Alumni Induction Speech by Kendee Yamaguchi '95, Distinguished Alumna 2026

At this year's Alumni Induction Ceremony on June 5, 2026, Distinguished Alumna Kendee Yamaguchi '95 delivered a powerful address to the Class of 2026 and their families. Below are her remarks in full. If you'd prefer to watch the video, view it here!

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Thank you for inviting me back home. 

To the graduates, families, faculty, staff, trustees, and my fellow alumnae, good afternoon. 

Class of 2026: take a moment and look around. 

Look at the people beside you. The friends who stayed up too late studying with you, laughed with you in hallways, texted encouragement when life felt heavy, celebrated your wins, and reminded you who you were when you forgot. 

And look at the people behind you. Your families, teachers, mentors, and friends. The people who drove you to early mornings, stayed up through hard nights, believed in you, challenged you, and quietly carried hopes for your future. 

This moment belongs to all of you. 

But graduates, today I want to talk to you about something deeper than achievement. 

I want to talk about the rooms where decisions are made. 

Because whether you realize it yet or not, your life will be shaped by rooms. Rooms where people decide what matters, who belongs, who gets access, who is protected and sometimes, who gets left behind. 

I learned this lesson long before I understood it. 

Growing up, I heard stories from my family about their incarceration during World War II in the Japanese American internment. 

Imagine what that means: to lose freedom not because of what you did, but because of who you were. To watch neighbors disappear. To have lives interrupted by fear, policy, and silence. 

As a child, I remember trying to make sense of one impossible question: how could something so wrong happen? 

And eventually I came to understand something both sobering and motivating: it happened because decisions were made in rooms where too few voices challenged injustice. 

Policies do not simply appear. Systems do not create themselves. History is shaped by people in rooms making choices. 

So I made a quiet promise to myself: if decisions shape lives, then I wanted to be in the room where decisions were made. 

Not for power. But for purpose. 

Not to hold a title. But to hold a voice. 

And Forest Ridge helped plant that seed. 

At Forest Ridge School of the Sacred Heart, we were taught something extraordinary: social awareness should impel action. 

Not inspire action. Not become a nice sentence framed on a wall. Impel action. 

Because awareness without action changes nothing. You can understand injustice and still allow it to continue. You can care deeply and still remain silent. 

Forest Ridge taught us to ask: What is mine to do? How do I build community? How do I make this better? 

When I graduated in 1995, I certainly did not have everything figured out. Much of my career looked like walking into rooms where I felt uncertain, underestimated, or completely intimidated. 

Rooms where I was often the first woman. Sometimes the youngest. Often the only person bringing a different perspective. 

And if I am honest, there were moments I wondered: do I belong here? 

Maybe some of you know that feeling already. Walking into a classroom, a team, a job, or a conversation where no one quite looks like you and quietly asking yourself: can I really do this? 

Here is what I learned: courage is not confidence. Confidence comes later. Courage is showing up before confidence arrives. 

Courage is raising your hand when your voice shakes. Courage is staying at the table when it would be easier to disappear. Sometimes courage is simply saying: I deserve to be here too. 

Throughout my career, in federal government, local government, legal spaces, and the private sector, I learned that being “the first” can feel lonely. But it can also be profoundly meaningful. 

Because being first means someone no longer has to be. 

I saw that lesson come alive in ways I never could have imagined. I witnessed how policy and executive action could expand access and visibility for communities too often overlooked. I helped establish the first civil rights office within the Washington State Office of the Attorney General. During the pandemic, I saw firsthand how leadership matters most when uncertainty is high and fear is everywhere. 

And here is something important I want you to hear: those moments were never really about titles. They were about people. 

Every policy affects a person. Every delayed decision touches a family. Every act of leadership either expands dignity or shrinks it. 

Leadership is not about being the loudest voice in the room. It is asking: who is missing from this conversation? Who will this decision affect? Who needs someone to fight for them? 

That, graduates, is what building community looks like. 

And community is not convenience. Community is commitment. 

It means showing up when things are joyful. Showing up when things are messy. Showing up when people are grieving. Showing up when systems fail. Showing up when hope feels fragile. 

Class of 2026, you are graduating into a complicated world. There will be division, uncertainty, and moments where problems feel impossibly large. Moments where you question whether one voice matters. 

It does. 

History changes because ordinary people decide not to look away. Progress happens because someone chooses courage over comfort. Communities heal because people decide to show up. 

So when you walk into rooms where decisions are being made, and I hope you do, remember this: 

Do not shrink. 

Do not wait for permission. 

Do not confuse humility with silence. 

Your voice matters. Your perspective matters. Your compassion matters. 

And if someday you find yourself sitting at a table where no one is asking the questions that matter, ask them. 

If no one notices who is missing, notice. 

If no one speaks for dignity, speak. 

And if you become the first, be brave enough to leave the door open for the next person behind you. 

Because success is not simply what you achieve. It is what changes because you were there. 

The rooms you made kinder. The systems you made fairer. The people who felt seen because you spoke. The communities stronger because you stayed. 

You do not have to have everything figured out today. You only need to decide what kind of person you want to become. 

A person who notices. 

A person who acts. 

A person who builds. 

A person who shows up. 

And so, Class of 2026, this is my hope for you: 

May you choose courage before confidence. 

May you build tables where others feel welcome. 

May you let social awareness impel action. 

May you build community wherever you go. 

And when history asks something of you, and it will, I hope you answer with courage, compassion, and a willingness to show up. 

Congratulations, Class of 2026. The world is waiting for what only you can bring.