Dear Northern Light School Family,
It's hard to believe the day has finally come. After all these years (and for many of us, that means since we were small enough to need a hand to hold on the first morning of the first day of preschool) the Class of 2026 is saying goodbye. We wanted to take a moment, in our own words, to thank the community that raised us.
For most of us, Northern Light is the only home we've ever known. It's where we raced yellow bikes across the preschool blacktop, how to build gingerbread houses, how to read, and it's where we fought sleep at nap time because we didn't want to miss a single minute of our time here. But it's also where we learned the bigger things: how to be courageous, how to own our mistakes, how to treat people with respect, and how to carry empathy with us wherever we go. Those weren't just lessons from a book or written on a board. They became who we are. Some of us have been here since we were three years old, and some of us arrived later, from places where we didn't quite fit, but every one of us found a family here that doesn't need to share blood to be real.
We didn't get here without a few storms. We made it through the stretch of Covid-19 and seeing each other only through computer screens, unsure when we'd ever be back together. We said goodbye to teachers and welcomed new ones, holding our family together no matter who came and went. We struggled through high school applications, failed, tried again, and came out stronger. We had our ups and downs as a class, days we tested each other and days we tested your patience. But somewhere along the way, we locked in for one another and refused to let this year end with us apart.
There's a reason the cactus became our class symbol. It grows where things are hard, in the places nothing else can. It stands tall through the heat and the dry spells, and it holds onto everything inside it that keeps it alive. That's us. But a cactus does something else, too: in the middle of the desert, when everything around it is parched and empty, it becomes the one thing that gives water, shelter, and life to whatever needs it. It feeds the things that can't survive on their own out there. We hope that's been true of us as well, and that we've been a place of shade and water for the people around us, that the younger students found something in us to lean on, that we gave back even a fraction of the care this community poured into us. We learned that no one else can write our story for us, and we leave here ready to keep writing it, and hopefully, to keep giving life to whatever ground we land in next.
To our teachers: you were never just teachers. You were more like family, the ones who never gave up on us on our worst days and helped us turn the things we struggled with into things we're proud of. You believed in our dreams before we did, told us we could reach them, and somehow laughed at every one of our terrible jokes along the way. To our parents and guardians: thank you for the early mornings, the long drives to school and practice and back again, the sacrifices we didn't always notice, and the words of encouragement that still play in our heads when we need them most. You didn't just show up for your own child; you showed up for all of us. And to everyone who keeps this place running, who slipped us a snack or a band-aid or made the call home at exactly the right moment: that kind of love is rare, and we know it.
This year gave us memories we'll keep forever. A retreat where we hiked in the heat of the day and the dark of the night, grew closer sitting side by side in an unbroken circle, and read the cards from our families under the stars, feeling how fast we'd grown up. A trip across the country to D.C. and New York where we got caught in a sudden downpour taught us to dance in the storm; everywhere we traveled, by bus, or subway, or foot we sang at the top of our lungs so the whole world could hear the power of our voices; and we tried to thank everyone who took care of us with the same kindness this school taught us. Every single moment of our lives this past year, big and small, has made us realize that what we have as a class is something most people never get to have.
We know there are younger students who have watched us, the way we once watched the eighth-graders ahead of us. We always knew that who we were mattered to them, and we hope that what we leave behind makes them proud to follow in our footsteps. To the ones who will take our place: this school will guide you the way it has guided us, and the best of everything here is already becoming part of who you are.
We know we will never find a community quite like this one again, and the grief of losing what we have is real, and genuine, and we have opened our hearts to feeling it the last few days of school.
But one thing that we can guarantee to our family at 3710 Dorisa Avenue, is that while you won't be able to see us every day, we're not really gone. Wherever we go next, Northern Light and each and every single one of you goes with us.
We were shaped by the heart of this school. Now we are off to go lead with our own.
We love you, we love you, we love you, Northern Light School.
– Stella, Kyla, Betselot, Caleb, James, Michael, Landen, Jadon, Tierra, Jayden, Sa'ni, Maggie, Kenneth, Ellis, Titus, and Eiyani... Your Class of 2026