Today I graduated from high school. Five years after starting my freshman year, I received my diploma. I wore the white gown and the cap that gave me a headache after about 10 minutes. I waved for the cameras as my adolescence was summed up in a short sentence, bestowing upon me what is essentially a glorified participation certificate. Now don’t get me wrong, it was a great ceremony, and I do feel a distinct sense of accomplishment from having finished high school. But my satisfaction lies not in the social acceptance that comes from possessing a high school diploma, or even the doors that said diploma will open. I feel good about today because I finished something that I started. Something I never thought I would finish. You see, a little over two years ago I dropped out of high school. After a couple of months I went back, but my heart wasn’t in it. I had given up on the idea of graduating, or going to college, or any of the other things I had once imagined myself doing. Psychiatrists told me I was depressed, my parents told me I was “difficult,” all I knew was that I had stopped caring. Two years of treatment later, I’m going to college on a scholarship, and today addressed my fellow graduates as valedictorian of the Greenbrier Academy Class of 2016. Some might call this a stellar turn around, unimaginable progress, a success story of the residential treatment model. And all of these things are true, but more importantly, it’s a testimony to what hard work can get you.

Here’s my point. I worked my ass off, and today I saw the result of that effort. And it was worth so much more than just a diploma. It was knowing that I did something that I once thought was impossible. So to those of you out there who think high school might be a little more trouble than it’s worth, I feel you. I was you. But standing on the other side, I am so glad I stuck it out. Even the extra year it took me was worth it.

Indigenous cultures place great emphasis on rites of passage. The Maasai tribe in Eastern Africa have a tradition that when a boy reaches a certain age, he must kill a lion. The boy is sent out into the wilderness, completely naked, with only a spear to defend himself. Then the rest of the tribe drives a lion towards him. The boy must kill the lion, or be killed. While this may seem harsh, in the Maasai tribe it is necessary. The Maasai herd cattle, and all Maasai men need to be able to defend the herd from the lions roaming around. The right of passage prepares these young men for their duty. And you can bet these boys never face the identity crises we face in America. They know they belong in their tribe, they know who they are. And today, in some small way, I know who I am. I am a high school graduate. I have gone through a rite of passage which at some times was every bit as agonizing and difficult as slaying a lion with only a spear.

Right now, high school is a metaphor for challenge, the same way the lion is a metaphor for a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. I conquered high school, I slayed the lion. I know who I am in this tribe, and I am confident I can do my duty, the same way a Maasai boy knows he can protect his herd. So yeah, stay in school kids. Not to make your parents happy, or because you think you “should.” Do it for yourself, because you owe it to yourself to know just how much you can do. And trust me, throwing your cap in the air will feel that much more satisfying, because you’ll know you earned it.