Daisy Lu ’26 was the recipient of Poly’s prestigious Joseph Dana Allen Award, presented in honor of Dr. Joseph Dana Allen, Head of School from 1917-1948. This award recognizes the highest scholarship combined with exceptional character.

At Poly’s 169th Commencement on June 5, 2026, Lu delivered a speech reflecting on change and how to be somewhere new. Laced with humorous anecdotes like the daily race to get the “good fruit” in Commons, her message was simple: change is inevitable, but so is figuring it out. “You have stood in a new place and not known what you were doing,” she told her classmates. “And you figured it out. Every single time.” She also encouraged her classmates to savor their walk across the stage to get their diplomas as this would be their final moments as the current version of themselves. Lu’s final words to the Class of 2026 were both a send-off and a promise: “You are not done changing. You are just getting started.”

Enjoy Daisy Lu’s Commencement speech!

Good morning families, friends, teachers, staff, and most importantly the Class of 2026.

My name is Daisy and it’s an honor to be able to speak on behalf of my graduating class today.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what these past four years actually were and here’s what I know: they were loud.

Loud in the language hallway between periods, where middle schoolers move like a current and you just try to survive it. Loud in commons at 11:05 AM on the dot when they first open the doors for lunch, when all of us decided simultaneously that today was the day we’d be first in line for the good fruit, and discovered, once again, that only the melons were left already waiting for us. Loud on every bus ride to each swim meet when Nate would yell at the underclassmen boys to quiet down (although we continued to gossip).

When we think about change, we may be inclined to think about the loss of this noise. But just as important are the moments so quiet that you don’t notice them until they’re gone. The wave to a friend across the quad. The continuous laps around the first floor to buy time before the dreaded Ms. May in-class essay. The pause in the hallway to talk to a freshman-year teacher on our way to a class we’re already late to.

Change means that we won’t ever have any of this again, these everyday things, the loud, the quiet, that have become so ingrained into our schedule, these sounds of Poly that we will soon need to learn how to live without.

Last week I pulled out my freshman year yearbook. That was a mistake.

Because most of us, and I’m speaking from evidence, looked rough. We were babies playing teenagers, walking these halls with the confidence of people who had absolutely no idea where anything was or what we were doing except for making sure we had a Stanley cup.

Change isn’t just about finding a much better haircut than the one we had freshman year that we can’t bear to look at anymore, but change is about figuring out how to be somewhere new. We learned that the terrifying thing, the first day, the new class, has a way of becoming the ordinary thing, just another time walking into room 002, me and Nina waiting to be humbled by the freshman in a senior calc class.

That is the miracle of the last four years. We changed. Slowly enough that we didn’t notice each day, yet completely enough that the proof is in our freshman yearbook.

And so when you get to wherever you’re going in September, when the room is unfamiliar and the faces are new and you feel, for the first time in a long time, genuinely lost, I want you to remember something: you have felt this before. On the first day of freshman year, on the first day of Ms. Liao’s class when you realized how lost you were going to be, a feeling I was told would fade. It did not. Every test you failed. Every friendship breakup. Maybe you got a mandatory study hall or a terrifying meeting with the infamous Jared Winston. You have stood in a new place and not known what you were doing. You have thought that things weren’t going to work out. And you figured it out. Every single time.

So here is my one request for every graduate.

When you walk across this stage today to receive your diploma, don’t rush it. Look at the people in the audience, at your family, at your classmates. Look back at our clock tower. Because they’re some of the last steps you’ll take on this campus as the current version of who you are.

Before I close, I have to say thank you to a few people.

To my mom, who prepared a homecooked dinner on the table to be ready for me every night and never failed to show up to any event, I hope one day I can show up for someone the way you have always shown up for me.

To my brother Kyle, who storms into my room every night before he goes to bed, those few moments of company at night kept me going through all my late night assignments.

To Pearl and Chloe, the world’s most patient listeners who are like siblings more than cousins: you have heard every single one of my crash-outs and drama unfolding in real time and still picked up the phone.

This last person I would like to thank has been begging me consistently to thank him in my speech. To my dad, who offered to drive me to school almost every single day, who had all my devices fully charged at all times which was more crucial to my studies than you’d think, you were right. I wouldn’t be here without you. I was always going to say that. I just needed you to stop asking. He has not stopped asking.

And to both my parents, thank you for always believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. You always knew I would be fine through every failure, through every change, you just let me figure it out on my own for me to share now.

And most importantly,

Class of 2026: we did it.

Four years of trying to remember to scan in. Four years of trying to contain our laughter in the library. Four years of slowly becoming the people sitting in these seats today.

You are not done changing. You are just getting started. And I can’t wait to see who you become.

Congratulations and thank you!