Anatomy of a Commencement Address: Communication Lessons from a Frog

Introduction: It’s Not Easy Being Dean

Commencement season is upon us, which means it's time for higher ed leaders everywhere to reflect on the same time-honored tradition: the commencement speech. Some are stirring,  some are snooze-y, and some are delivered by amphibians in miniature regalia. Yes, we’re talking about Kermit the Frog’s commencement address to the University of Maryland’s Class of 2025. And, yes, it was brilliant.

It was also a great reminder that it’s not easy being Dean. Or Provost. Or President. Or anyone trying to communicate clearly, meaningfully, and consistently in higher education. Whether you’re delivering a speech, writing a policy update, or launching a new initiative, finding the right words—and making them stick—is harder than it looks. Luckily, Kermit gave us a masterclass in how to do this well. His speech was a fun surprise and a timely reminder of how powerful authentic communication can be. In a moment meant to mark endings and beginnings, he offered something rare: a message that felt personal, grounded, and genuinely connective. And in doing so, he gave us more than a good graduation speech; he gave higher ed something to think about.

Know Your Audience (and Yourself)

Kermit started strong by acknowledging not only the graduates but the institution itself—name-checking the University of Maryland, its mascot (Testudo), and beloved alumnus Jim Henson (and his wife, Jane), who created Kermit out of his mom’s old coat and a Ping-Pong ball. Kermit’s nods weren’t just cute Easter eggs for the crowd. They were proof that he understood where he was, who he was talking to, and why it mattered. Instead of lobbing generic wisdom at the audience, he was meeting them where they were, with warmth, respect, and humor.

Establishing a real connection with your audience and using that as the basis for communicating with them isn’t just a great idea for a graduation speech (although, it certainly is), it’s a great foundation for almost anything in higher education (or life in general). Curriculum design, instructional design, teaching, academic advising—heck, even strategic planning. All these things should stem from an understanding of who your audience is, what they care about, and how best to reach them. Because in higher ed, as in frog-led commencements, the message only lands if it feels like it was meant for you.

Vary How You Say Things

Kermit started with a laugh: “You're all here to listen to a frog in a very tiny cap and gown…” But he didn’t stay there. His speech moved seamlessly between levity and sincerity. One moment, he was joking about tadpoles and distant turtle cousins. The next, he was urging graduates to hold tight to their families, their dreams, and each other.

That range was intentional. Graduation is a complex emotional moment: it’s part celebration, part mourning, part optimism, and part panic. Some graduates are ecstatic. Others are exhausted or quietly terrified. A great speech doesn’t pick a single emotional note and stick to it. It acknowledges the emotional swirl and offers something for everyone.

This approach matters far beyond the commencement stage. Whether designing a curriculum, building a campus initiative, or rolling out a strategic plan, good communication isn’t just about clarity; it’s about inclusivity. When we craft messages that acknowledge diverse emotions and perspectives, we aren’t watering anything down. We’re creating space for more people to feel seen, understood, and engaged. Kermit gets it. So should we.

Themes Hold It Together

Kermit didn’t ramble. His message was clean and cohesive, centered around three clear points: find your people, take the leap, make connections. Each point came with its own story, some funny, some heartfelt, all intentional. These weren’t just hackneyed catchphrases; they were organized, scaffolded takeaways that helped the audience follow the arc of his message. The structure was solid but never stiff. Like any great syllabus, it guided the experience without overshadowing the content. Only, you know, more Muppet-y.

Too often in higher ed, we feel pressure to say everything, especially when the stakes are high or the audience is broad. But piling on more content doesn’t always make the message clearer, it just makes it harder to hold onto. The power is in the focus. Choosing two or three core themes and building around them—whether in a commencement address, a program redesign, or a campus-wide campaign—helps ensure your audience walks away with something they’ll actually remember. Good communication in higher education isn’t about cramming every talking point into one document or presentation. It’s about deciding what truly matters, and then saying it clearly, cohesively, and often. Kermit didn’t try to cover the entire human (or frog) experience. He chose what was meaningful, stuck to it, and left us with something that we’re still talking about a week later.

Tell Stories, Not Stats

No one’s going to remember the percentage of graduates with honors by the time they reach the parking lot. But they’ll remember that time Kermit talked about his cousin Albert, the leapfrog champ who used other frogs’ heads like lily pads. It was unexpected, funny, and surprisingly insightful. Stories have the power to make messages memorable. Whether Kermit was reminiscing about Jim Henson or gently roasting Miss Piggy, each anecdote added texture and humanity to his message. They weren’t filler. They were connection points.

Now, don’t get us wrong, data absolutely matters in higher education (I put it in Italics so that you know I mean it!)  It guides decision-making, supports funding, and helps us track progress toward institutional goals. But if your message only relies on numbers, it’s going to fade into the background. Statistics tell people what’s happening. Stories tell them why it matters.

For higher ed leaders, the trick is to blend the two. Let your data do the heavy lifting behind the scenes, but let your stories lead the way. Talk about the student who beat the odds, the faculty member who changed your life, the weird twist that led you into this work in the first place. You don’t have to be a frog. But you do have to be real. Be vulnerable. Be vivid. And remember: even the strongest datasets could use a good punchline every now and then.

Consistency Creates Trust

Kermit didn’t wrap up with a stock “Congratulations, Class of 2025.” He sang “Rainbow Connection.” And not just a verse; he sang the whole thing, live, in front of thousands. No one cringed. No one rolled their eyes. They joined in. This choice absolutely landed. Not because it was flashy or unexpected, but because it was exactly what you’d hope a Kermit the Frog commencement speech would end with. That’s the power of consistency.

When your audience knows what to expect, and you deliver with sincerity and clarity, they trust you. Kermit’s blend of humor, heart, and hope wasn’t a style choice for that day; it was a brand of communication that people have known for decades. So, when he stood up to speak to graduates, they were already primed to listen, because they knew he was going to be exactly who he’s always been.

In higher education (and most of life) consistency doesn’t mean being boring or predictable. It’s about aligning your actions and your message over time. When students see the same values that appear on your website reflected in their classrooms, they believe you. When faculty see widely discussed institutional priorities (like a commitment to equity, innovation, or student success) backed up by resource allocation, staffing decisions, and leadership actions, and long-term investments, they buy in.

Kermit didn’t try to reinvent himself for the stage. He leaned into what he always does best: connect. For institutions, that’s the goal too. Say what you mean. Mean what you say. And keep saying it in ways that sound like you. Because when your message feels steady and familiar, people trust it—and that’s what makes it powerful.

Final Thoughts: Why Are We Talking About a Muppet in a Hat?

So, yes, this blog is about a puppet giving a graduation speech. But it’s also about something bigger. In a time when higher education is under more scrutiny than ever (financially, politically, existentially), how we communicate has never mattered more. Students are questioning the value of college. Faculty are navigating burnout. Leaders are balancing innovation with tradition, all while trying to explain themselves to stakeholders who may not speak the same language.

Kermit’s speech reminds us that clear, human, intentional communication still cuts through the noise. Not only in feel-good moments like graduation, but in the hard, complex conversations that shape the future of our institutions. If we want students to stay, faculty to engage, and the public to believe in the work we do, we must meet them with messages that feel thoughtful, trustworthy, and real.

And if we can do all that with a little warmth and a tiny banjo? Even better.