Senior Class Speaker Pareesae Imtiaz

Distinguished faculty, beloved families, cherished friends, and above all, the indomitable Class of 2025, thank you for being here today. This moment of transition belongs to all of us.

I’m Pareeesae Imtiaz; journalism major, chronic overthinker, and someone trying to write a world where justice is more than just a dream.

And I’m deeply honored to be speaking alongside Governor Pritzker, whose leadership and public service reflect the kind of impact we all hope to make.

We’ve arrived at this milestone not with flawless grace, but with stubborn spirit. We’ve stumbled and sleep walked our way here, sustained by caffeine, adrenaline, and just enough self-doubt to keep us humble. We’ve plodded through snowstorms, cried in bathroom stalls, and somehow, still managed to show up, over and over again. That’s not just survival. That’s being resolute.

And today, I want to talk about what that word has come to mean to me.

When I left Pakistan to come to the U.S., I packed two suitcases and a thousand questions. I left behind familiarity, family, and the comfort of being understood without explanation. I arrived in Galesburg to cornfields that stretched for miles, and a silence that felt nothing like home. But I stayed. I stayed when I missed home so badly it ached. I stayed when I felt like an outsider in classrooms where no one looked or sounded like me. I stayed, because somewhere deep down, I knew I wasn’t just chasing a degree, I was fighting for a voice.

A voice that was told it was too loud, too often.

I grew up in a world where obedience was prized more than voice. Where speaking out was unbecoming. Where real women were to sacrifice ambition for acceptance. But I refused. I refused the limitations placed on women's freedom to move, speak, and dream. I refused the silence that followed every incident of abuse. I refused to believe that my future was something to be managed, not chosen. And I brought that refusal with me here. To every paper I wrote, every radio story I produced, every time I raised my hand when it would’ve been easier to stay quiet.

That refusal to shrink, that’s being resolute. Not rigid—resolute. And there’s a fine line between the two. Rigidity clings to certainty, even when it no longer serves you. It fears change, mistakes flexibility for weakness, and often shuts out growth. But being resolute? That’s different. Being resolute means you can bend without breaking. You want to fight for what you believe in and protect what you love. Whether it’s a cause, a community, or your inner peace.

Every one of us has had to stand firm in some way. Maybe you had to fight for your major. Maybe you had to unlearn shame. Maybe you had to demand to be taken seriously, or loved fully, or seen beyond labels. Whatever your fight was, it brought you here, and that’s a victory in itself.

None of the resilience and growth we’ve shown would be possible without those who believed in us when we struggled to believe in ourselves, and I want to take a moment to recognize them.

To my family—my father, my compass, who never misses a chance to say, “Beta, one day you’ll thank me,” and whose discipline and high standards have shaped my resilience in ways I’m only beginning to understand. My mother, my anchor, who stood beside me through every battle—even the ones she wasn’t sure about—with quiet strength and endless belief, holding the weight of my dreams on her shoulders even when I couldn’t carry them myself. My sister, who never sugarcoated the truth and always kept me grounded. And my brother, who thought convincing me to hit the gym during finals week was just as important as passing finals—you four are the reason I made it here. Every step I’ve taken was supported by your love, your pressure, your patience, and your persistence.

To my advisors, Chad and Laura—thank you for believing in me and steadying my anxieties when I couldn’t see past them. To Jane, whose work ethic and heart continue to inspire me. To Magali, for seeing me clearly and wholly. To Kim, for helping me reclaim a confidence I thought I’d lost. To Michael, for reminding me that I was capable. And to every single professor at Knox—thank you for challenging us, supporting us, and helping us become sharper thinkers and compassionate people.

To my friends, the ones who saw me at my best, my worst, and my absolute weirdest — and chose to stick around anyway. Here’s to all the game nights at Sitanshu and Karen’s place that kept me sane, the emotional support at the ITS helpdesk with Siku that failed to make me wiser, the late-night talks over ramen with Diya, Malika, Daya, and Lyebah, camping outside the quickie with Rohan and Umer, and the kind of laughter with Avi that made me feel safe enough to dream again. And to my friends back home. You made the hard days lighter, and the good days unforgettable.

And of course, a special shout-out to caffeine. You were there when no one else was. In lattes, espressos, and c-store energy drinks, you never gave up on me.

Now, as we head out into the “real world,” whatever that means, let’s not forget what we’ve actually learned here. We are adaptable. We are resourceful. And we are truly, gloriously, unhinged. And that’s our strength.

The idealist in me believes we can change the world. The optimist in me believes we’ll at least try. And the cynic in me says, “Honestly, let’s just get through the next week first.”

But here's what I know for sure: the world we’re inheriting is complicated. Politically, socially, globally. There is division, uncertainty, and noise. But we don’t have to meet that with more chaos. We can meet it with clarity, with conviction, with care. Use your voice when it’s uncomfortable. Ask hard questions. Protect each other.

And as we step into that complicated world, we must also speak clearly and bravely against the violence that continues to plague it. War does not build futures, it shatters them. It does not protect peace; it delays it, at the cost of lives, homes, and hope. There are no true winners in war, only survivors of unspeakable loss. We cannot afford to turn our eyes away from suffering simply because it feels far. Let our education not only sharpen our minds, but widen our hearts. Let us be a generation that refuses to accept destruction as a solution, that chooses compassion, justice, and humanity over power, profit, or pride.

Because no matter who we were when we arrived; shy, bold, uncertain, or wildly confident; we’ve all made sacrifices. We’ve all grown. And somewhere along the way, we found the people, the passions, and the late-night taco bell orders that made Knox feel like home.

So as we step forward, diploma in hand, chaos in heart, remember this: we made it. And that means we’re equipped for whatever comes next. Wherever we go from here; city, coast, continent, may we keep building homes. Not just for ourselves, but for each other. Homes made not of walls, but of empathy, honesty, and shared struggle. Homes that look nothing like those cornfields, but do feel a little like Knox.

And on that note…

Congratulations, Class of 2025. May your questions always outnumber your answers. May your convictions remain tender and soul resolute. And may you never mistake survival for surrender.