Editor's note: Olivia Jacobs is the salutatorian for the MVRHS class of 2016. The following is the speech she gave at the graduation ceremony on Sunday at the Tabernacle.

Hi, everybody. On this beautiful day, I see so many people who I know and love: my family, my teachers, my friends and peers. I also see those I don’t know, but on this small Island, there’s sure to be a mutual friend between us. Many of you have had a hand in bringing me here today and I am so very grateful.

It would be easy to stand behind this podium and pretend I’m some poster child of success. I could conjure up something resembling wisdom and give you my favorite quote. I could talk about the hours I spent doing homework or discuss the importance of education in our country. I could show the side of me that some of you would expect to see and you would listen and clap all the same. After much thought, however, I have decided to do none of those things.

I am humbled to be speaking on behalf of the class of 2016. My experience is just one of many and my story is no more powerful than those of my classmates.

The fact is, I am salutatorian because of my GPA: a four-year compilation of numerical test scores, memorizing abilities and cold grit. I am here because three years ago, I sat out in that audience as a freshman and watched my older sister graduate with the class of 2013. A little voice in my head said, “Livie, you’re going to be up there giving a speech one day. You’re going to push yourself to get straight A’s and then you will be successful.”

I did it all: sports, volunteering, clubs, you name it. I was a master at the game of high school, but I had some nagging doubts. Did I sign up for that club sophomore year for the right reasons? Did I take that class my junior year simply because it had the letters A-P in front of it? Was I fully present to the choices I was making? No. I was a puppet of what I thought I should do and such a pursuit left me blind to myself. Perhaps I had become the aforementioned poster child of success.

Unbeknownst to most, my spirit crumbled during these years. In my ambition, I forgot to put down my pencil and slow my too-fast heartbeat. The pressure to “do it all” became a catalyst to the darkness that ensued.

Many days, I heard myself answering questions in class and felt myself smile at someone’s joke, but this was just a ghost of me; it was my high-functioning “game-face” that I adopt when I can’t bear to appear how I really feel. Few people knew me in my purest form. When I walked out of school and got into my car, my energy was sapped and my mask melted away.

But somewhere beneath those layers of distress was a girl who wanted to feel whole again (or at least a little less broken). I yearned to alleviate the emotional pain. And so, I cautiously reached out for help. I took life one hour at a time. I cried, ate my favorite cookies from the Scottish Bakehouse and took deep breaths. I played really loud, ridiculous rap music in my car to drown out my thoughts. I learned to say no. I did what I could and sometimes it didn’t feel like enough. Thankfully, I was surrounded by intensely compassionate people who reminded me it was enough.

And since I’m already up here bearing my most vulnerable layer, let me say this: I still have tough days and nights. I am still on this journey to wholeness. Don’t be fooled by my steady voice...cause you betcha my legs are shaking as I tell you my story, but I’m doing it because I believe it holds a uniting message.

When my intellectualism fell through the cracks and my smile faded, it wasn’t the history dates I memorized that helped me through. It was the teachers of those history facts. It was the “hey, how ya doing Liv?” in the hallways; it was my close friends and peers; it was the connections I formed inside MVRHS.

Ms. Kurtz made me laugh with her fabulous, chaotic ways. My close friend, Zach Bresnick (who occasionally calls me ‘sweetheart’), made fun of anything and everything I did in French class this year, and I am blessed to know him. Mr. Sharkovitz was like a colleague, the journalism room a dimly-lit safe haven. Ms. Fairchild’s warmth led me to love history class. Amy Lilavois became a source of strength and her presence holds such significance in my life. I could go on and on. These connections were my saving grace. So many people in that building care about each other and, to me, that is what makes this high school special.

So here I am, three years and a heck of a struggle later, giving the speech I wanted to give. Here I am, essentially having “won” at the game of academics. But here I am, fighting this fight against that which has brought me such success, feeling proud of myself for something much more significant than class rank.

My fellow graduates and I, we can’t be qualified by just one aspect of our lives. We aren’t just artists or musicians, jocks or geeks. There are parts of us that are in stark contrast with the way in which we present ourselves and, hey, that’s okay. We don’t have to fit a mold. We can feel grateful and scared and ecstatic all in the same second. With the knowledge of this complexity, we can accept ourselves. We can treat each other with compassion.

By the power of connection so tangible on this little Island, we have, we can, and we will come through a little less broken and a little more whole.