The Quiet Power of Presence

Head of School Dr. Peter F. Folan's Remarks, Grandparents' and Grand Friends' Day 2026

Good morning, 

It is a privilege to be with you today—and to speak directly to those who have helped shape the lives of the students we care so deeply about.  

Because today, it is not simply about presence; it is also about legacy. 

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my grandfather, Frank McAuliffe. Some of my favorite moments in life were the quietest ones—when it was just the two of us. 

I can still see those early mornings on Cape Cod. The sun had only just begun to rise, the air cool, morning dew resting gently across the lawn, catching the light before disappearing into the day.  

The world felt still. And in that stillness, I would wake up, slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cool wooden floors, and quietly make my way down the hall—just so I could climb into bed next to him. 

There was something about those moments. No noise. No distractions. Just his warmth, his presence. And I remember feeling completely at peace. 

He would tell me stories—about his life, about the dry cleaner he built in Brighton through hard work and persistence, about standing in St. Patrick's Church in Watertown serving as a cantor, his voice filling that church with something deeper than words. He would talk about his dogs, about people he loved, about a life that was simple, but full. 

And sometimes, he would talk about guardian angels. At ten years old, I didn't fully understand what he meant. I remember searching—literally looking around—trying to find mine. 

My grandfather, who I called Puppy, was a man of quiet strength. He worked hard, lived simply, and loved deeply. He had lost his wife before I was born—but he never lost his joy. He adored his daughter, my mother, and he gave me something that stayed with me my entire life: confidence. Confidence to imagine, confidence to ask questions, and confidence to be myself. 

He taught me to notice things others might overlook—wildflowers in a field, songbirds in the morning, the quiet beauty of ordinary moments. He taught me to run with the pack—but also to lead when it mattered. To question what didn't feel right, and to live with curiosity and conviction. 

Looking back now, I realize something I couldn't have understood then: those mornings were not just summer mornings—they were formation. He wasn't trying to teach me anything, and yet he taught me everything. Through his presence—his patience, his stories, his faith—he was shaping how I would come to see the world. 

And then, one morning, he was gone. 

Puppy passed away the summer I turned ten, right before I started fifth grade. Forty years later, I still miss him deeply. I miss his presence. But what he gave me didn't leave—it stayed. 

Over time, I've come to understand something that feels especially important today: the most meaningful influence in a young person's life often happens quietly in unhurried moments, in authentic relationships, in the simple act of being present.  

And that is what makes today so meaningful. What I experienced with my grandfather is not unique—it is, in many ways, universal.  

Grandparents—and educators—have more in common than we sometimes realize. We have both seen a great deal. We both understand that life is not linear, that growth takes time, that failure often leads to wisdom, and that character is revealed in moments of challenge. 

And perhaps most importantly, we want the same thing—not just success for the children in their lives, but goodness: a meaningful life shaped by values, purpose, and integrity. 

At Dexter Southfield, that belief sits at the very center of our work. While schools can focus on curriculum, programs, and outcomes, Dexter Southfield believes something deeper drives real growth: presence. 

The kind of presence I felt sitting next to my grandfather in those quiet Cape Cod mornings—the kind of presence that says: I see you. I know you. I care about who you are becoming. 

That is what our teachers, our coaches, and our advisors strive to offer every day. They are not just delivering content—they are guiding lives. They sit with students when they struggle, challenge them when they need to grow, steady them when they feel uncertain, and celebrate them—not just for achievement, but for who they are becoming. 

And over time, through these powerful relationships, students begin to discover not just what they can do—but who they can become. 

Transformational learning does not happen in isolation. It happens through relationships. And when we step back and consider the world these children are growing into—the world they will inherit from us—that kind of formation becomes not just important, but essential. 

We are living through a moment of profound change—artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and global interconnection. The Fourth Industrial Revolution is here, and it is reshaping society—how we work, how we communicate, and how we make decisions. 

This brave new world forces educators to ask a different question: not just what should our students know—but who must they become? 

Knowledge alone will not be enough. AI and machines will process data faster, but they will not replace judgment. They will not replace wisdom. They will not replace the ability to look someone in the eye, to understand them, and to lead. 

The future will not reward those who know the most—but those who can use what they know with judgment and purpose. In a world moving faster than ever, depth will matter more than speed—and character more than knowledge alone. 

