Over the last couple of weeks, I prepared by studying other commencement speeches by people I admire: the Obamas, Abby Wambach, Oprah, Zadie Smith. It’s funny how some of them seem almost prophetic and all-knowing when you watch them years later—and yet none of their advice could have prepared us for a year of quarantine, social distancing, and remote learning. In her 2014 commencement speech at the New School, Zadie Smith said: “Walk down these crowded streets with a smile on your face. Be thankful you get to walk so close to other humans. It’s a privilege. Don’t let your fellow humans be alien to you.”

But what happens when you have no choice? Eventually, I had to force myself to stop watching other commencement speakers when I realized their wisdom far outweighed mine. I was addressing an audience that was my age. What advice could I possibly give when my experiences did not outpace anyone else’s? This year, I had no experiences that I wanted to revisit. A car accident, an emotional affair with my sister’s boyfriend, almost losing my best friend twice—once to my own pride and then to a deadly virus. It’s pretty amazing how much can happen to you during a span of time when you’ve barely left the house. In the end, when I hunkered down to write the speech, I opted for what had served me in the past: painful honesty. I didn’t just leave blood on the page. I left guts, too.

I rehearsed ad nauseum. Mostly for Andrew. This should have been his speech and his moment, and the only way to properly honor him was to live up to his memory. But I’m still consumed with the fear that I will stutter my way through it and that my words will be overshadowed by my stilted delivery. I haven’t been able to pay attention to any portion of the graduation ceremony so far, because all I can think about is my turn to speak. And whoever decided I should follow the In Memoriam slideshow must have had it out for me. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from crying as my computer screen fills up with classmates we’ve lost. I don’t want to be all red and puffy from my tears when it’s my turn to command the Zoom, but how am I supposed to keep my game face on after seeing photos of a dozen kids from our high school who didn’t make it to this day?