they are asked if their time in college was worth it, their answer will be yes – for the learning, the people, the lessons, and more.  I hope that they remember the life lessons they have learned in my office and in my classroom.  I hope that they live lives of servant leadership, stopping to have conversations with colleagues and patients, sharing their faith and their passion with those around them.  

And selfishly, I hope that they stay in touch, so that I can celebrate with them in their victories and weep with them in their sadness.  Because even though their time in my classroom is over, I will always be available for them, as long as I am able, to be a mentor, a teacher, and a friend.  

Congratulations, Class of 2024.  May you be blessed.