Fellow Beloiters —
I applied to be this year’s commencement speaker. I wasn’t selected. But I spent four years observing something worth sharing, and a rejection letter wasn’t going to stop me. So here’s my letter instead.
Let me set the scene for you: it’s the first day of the fall semester, my first day on campus ever, and I am in the WAC, lost, trying to find my class. A student asks me for directions. I don’t have them. A few minutes later, I bump into him again and call him out: “You thought I was a professor, didn’t you?” He says, “Yeah.” I say, “Nah, I’m just a student like you.”
But I wasn’t a student just like him. And for those students who have seen me around campus but never met me — no, I’m not a professor. That is why I’m writing this letter, because of that difference. And if you think that was a one-time thing, just last week a student I’d never met asked me the same question. Four years later, still not a professor.
I grew up about a 20-minute drive from campus. I knew about Beloit College, but never did I imagine I’d be here — not as a high schooler, and not as a retired Marine. But I didn’t expect to be a Marine either. The Marine recruiter called twice, I said yes, and life took off from there — boot camp, marriage, kids, deployments, and 22 years had gone by. Along the way, I ended up at a unit that wasn’t my choice but turned out to be the most meaningful assignment of my career.
As retirement approached, my path in life shifted towards medicine. In 2017, my son Ayden lost his battle with cancer. He was seven. I was already on the path to becoming a doctor, but after losing him, I knew exactly what kind — pediatric oncology.
And had I arrived at Beloit any earlier, I wouldn’t have had the professors who shaped me into the student I am today. To those professors, thank you for treating me like just another student. I could go on with other examples, but they all have the same message. Life is not linear. I was never supposed to be a Marine, never supposed to be a Beloiter, and yet here I am.
But just because life isn’t linear doesn’t mean you’re just along for the ride. I started college at 45, and I’m heading to med school at age 50. Who does that? How many people would say it can’t be done? I was passed over for promotion four times, and most people thought I would never get that next rank. I did. In 2019, I decided to run at least a mile every single day for a year. That was eight years ago, and I haven’t missed a day — yet. My knees have opinions about that, but they’ve been outvoted. Every year, I also run at least that many miles, so in 2026 my goal is at least 2,026 miles. People or life will only slow you down if you let them. So be realistic, then do the impossible.
I have spent four years in class, studying and working alongside a generation that isn’t mine and part of the generation that I am raising as a dad. I am in microbiology class, and we have to name our group for a project on viruses. I say “Let’s call ourselves The 12 Monkeys.” Blank stares. “The movie, with Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt.” Nothing. “It isn’t that old of a movie…” as I look up the release date… “oh, never mind.” But here’s the thing: in my time at Beloit, not once did I feel like I didn’t belong.
This generation never made me feel old. They made me feel welcome. So despite the age gap, or maybe because of it, I’ve had a front row seat to who this generation actually is. I’ve seen you juggle jobs or sports, rigorous course loads, and a world that never stops changing. Every generation always worries that the next one isn’t ready. Or that the next one is soft and doesn’t have it as hard as they did. Let me tell you, I’ve sat next to you all for four years, and I am not worried about you. I know what you can do. I’ve seen it and been a part of it. You handle a world that I don’t know I could have handled at your age, and you come out ahead. It makes me proud to be part of this graduating class, and you are going to accomplish things that the world hasn’t even thought of yet.
As I finish this letter, because I am never long-winded — just ask my professors, or my wife, or anyone who has ever met me — I close with one more saying, but with a twist. Carpe diem, or seize the day. It means taking the day before it escapes, making the most of it, and not worrying about the future. But I prefer “size the day.” Sizing is different from seizing. Seizing sounds like you’re grabbing something before it gets away. Sizing means showing up for the day as it actually is.
Someone asked me once, “What is the most important day of a marriage?” They expected me to say the wedding day. I said today. Today is the most important day of your marriage because if you don’t take care of today, there may be no tomorrow. My running streak is built on one run every day, but not every day will be my best. Some days I run five miles, and some days I run a mile and call it done. But I still ran. So my challenge to my fellow Beloiters — Size. The. Day.
Adam Wallman
Class of 2026
Still not a professor.
P.S. — Dr. Labby, there are no more take-home quizzes.
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