“I still doubt myself.”
I laughed.
“Good.”
She stared.
“Good?”
“It means you're still asking questions.”
Naomi considered that.
Then smiled.
“I guess so.”
We reached the ballroom.
Students stood beside displays describing engineering projects, research interests, and scholarship achievements.
Some were nervous.
Others spoke with enormous confidence.
One young woman explained how she designed a low-cost environmental sensor for a school project.
Another described her interest in aviation.
A third asked whether working in cybersecurity required being good at mathematics.
I answered questions.
Listened.
Laughed.
And gradually forgot to worry about the dress.
When the time came for my speech, I stepped onto the stage.
The room quieted.
I looked toward the students.
Then toward the adults sitting behind them.
For a moment, I remembered the roadside.
Not the exact location.
Not Devlin.
The feeling of being told that my identity couldn't possibly be what I said it was.
I adjusted the microphone.
Then began.
“A year ago, I stood on this stage and spoke about the importance of evidence, ethical judgment, and the courage to question assumptions.”
The audience listened.
I continued.
“Since then, I've had experiences that reminded me those principles are not merely technical lessons.”
For a moment, the room became very quiet.
I looked toward Naomi.
Then smiled.
“I know many of you are preparing to enter fields where you'll sometimes be the youngest person in the room.”
Several students nodded.
“Some of you may also be the only person who looks like you.”
I took a breath.
“People may underestimate you.”
The room remained silent.
“Sometimes they will be wrong in ordinary ways. Sometimes their assumptions will affect decisions that matter deeply.”
I looked toward the audience.
“But you do not have to accept someone else's ignorance as the measure of your ability.”
A few students smiled.
I continued.
“Learn your field. Ask difficult questions. Check the evidence. Find colleagues who value truth more than comfort.”
Then I paused.
“And remember that professional authority isn't permission to stop listening.”
For a moment, the room was silent.
I looked toward the front row.
Naomi was sitting beside Zora.
My daughter smiled at me.
I felt my throat tighten.
Then I continued.
“Whatever title you eventually hold, remember that the people around you deserve respect before you know who they are.”
I paused.