How do we really know where our education will lead us? What kind of path does it truly set us on? We’re often told that education is the key to a better life, that it will open doors, lead to stable jobs, and help us succeed. But what if education isn’t just about climbing ladders or collecting degrees? I believe its real purpose to us and to humanity, is something deeper, something harder to measure. 

For me, the value of education isn’t just about what it can do for us, but also what it allows us to do for others. That idea didn’t come from a classroom or a textbook, it came from my grandfather, a man with no college degree, but more wisdom and heart than anyone I’ve ever met. He taught me that education isn’t just about success, it’s also about the ability to provide meaningful care. About using whatever knowledge or experience we have to show up for others, especially when it’s hard. About seeing learning not as a privilege, but as a gift we can share.

My grandfather, one of six siblings, was fortunate enough to graduate high school while still working with his family as local sharecroppers. Later in his life he was drafted to fight in Vietnam, and returned home to start a family with my grandmother. She graduated as a class of ’76 alum at William and Mary, then from Wake Forest, and began working as an ultrasound technician. When returning from performing an in-home ultrasound visit, my grandmother’s truck was struck head on by an 18-wheeler crossing the barrier on old 421. At the same time, my grandfather was heading home from dropping my mother and aunt off at school. He would await an arrival that never came. When notified of my grandmother’s passing, he learned that she wasn’t killed by the crash, but ultimately from being crushed by the heavy weight of the ultrasound machine tipping over out of the truck bed. Her life’s work, her care for pregnant women, what she studied for years to do, was what eventually ended her life. My grandfather was left devastated to raise my 12-year-old mother and her eight-year-old sister alone. But with unyielding love, he learned how to care for two young girls on the brink of womanhood. 

“Education at St. Andrew’s isn’t just academic, it’s personal, communal, and lifelong. In a world full of challenges, especially in today’s climate, education shapes who we are and how we engage with society. I’ve learned to interpret my grandfather’s lessons into appreciating the mentorship, communication, and the strength of this close-knit community.” Magnolia Mullen ’25

After my parents’ divorce, my dad moved down to Charlotte, and being a pilot, he was always away. I’ve always been very close with my dad, and it was hard when I couldn’t get ahold of him or when I just missed him. My grandfather moved in with us when I was eight, about two years after the divorce. At first, I was somewhat indifferent to his moving in; my friends’ questions about why he was there always gave me a strange feeling about my family dynamics. Like I was different to my friends in some unconventional way. At the time I didn’t understand how lucky I was, how fortunate I was to be able to learn from him every day. My grandfather cares about everyone above himself and would do anything to help others. Since moving in with us he has made an effort to take me to every doctor’s appointment, pick me up from every practice, console me when I’m upset, and overfeed me milkshakes and cheeseburgers. 

Growing up in a small rural town in North Carolina that’s seen four generations of my family, meant living amongst aging diners serving fried chicken livers on Tuesdays (and yes, I have actually eaten chicken livers). It also meant witnessing deep-rooted poverty, low literacy rates, and a sense of being trapped that hung in the air like the thick summer humidity. At the doctor’s appointments my grandfather used to take me to, he would often sit in the waiting room reading medical forms aloud to others who couldn’t read them themselves. I remember wondering why he spent so long helping strangers. Sitting in those chairs, with the sterile plastic smell lingering in the air, I would beg him to leave. I mean, we didn’t even know those people. He would usually tell me to be quiet, and I’d stomp off to wait outside. Only later did I realize my grandfather saw his ability to read as a privilege, and more than that, as a responsibility. He carried his education like a burden he was proud to bear, for his family and for his community.  

Understanding the value of our education has become somewhat of a monetary amount, how much money you pay multiplied by how much effort you put in, equals the weight of your degree. In some ways, this is true. But our education is so much more than that: it’s discovering the world, it’s the ability to share knowledge, to help others. To be able to sit in that doctor’s office and help another person read, because they weren’t fortunate enough to learn how. To share our abilities with each other is the only way to push forward toward progress. 

When I reflect on my time at St. Andrews, I’m reminded of a novel I read in Dr. Shrem’s French class, Voltaire’s Candide, and the powerful idea of “cultivating your own garden.” This phrase speaks to the importance of working on yourself and of taking responsibility for your own growth. Education at St. Andrew’s isn’t just academic, it’s personal, communal, and lifelong. In a world full of challenges, especially in today’s climate, education shapes who we are and how we engage with society. I’ve learned to interpret my grandfather’s lessons into appreciating the mentorship, communication, and the strength of this close-knit community. To younger students: be grateful for your education, because it gives you the power to help others and to shape a better future for everyone. 

Although my grandfather and my grandmother came from completely opposite ends of the spectrum of education, they shared one key belief, the importance of helping others and using your education to care. Everyone teaches us: teachers, parents, grandparents, friends, communities; everything we have, our minds, our bodies, our strength, come from those who cared for and taught us. And it is our responsibility to repay them and our communities. 

I’m not entitled to an education. I’m fortunate. And I’m grateful.

Grateful for the dirt my family once tilled.

Grateful for my grandmother’s aspirations and my grandfather’s resilience.

Grateful for my parents’ love.

Grateful for the small town I grew up in.

Grateful for St. Andrew’s.

And grateful for my ability to help, which I owe to my education. 

Thank you.