That is why our work here is so intentional. Of course, our students are engaged in the most rigorous academic work. They are consistently asked to think deeply, write clearly, question, analyze, and connect ideas. 

Dexter Southfield is not preparing students for the world as it was—but we choose to ground our students in values and virtues that have always mattered. We teach our students to look someone in the eye, offer a firm handshake, hold a door for someone else, and speak and listen with respect. 

Those actions are signals of character.  

They are habits of awareness.  

They are the foundation of leadership. 

Here, the art of public speaking has never gone out of style, because cultivating voice matters. We want our students to be able to stand, to speak, to listen, and to engage—not simply to recite or perform, but to communicate and to think. 

When you combine it all—strong academics, clear communication, deep relationships, and a commitment to character—you begin to understand what makes this place distinctive. 

Each morning, standing on this incredible hilltop, I am reminded of the responsibility that I hold. As I look to the east, you see Boston—its universities, its hospitals, its industries, its relentless pace of innovation. To the west, you see something very different—trees, hills, and the quiet permanence of New England. 

And here we are—not caught between those worlds, but in conversation with both. Rooted in what has endured, and responsive to what is emerging. Between what grounds us and what calls us forward. 

Here, tradition is not nostalgia for nostalgia's sake. Tradition serves as a compass—it steadies us and allows us to move forward with purpose. And here, innovation is not pursued for its own sake. Innovation is embraced as a responsibility—not replacing what matters, but extending what truly matters. 

For us, this tension is easy—because our purpose is clear: we are preparing young people to lead lives of consequence. 

And that word—consequence—matters. Because it asks more. It moves us beyond performance, beyond achievement alone. It calls for judgment, for character, for humility, and for purpose. 

Each week, I get to teach every student in this school—not in a traditional classroom, but by running our school assemblies. This hundred-year-old tradition grounds and centers our school. 

There is a rhythm to it. We begin with an inspirational reading—something I have chosen with care—that asks our students to think. Next a senior stands and offers a reflection that is honest, and often vulnerable, that asks us to listen. 

And then our students hear words that have endured here for over a century—our School Declarations: words about gratitude, expressions about humility, and a weekly mandate to choose the hard right over the easy wrong. 

I conclude these gatherings with carefully crafted remarks that express something larger—a belief, a conviction, a lesson that will stay with a child long after they leave us. 

In those assemblies, something powerful is happening. By slowing down, we ask young people not simply to receive ideas—but to wrestle with them, to articulate them, and ultimately to live them. Because words and beliefs, practiced over time, become habits—and habits form character. 

That is why this place matters. 

And when I think about all of this—the opportunity, the education, the impact—I come back often to my grandfather. 

It wasn't until much later, as an adult, that I learned something my mother shared with me: the modest savings my grandfather left her in 1985 had been set aside for my education. For him, that decision was not just financial—it was belief, and it was about opportunity. 

Both of my parents were first-generation college students. I am a product of the American dream that brought my family from Ireland to this country. Education changed the trajectory of my family. 

And the gift my grandfather gave—quietly, without recognition—made all the difference in my life. His legacy helped make my dreams possible. 

That is why this work matters so much to me. 

Because education, at its best, is not simply about achievement—it is about seizing opportunity. It is about shaping lives rooted in values, in character, and in purpose. 

For me, this work has never been about a title. It is a vocation—a calling. 

My calling was formed in the simplest moments—washing dishes at the kitchen sink in Watertown, riding in his Oldsmobile after preschool, eating lunch at McDonald's, and sharing donuts he brought over every Saturday morning. My core was built in those moments and strengthened as we walked hand in hand along Ridgedale Beach. 

The summer before I started fifth grade, Puppy became my guardian angel. 

Even forty years later, I still love him, and I carry him with me into this work every single day. 

Because what he gave me is what we strive to give these students: a sense of who they are, a belief in who they can become, and a foundation strong enough to carry them forward. 

So today, I want to thank you—for your time, for your love, and for your presence in the lives of your grandchildren, and for choosing to invest in the formation of their character. 

We proudly fly the American flag on our campus as a reminder of responsibility, of citizenship, and of contributing to something larger than ourselves. 

We have extraordinary students here, and I am deeply grateful—and humbled—to be part of their journey. 

In the end, the greatest gift we can give a child is not just an education—but a foundation for life. Investments like these are legacies that truly matter. 

Thank you for your love, your care, and your support.  

Enjoy your time here today. 

Welcome home.