"You don’t have to be perfect to dream big. You just have to be passionate. Care enough to keep going, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Let yourself fail. And then, make a plan. Because you might not only catch up to the people you once thought were ahead—you might surpass them." An engineer to her very core, Mellanie has never been afraid of breaking things apart to build them back better, whether it's a robot, a water-filtration system, or a school where she didn't quite feel like she belonged. That obsession with understanding her world has always fueled her academically and personally, and that passion—and her confidence—have only grown over her four years at Commonwealth. 

Related: Watch the Speech on Commonwealth's YouTube page. 

I’m just a girl who kept doing hard things—until the easy things started to feel boring.

From the moment I arrived at Commonwealth—or maybe even before—I had one goal: to get into MIT. I came here because middle school didn’t challenge me enough. And my parents taught me: “If everything feels easy, then you’re not in the right place anymore.”
For me, that place was Commonwealth. It was exciting, but overwhelming. It was both the smallest and the biggest place I’d ever been in. I felt like everyone around me was smarter, more articulate, more prepared.

As a low-income, first-generation student, my challenges weren’t just academic. I commuted to get here, just like a lot of you, every day. I helped raise my siblings. I translated paperwork for my parents. I juggled volunteering, leading clubs, working internships, diving into engineering and art—all while keeping up with Commonwealth’s intense workload.

Some people made assumptions about me—especially when they heard my dad was a janitor at MIT and my mom stayed at home. At a welcome event for admitted students, where I was representing the school as an ambassador, a parent looked at me and asked, “Are you an average student?” Naively said yes—because my grades weren’t perfect. But I’ll never forget the disappointment in their eyes. It stuck with me.

Am I average?

No. I never was.

Back then, I didn’t have the same fire in my voice or the glow on my face that I do now when I talk about what I love. Maybe I looked average—on paper. But over time, I realized I’ve always been a little extra. Just not in the ways people expected. My brilliance didn’t always show up in test scores. But it lived in the late nights, the quiet persistence, the refusal to give up—even after getting a few Cs, even when it felt like I was breaking.

Commonwealth didn’t just challenge us academically. It taught us how to ask for help, how to grow through failure, how to let go of perfection. One of the people who helped me realize that was Mr. Wolff. In the spring of 2023, when I was struggling emotionally and academically, he encouraged me to attend a local engineering seminar. There, I heard about groundbreaking projects—and even helped a student elaborate on their spectroscopy-inspired work. (Spectroscopy, by the way, is the science of how light interacts with matter.) Even in that hard season, Mr. Wolff saw something in me—a spark. He reminded me I wasn’t defined by grades but by my drive to make things.

That summer, I leaned into who I truly was: a builder. A problem solver. A maker. I taught myself different types of softwares, built prototypes, and realized how even sketching homework with Mr. Colpitts could turn messy ideas into something real. Because that’s what engineering is: turning chaos into creation. It's late nights, frustration, small victories. It’s staying up until 2:00 a.m. asking, “Why isn’t this working?”—and loving the challenge.

And because Commonwealth trained me to overanalyze everything, here’s an etymology lesson: “passion” comes from the Latin pati—to suffer. And “obsession”? It means being willing to suffer, again and again, for something that matters. That’s what engineering is for me. And I know I’m not alone. Every one of us found something—art, activism, writing, math, music—that kept us going. We chased ideas, failed, and got back up. Not for grades, but for curiosity. For the dream that we could build something that mattered.

And yes, I did get into MIT—but that’s not the point.

The point is, I became someone with vision. With obsession. With fire. Someone who can’t help but chase ideas and shape what doesn’t exist yet. That’s what Commonwealth gave me: not just credentials, but clarity. Not just knowledge, but purpose. My proudest moments weren’t just technical. They were personal. I co-founded a group for low-income students—so no one else would feel alone like I once did. I supported peers in their toughest classes, just like I had once needed support. And I had the chance to build something bigger than myself with people like Jake—the other co-founder of the Engineering Club. Despite our different backgrounds, we shared a common passion. Together, we made the club a place where everyone felt welcome, where failure was just a step toward learning. We weren’t just designing projects—we were redesigning Commonwealth’s STEM culture to be more inclusive.

That’s what I hope you take from this: You don’t have to be perfect to dream big. You just have to be passionate. Care enough to keep going, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Let yourself fail. And then, make a plan. Because you might not only catch up to the people you once thought were ahead—you might surpass them. Or as Warren Buffett said: “An idiot with a plan can beat a genius without a plan.” And for those still searching for their passion: Try things. Build. Sketch. Explore. Make messes. That’s what Commonwealth was for me: a place that wasn’t built for someone like me necessarily—but where I made space anyway.

We all brought something unique, though we were all quirky in different ways. Some of us studied 24/7. Some wrote novels for fun (that’s something, my friends, I still don’t understand). Some built robots. Some built community. We didn’t always understand each other. We were cliquey. But somehow, we made it work. What united us wasn’t perfection—it was persistence. It was our refusal to stay silent. We stood up. We spoke out. We challenged what Commonwealth was—and changed it.

That’s what makes us uncommon.

And, yes—this cap and gown? This isn’t just fabric. This year is the first time Commonwealth students are graduating wearing caps and gowns. It didn’t happen by accident. It happened because our class pushed for it. Because we believed that milestones should be visible—that students from all backgrounds should feel seen, celebrated, and honored. For students like me, this isn’t just a ceremony. It’s a symbol of transformation. Of growth. Of saying to the world: We were here. We did it. And we changed things for those who come next. Like my mom always says: “Échale ganas, mija.” Keep going. Keep writing your story.

Congratulations, Class of 2025. I hope you find what you’re looking for—and build what only you can create.