On the very first day of class, our professor stood before us and challenged us with a simple task: “Go meet someone you don’t already know.”

I remember glancing around the room, searching for someone to approach, when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned, and there she was—a tiny woman, wrinkled by the years but glowing with an energy that filled the room. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile radiated warmth.

“Hi, handsome,” she said cheerfully. “My name is Rose. I’m eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course!” I said. And just like that, she wrapped me in a hug bigger than her frame, squeezing with all the strength of someone who had spent a lifetime loving deeply.

Curious, I asked, “Rose, why are you in college at your age?”

She grinned mischievously. “I’m here to find a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids.”

We both laughed, but then her tone softened. “No, seriously,” she said. “I’ve always dreamed of going to college. Life didn’t give me that chance when I was younger, but now… now I’m making that dream come true.”

That day, we shared a chocolate milkshake at the student union, and from then on, Rose and I became inseparable. Every day after class, we walked together, and I listened as she shared stories—snapshots from another era, wisdom earned through years of living, laughing, and sometimes hurting. To me, she was like a time machine. She transported me to worlds I had never known but always needed to hear about.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a legend on campus. Everyone knew her. She dressed with flair, carried herself with joy, and had a way of making every student feel seen. She wasn’t just earning a degree—she was soaking in life, and in doing so, she taught the rest of us what it really meant to live.

When our football banquet came at the end of the semester, Rose was invited to speak. Nervously, she stepped to the podium, a stack of index cards trembling in her hand. As she began, the cards slipped, scattering across the floor. She sighed, leaned into the microphone, and with perfect comedic timing said, “I’m sorry, I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent, and this whiskey is killing me.”

The room erupted in laughter. Rose smiled and continued, “You know what? I’ll forget the speech. I’ll just tell you what I know.”

And then she gave us lessons none of us would ever forget.

“We do not stop playing because we are old,” she said. “We grow old because we stop playing.

There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and finding success:
First, you have to laugh and find humor every single day.
Second, you must have dreams. When you lose your dreams, you die.

Too many people walk this earth already dead inside, and they don’t even know it.
Third, remember the difference between growing older and growing up. Anyone can grow older—it doesn’t take talent or courage.

But to grow up, you must embrace change, seek opportunity, and keep moving forward.

And finally, have no regrets. In the end, we regret not the things we did, but the chances we didn’t take. The only people who fear death are the ones still holding onto regrets.”

Then, with a courage that silenced the room, Rose sang “The Rose.” Her voice quivered but was filled with conviction. She asked us to study the lyrics, to live them, to remember that love, resilience, and risk were at the heart of a life well lived.

At the end of the year, Rose achieved what she had set out to do: she graduated with her degree. Students cheered, faculty applauded, and she walked across the stage with pride. But just one week later, Rose passed away peacefully in her sleep.

At her funeral, over two thousand students filled the chapel. They came not just to honor a woman who had earned a degree, but to celebrate someone who had changed the way they saw life itself. Rose had reminded us that it’s never too late. She showed us that age is no barrier to dreams, that laughter and love are as essential as air, and that giving is the true measure of a life.

Her legacy lives in these words:

“Growing older is mandatory. Growing up is optional. We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.”

And so, Rose remains with us—not in the classroom, but in the way we choose to live, love, and keep dreaming.