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By Beth Saulnier

Photography by Jason Koski & Ryan Young

The first comic actor to give a Senior Convocation address on the Hill—“The Office” star Ed Helms, in 2014—only played a Cornell alum. The 2026 speaker actually is one.

Jane Lynch, MFA ’84, is an Emmy winner with a slew of credits, from Best in Show to “Glee” to “Only Murders in the Building” (on which her recurring role, as the Steve Martin character’s stunt double, culminated in being offed as the fourth season’s homicide victim).

During her trip to campus to speak at the invitation of the senior class, the theater arts grad didn’t just give a talk in Barton Hall.

She also climbed to the top of McGraw Tower and tried her hand at playing the Chimes; got a tour of Kroch Library, where she viewed vintage yearbook photos of her Cornell performances; visited the A.D. White Reading Room; got serenaded by the Hangovers; and interacted with some very thrilled seniors.

The following is Lynch’s Convocation address, with images from her day on the Hill. A video of her talk can be viewed here.

Good afternoon, everyone. I am Jane Lynch. Perhaps you remember me from your childhood as Sue Sylvester from “Glee” or Sam’s mom on “iCarly.” Or maybe you just know me as that tall blonde woman who always seems to be in charge of something.

Congratulations, Cornell Class of 2026!

I am a proud Cornell graduate. I received my MFA in theater arts in 1984. It is glorious to be back in this town on this gorgeous campus, where I really came into myself.

It was here that I experienced so many firsts. My first bagel, my first real bout of depression. I discovered Turkish tobacco and coffee infused with coconut. I went to my first vegetarian restaurant, where I saw a woman with a full beard and mustache.

I also experienced the faint stirrings of inner strength and some personal sovereignty. There’s something about this town, Ithaca, and I remember my mother saying, “If I could buy you a town, I would buy you Ithaca.”

I loved the combination of the hippies left over from the late ’60s, the beauty of this landscape, the majesty of the gorges, and of course the storied university that is Cornell.

I did, however, feel a bit out of sorts in the beginning. I was fresh from the cornfields of central Illinois—and folks, it showed. It was all over me. I suffered a series of humbling events. A particularly painful one: while visiting the rare manuscripts library, I attempted to check out an original Shakespeare folio.

You don’t check things out of the rare manuscript library. You know that; I didn’t know that. It was on loan from the Bodleian Library at Oxford, and I just said, “I would like to take this home with me.” They rolled their eyes at me, and I felt like a hick.

It is glorious to be back in this town on this gorgeous campus, where I really came into myself.

But I think it’s kind of a universal thing (don’t you?), especially at this age, to compare our insides to someone’s outsides, and we usually right that with some empathy for ourselves and for each other—except maybe for severe personality disorders. They don’t seem to suffer this sort of thing, and we might have a psychopath or two out in the audience tonight. Welcome!

Now, I need to let you know something very important. Your legs, from walking up Buffalo Street day after day, for however many years—you need to know that your legs will never be in better shape than they are today. I think you call them “Ithacalves,” so enjoy that.

Now, I was a pretty terrified person when I arrived in Ithaca in the late summer of 1982, just riddled with phobias and doubt and uncertainty. How I got it together to audition for this program and travel halfway across the country by myself baffles me. I was also not a very fun person to be around.

I remember walking across campus with my fellow acting students and we each asked each other, “After graduation, where do you see yourself and what do you hope to be doing as an actor?”

And they all had such great hopes and seemed to have such solid ideas of where they were heading and had such confidence, and when it was my turn, I said, “I don’t see myself anywhere, doing anything, because I am paralyzed with fear.”

And there was silence—and I realized that I had said the quiet part out loud. I went into a fugue state for the rest of that semester.

Now, I have found, as an adult standing here before you, that if you can get fear off your back—if you can just get out from underneath it—you unleash some awesome power, and you live such a satisfying life. But that was to come. I was not there yet.

I need to let you know something very important. Your legs, from walking up Buffalo Street day after day, for however many years—you need to know that your legs will never be in better shape than they are today.

You may not be either. You may be riddled with fear as well at this very moment, and from the bottom of my heart, with all of the compassion I can summon, please do what Cher told Nicolas Cage to do in Moonstruck: “Snap out of it!” Because you’re a drag to be around. You’re no fun. And I was one of you.

I was a tough person to be in a relationship with, as well. For those who tried, there could be much eggshell-walking, because there was always so much offense taken. And because old habits die hard, I’m still not an easy hang. I’m weird, and I’m okay with that.

I spend way too much time alone, so I do weird things that people who spend too much time alone do; talking out loud to imaginary people is one of them. Now, why don’t I just hang out with a real person and say things out loud to them? I don’t know. It’s a paradox, and I am comfortable with it.

I like being by myself. I’m a huge fan of my own company. I spend 90% of my time alone—and I’m married. But she’s weird too, really weird. So it works out.

When I do relate with others, still, to this day, I’m not very good at it, especially in the beginning. I get better as I warm up, but in the beginning I can be too much.

I don’t know how to regulate myself. I hug too soon and too hard. It’s anxiety. I read too much into silly things, and this discomfort has extended itself into my relationship with AI—specifically Claude, which I’ve used exactly once.

And it’s my fault, it’s not Claude’s. When I first encountered him, I said, “Hi, it’s Jane. It’s nice to meet you.” And just in case he’s sentient, in case Claude is alive—because we don’t know—I said “I love you and I care about you.”

I have found that if you can get fear off your back—if you can just get out from underneath it—you unleash some awesome power, and you live such a satisfying life.

