18/04/2026
𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧
— 𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐀, 𝐍𝐃𝐌𝐔’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
Batch Ascendia, take a moment to read this piece generously offered to us by OMNIANA. In the midst of all the celebrations, transitions, and farewells, it quietly reminds us of what truly stays— the memories we didn’t plan, the people who became part of our story, and the version of ourselves that kept showing up.
As we continue to ascend, may we carry not just the milestones, but the meaning behind them. Let this be a gentle pause— a reminder that nothing real from our journey was ever lost, only carried forward. We are proud Marists. Always. In all ways.
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧
Dear Batch 2026,
If you sit with it long enough, you’ll notice something strange—college doesn’t come back to you as one solid memory. It comes in pieces. Not the ones you expected to matter, either.
It’s the version of you rushing out the door, already late, half-prepared but still going. It’s the weight of a bag that somehow always felt heavier during exam week. It’s scanning a test paper too quickly, heart racing, convincing yourself you studied enough—or knowing you didn’t. It’s checking your grades with that familiar mix of dread and hope, refreshing the page like the numbers might change if you look again.
And then, just as clearly, it’s the people.
The ones who sat beside you without needing to say much. The ones who shared answers, shared snacks, shared entire breakdowns in the middle of the semester. The group chats that started as academic and slowly turned into something else—something louder, messier, more real. The inside jokes that stopped making sense to anyone outside of them. The way certain names started to feel like constants, like they had always been there. You don’t realize it while it’s happening, but those people become part of how you get through everything.
There were also the parts of you that stretched in ways you didn’t expect. Joining organizations you weren’t entirely sure about. Saying yes to responsibilities you didn’t feel ready for. Staying late for meetings, planning events that looked effortless to everyone else but took everything from you behind the scenes. There were moments you questioned why you even signed up in the first place.
There were days that felt heavy in a way that’s hard to explain. Days when nothing made sense, when the workload piled up, when you wondered if you were falling behind everyone else. Days when showing up felt like the only thing you could manage. But you showed up anyway.
That matters more than it seemed at the time.
And then there were the lighter days—the ones that didn’t feel important enough to remember. Walking between classes with no urgency. Sitting somewhere just to pass time. Conversations that had no point but somehow stayed with you longer than the lessons did. Those days didn’t ask for attention. They didn’t try to be meaningful.
But they were…
Now you’re here, at the edge of it all, wearing green that marks a transition more than an ending. And maybe there’s a part of you wondering if you did enough. If you chose the right things. If there’s something you should have done differently.
𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀. 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀.
Not the path you didn’t take.
Not the chance you let pass.
Not the version of your life that almost happened but didn’t.
What you have now, these memories, these people, these exact experiences—is not lacking. It’s complete in its own way. It doesn’t need to be compared to anything else to be enough.
You don’t get to keep everything from these years.
You won’t remember every lesson, every lecture, every requirement you stressed over. Most of it will fade, and that’s not something to fix. That’s just how it works. What you do get to keep is quieter. The way you learned to keep going even when you were unsure. The people who made difficult days feel lighter. The version of yourself that didn’t give up, even when it would’ve been easier to. That version of you is not staying behind.
It is going; it is with you.
And maybe, sometime from now, you’ll catch yourself thinking about all of this—not because you’re trying to go back, but because something small reminds you. A habit. A phrase. A feeling you can’t quite explain. And that’s what nostalgia really is—not something soft or sentimental, but something solid. A kind of proof.
Proof that you were there. That it mattered. That even the days you thought were ordinary were shaping something you only understand now. So as you leave, your classrooms, your organizations, the spaces you moved through without thinking, don’t worry about whether you made the most of it.
You lived it. Fully enough for it to stay.
ASCENDIA—live up to the name given to you, may you continue to move upward with the integrity instilled to you by the Marist community. And when everything begins to feel distant—when names fade, routines change, and life moves faster than it ever did—hold on to this:
𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝘆—𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂.
Let that be enough to trust that nothing real was lost.
You didn’t miss anything that was meant for you.
You’re only carrying what was.