One Small Step at a Time: Chen Peiqi’s Valedictorian Address, Specialist Diploma in Educational Therapy 2026

Good morning, distinguished guests, colleagues, fellow graduates, families and friends.

When I received the email about being valedictorian, I was surprised and, of course, incredibly honoured. Then I saw that I had to give a speech.

“Duration: five minutes.”

And I thought, okay… apparently there is one final assessment.

Thankfully, I don’t think there is a rubric.

When I thought about what I could meaningfully share today, especially in a room filled with educators who have far more experience in educational therapy than I do, I realised that I am probably in no position to offer advice.

So instead, I would like to share a little of what this journey has taught me, or more accurately, what I am still learning.

Before becoming an Educational Therapist, I was an English and Literature teacher. I came to DAS thinking I knew a thing or two about teaching English, and quickly discovered how much more there was to learn.

But perhaps one of the most valuable things about this programme was becoming a learner again. It reminded me that learning can be difficult, and that when a child is struggling, I may not always understand why.

I am still learning not to ask, “Why can’t this child get it?” but instead, “Have I found the way to reach this child yet?”

And I am learning something else too: to recognise progress, even when it is small.

I have always been quite an all-or-nothing person. I like things done well. Preferably very well.

Educational therapy is not particularly cooperative with this personality trait because progress can be painfully small.

One sound. One word. One concept at a time.

I remember a student who couldn’t spell “bridge”. A few weeks later, he could, and I told him how proud I was.

He looked completely puzzled and said, “But cher… I still failed my spelling test this week.”

And I thought, you know what? I understand you completely.

Because I do that too. I can be so focused on what isn’t good enough yet that I fail to recognise how far I have come.

Here I was teaching this child to recognise his progress, and somehow, he was teaching me to recognise mine.

There is another experience that has shaped the way I see my work and my life.

In recent years, I lost both my beloved parents, one after another. Their passing made me wonder what remains when so much of what we spend our lives working towards eventually passes.

I don’t claim to know the answer.

But I often think about my mother.

Even while living with cancer, she continued volunteering with groups of seniors, encouraging them to stay active, connected and positive about growing older.

Around the time of her passing, people I had never met came forward to tell me about her. There were elderly aunties and uncles, some in wheelchairs. They shared stories of how she had encouraged them and made a difference in their lives.

And I remember thinking:

I didn’t know.

I had lived with this woman my whole life, and I didn’t know how many little pieces of herself she had quietly left behind in other people’s lives.

Somehow, that gave me a glimpse of an answer.

Maybe what remains at the end of our lives is not always something grand.

Maybe it is simply what we leave in another person.

And that thought followed me back into the classroom.

Years from now, our students probably won’t remember every beautifully prepared worksheet or PowerPoint slide.

But I think they may remember how we made them feel.

A child may remember the teacher who noticed the one word he finally got right when all he could see were the nine he got wrong. The person who still believed he could do it when he wasn’t so sure himself.

And there is another side to this.

Our students remember how we made them feel.

And we remember how we made them feel too.

I remember the moments when I connected with a child and saw that little spark of confidence return. But I also remember the other moments, when I was tired, when I became impatient, or when I responded in a way I wasn’t proud of and went home thinking, “I could have done that better.”

Those moments leave an imprint on me too.

They remind me that I am still learning. Sometimes I need to change my approach. And sometimes, after a difficult lesson, the best thing I can do is come back and try again.

I think that is what this programme has ultimately given me. Yes, knowledge and a deeper understanding of how to support learners with dyslexia, but also a different way of seeing learning and, perhaps, life.

To our lecturers, mentors, colleagues, families and friends, thank you for carrying us through this journey.

And to my fellow graduates, congratulations.

We signed ourselves up for this.

And somehow, we survived.

I came into this programme hoping to become a good Educational Therapist.

But somewhere along the way, the children I was supposed to teach began teaching me too.

To be a little more patient.

To try another way.

To recognise progress even when it is tiny.

One sound.

One word.

One small step.

Our work, and perhaps our lives, are built in very much the same way.

One person.

One moment.

One small act at a time.

And long after we have forgotten the lesson itself, something of that moment remains.

Thank you.