Dear Graduate: You Don't Have to Have It All Figured Out
Reflections on legacy, purpose, and the story you get to write next
This past weekend, Erin Resnick became a second-generation Fairfield University graduate. And I can honestly say—it was magnificent. Spectacular. Incredible.
I mean those words literally.
Magnificent: impressively beautiful and elaborate.
Spectacular: dramatic and eye-catching.
Incredible: difficult to believe; extraordinary.
All three captured what this weekend felt like. The ceremony was held behind Bellarmine Hall, one of the most beautiful views on campus. The weather was perfect—warm but not stifling, unlike Coleen’s and my graduation back in May 1994.
So much has changed in thirty years—from 750 graduates to nearly 1,250. The robes are still black, but the students now wear cords and stoles for every imaginable accomplishment—honor societies, leadership roles, athletics, and faith-based organizations. We didn’t have that visual display of achievement back in our day, but the pride, joy, tears, and overwhelming emotion? That part hasn’t changed at all.
Of course, the families still cheer loudly when names are called. Some airhorns. A few confetti cannons. Over the top? Sure. A little obnoxious? Maybe. But who am I to judge? Watching your child graduate makes even the most reserved of us want to scream.
Reflecting Back, Dreaming Forward
Waiting for the ceremony to begin, I stood behind Bellarmine and looked out at those same white folding chairs I once sat in. I tried to remember exactly where I was on that hot May day in 1994. My name was called near the end; “Resnick” doesn’t come up quickly in the alphabet, so I had plenty of time to think.
My post-graduation plan was to work in construction for my friend Pete’s dad in NYC. Then, I’d head to D.C. for a dream internship on Capitol Hill.
Only the dream didn’t pan out. There was no internship—just disappointment. I returned home unsure of who I was or where I was headed.
Then, everything changed when Janet Canepa, George Diffley, and Father Kelley introduced me to the world of Advancement—alumni engagement and fundraising. That’s when I found my professional home. Back on campus. As Director of Alumni Relations at Fairfield Prep.
But instead of becoming the next Janet Canepa or George Diffley, I ultimately landed in branded merchandise. I never lost interest in advancement—truthfully, I still dream of stepping into their shoes someday—but I’m proud of my path.
My Purpose Found Me Late
It wasn’t until my dad got Alzheimer’s that I really reconnected with my purpose. And even now, I’m still defining it, discovering, and adjusting the narrative.
That’s what I want Erin—and every graduate—to know.
Stories change. Often. The key is ensuring you’re controlling the narrative—not letting someone else write it for you. Your story doesn’t have to make perfect sense right away. It just has to be yours.
What I like most about graduation ceremonies is that they give us hope. They remind us that possibility still exists, that the future is unwritten, and that the best stories haven’t even started yet.
A Second-Generation Stag
Erin has made her own story. She didn’t play ice hockey like her dad, but like her parents, she was all-in on FUSA, helping plan and run events for her class: food truck nights, themed parties, study breaks, and the iconic 25 Nights at The Grape.
She did more than we ever did.
Graduating Summa Cum Laude… For us non-Latin types, Summa cum laude means "with the highest praise" and is the highest academic honor conferred upon graduates in the United States. It signifies the most extraordinary academic achievement, typically awarded to those in the top 1-5% of their class with GPAs of 3.85 or higher. Just a tad higher than my GPA (okay, a lot higher).
Majoring in Communications, minoring in Spanish, and already making progress toward her Master’s in Elementary Education. Muy impresionante.
For reference, I earned a very generous C- in Spanish my first semester. She crushed it.
A shoutout to Montrose School in Medfield for preparing her so well. Erin often said that high school was harder than college, and based on her results, I believe her. She was disciplined, managed her time, pushed herself, and knew when to slow down. She studied hard and played hard.
She lived at the beach her senior year—something we never expected. No car. No shuttle. Just grit. That’s Erin. She made it work. She always does.
She embraced every piece of Fairfield: from NYC Broadway shows to basketball games at Leo D. Mahoney Arena… lectures, concerts, pub nights, and happy hours... Erin embraced everything Fairfield had to offer. She studied abroad in London, pushed through insecurities, and returned stronger, more independent, more herself.
Magnificent. Spectacular. Incredible.
I told her roommate, Kate, that this newsletter wouldn’t be sad. I may have lied.
The student speaker, Zachary Maloy, delivered one of the best speeches I’ve ever heard at a graduation.
“We often hear: College is the best four years of your life. I disagree. College is the four years that teach you how to live the best years of your life. Because what we built here—these relationships, this community, this Fairfield family—it’s not just nostalgia; it’s foundation.”
He nailed it, and in a quintessential MARK. Set. Go… manner, I might add.
The commencement speaker, Tim Shriver, the Special Olympics International Board chair, brought humor and depth. My favorite line of his address was this:
“The way you make a difference determines the difference you make. Make your way the way of dignity.”
I scribbled it down and haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
On the drive home, it stayed with me. So did something else:
Don’t be fooled by the people who look like they have it all figured out.
The ones who appear confident, clear, and successful. The ones who seem to know exactly where they’re going.
Trust me—they don’t.
They ask themselves the same questions you do:
Am I good enough? Am I truly worthy? Am I appreciated? Am I headed in the right direction?
The truth is—you are.
When Zachary said college teaches you how to live the best years of your life, he wasn’t saying you already know how. He was saying the journey is just beginning.
You won’t have all the answers—not yet.
But that’s not what matters.
What matters is how you go through life: how you show up, how you make a difference, how you support others, how you rise from failure, and how you give yourself permission to dream again.
That’s the foundation.
That’s the story you’re writing. The one that matters most.
Graduation isn’t the end. It’s the launch.
So no, graduation isn’t the end. It’s the launch. And it doesn’t matter if you’re 22 or 52—the launch is always available to you.
It’s a reminder that life doesn’t follow a script and that we’re all still figuring it out—just at different stages, with different fears and dreams.
But if you build your story on a strong foundation—relationships, resilience, integrity—you’ll be just fine.
In fact, you might find that the most magnificent moments come when you least expect them.
That the most spectacular growth happens just after you’ve doubted yourself the most.
And that the most incredible part of the journey is realizing it’s yours to create.
To Erin and every graduate stepping into their next chapter: you’ve already made us proud. Not because you’ve figured it all out—but because you’ve begun.
Keep going. Keep growing. Keep believing in what’s possible.
And when in doubt, remember: you get to write the story.
Let it be magnificent. Let it be spectacular. Let it be incredible.
See you next Tuesday.
