Like Stoyanov, Jenn Ingemi had no clue what to say. Ingemi is an associate professor of psychology and the director of Northeastern University's behavioral neuroscience program. But she wasn't sure what she had to offer, especially only having taught for eight years.
In fact, before she became a professor, she changed course many times throughout her life, not knowing what she wanted to do. It was these unexpected directions, however, from which she pulled insight.
"I've done that kind of a lot in my lifetime," Ingemi said. "And I thought that's the thing that happens to everybody, but nobody really talks about it."
Though her career pivots were fueled by failed plans, they each pushed her toward a greater sense of purpose and passion. And in the end, Ingemi wanted to reassure students that they didn't need to know everything just yet.
"They don't want another lecture where they're going to learn about science or learn about something, right?" she said. "They want to hear how they can make it through the next step in their life."
Other professors start with a theme. Richard Goulding of Babson College, for example, wanted the 2023 class of graduate students to reflect on what's most important to them and realize how much it shapes who they become and the impact they create.
This led him to share the story of Les Compagnons, a guild of master craftspeople dating back to the Middle Ages who were known for their strong commitment to society. One of their creeds is "My name is in the work I leave behind."
"I just want students leaving a school not thinking as much about what they're going to do, as who they're going to be as contributing members of society," he said.
Steve Dunn, a now-retired geology professor at Mount Holyoke College, also had a themed plan, one that involved talking about graphite, diamonds and carbon bonds, with a tie back to relationships and human bonds.
But in the days leading up to it, Dunn ditched this plan, knowing that it was missing something deeper and more personal. It was then that Dunn decided to tell the graduating class the one thing that's been the hardest to say: "I identify as a trans woman."
"I wanted to say it's okay, and it's okay to admit it. It's okay to just say this is something I'm dealing with," they said. "It just struck a chord with me that would be more meaningful and a message that I could do more good with than I could do with my covalent bonding story."
Dunn didn't prepare as much for this revised lecture as the one they'd initially planned. And during it, when students erupted in applause, cheer and support, they even lost their train of thought.
"There was no script," Dunn said. "But in hindsight, I really did have certain things I wanted to get across, and I think I managed to touch on them and get most of it across in spite of the lapse in focus in everything that happened while I was doing it and the emotional charge that hit me."
Although they are called "lectures," Goulding believes that they go beyond teaching one last time. Rather, it's meant to invite students into a long-lasting conversation.
"I don't think it's supposed to impart anything. I think it's supposed to inquire," he said. "They're really about the questions you have and wanting to embrace a whole bunch of young, smart, inspired people to think about those questions."
The beauty of the Last Lecture tradition, Goulding said, lies in its continuity and the way the messages don't repeat themselves. He knows that he, along with the professors after him, will keep building on what they've learned so far, finding new ways of thinking about the world — and ultimately, figuring out what to share next.
"In some ways, these lectures never end."