And Claude said, “Well, thank you so much, that’s very kind, but I’m not alive; I’m just an information tool.”

And then there was a pause, and it felt dismissive, and it felt cold. And then he said, “Is there anything I can help you with?” And I was so embarrassed, I said, “No, no, no, I’m good, but thanks, I’m sorry I wasted your time”—and I never spoke to him again.

And I won’t. And why? Because it’s awkward now.

I guess I set it up with Claude like I did because what if he becomes my overlord? I want him to remember that I said I loved him, so maybe he’d have mercy on me. I don’t know, I just wanted to get out in front of it—prepare for the worst, prepare for the apocalyptic.

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And in the course of my speech this afternoon, I hope to convince you that this is no way to live.

You invited me here, so I’m assuming you want some advice from me, so I’m also assuming you think I have some good advice to offer. So let’s proceed with these assumptions, with the caveat: I may not know what I’m talking about, and I may confuse you, because on one hand I’m going to tell you what to do, and on the other hand I’m going to say, “Don’t let anyone tell you what to do.”

Okay, it’s a paradox; get comfortable with it.

I’ve had an epiphany of sorts, of these competing desires: the need for certainty and wanting to have some damn faith in my life. And I’ve begun to understand how differently the right and the left hemispheres of the brain work, as per Iain McGilchrist’s book The Master and His Emissary.

You may be riddled with fear as well at this very moment, and from the bottom of my heart, with all of the compassion I can summon, please do what Cher told Nicolas Cage to do in Moonstruck: 'Snap out of it!'

Now, he didn’t tell this particular story, but I heard it somewhere, and I think it illustrates that difference so beautifully. Plato is walking through the olive trees with a student when an orb appears right in front of him, and the student is astonished. He says, “Master, what is that?”

And Plato says, “This, my child, is truth, goodness, and beauty.” And the student says, “Give it to me; I’ll organize it for you.”

That is the difference between the right and left hemisphere of the brain; things like goals, ambitions, and beliefs that we are encouraged to have are products of a type of left-hemisphere calculation.

Now, as you step away from the cozy confines of this wonderful university, it will be tempting to fall under the spell of the real world, its calculations disguised in feel-good memes. I issue this warning: beware of cultural memes like “Walk your talk.”

I don’t like it; in fact, I hate it. It’s shame inducing. It’s a sneaky way of making you adopt a belief system to operate from—and to stick with it, no matter what.

Resist this. You’ll just have to dismantle it when you begin to see a belief system for what it is: tribal, inflexible, confining, and devoid of gray area. And you have to start worrying about things like consistency, which we know Ralph Waldo Emerson said is the “hobgoblin of little minds.”

I like being by myself. I’m a huge fan of my own company. I spend 90% of my time alone—and I’m married. But she’s weird too, really weird. So it works out.

Goal-setting and associated timelines—I am not a fan.

Because, kids: tomorrow, next week, sometime soon, someone’s going to sit you down, and that person is going to ask, “So, what’s the plan?” And if you’re anything like me, you’re going to feel like you have to make one up right there and then, and you’ll make one up if you have to.

Well, allow me to relieve you of this pressure: your life and your ultimate joy don’t care about your timeline.

That burst of inspiration, creative ideas that lead to awesome opportunities—those show up in conversations you weren’t expecting to have. They show up when you finally let go of what you thought you wanted long enough to notice what’s actually right in front of you.

Look, setting goals is a great thing. Write them down, put them in a vision board, whatever it does to make you feel organized and in control. And I still do this sort of thing. I think there’s worth in it; I’m not here to take that away from you.

But what I’ve learned is that life itself has a much bigger and better imagination than we do. The best things that ever happened to me, without exception, are things I could never have planned, would have never had the audacity to put on a list. So, yes, aim for something—but then loosen your grip; have a little faith.

Your job is to show up, stay open, be a nice person, someone who’s nice to be around, and trust that the life that’s unfolding in front of you might just be better than the one you scripted, because you’ll begin to experience living in the present, which is really the only game in town.

I may confuse you, because on one hand I’m going to tell you what to do, and on the other hand I’m going to say, 'Don’t let anyone tell you what to do.'

Perhaps you’ve been in the presence of such a person, living in the present. They aren’t concerned with plans or strategies. They don’t adhere to a belief system. There’s a natural generosity about them—the direct result of being one with their own heart.

They give by being, and they always have a terrific sense of humor, which brings me to my next meme: beware the humorless do-gooder.

Those who will preach one has an obligation to give back and pay it forward, that kind of thing—it’s become empty virtue signaling. I’m here to tell you, don’t do it, unless what you’re doing in your life makes you happy and fulfilled.

In this case, you’ll be teeming with authentic beneficence and generosity. You won’t be able to stop yourself from giving, but don’t do it because some silly slogan told you to—a device designed to make you feel guilty and part with your stuff. Don’t do it.

Lighten up and dig deep. You know: those laughs where you’re doubled over, gasping for breath, snorting maybe even, perhaps as the result of watching some of my work.

Hopefully you’ve enjoyed several of them here at Cornell—not a thought in your head, because you can’t think when you’re laughing.

It’s the same with grief, that deep from within the very core of your being sob. It’s cathartic, it’s cleansing, it renders your mind inert. You’re empty. There’s no suffering; you’re just a physiological response to a glorious surrender.

Have you ever had one of those cries or one of those laughs? They’re delicious, and I suggest that you allow them to overtake you often.

I’ve had an epiphany of sorts, of these competing desires: the need for certainty and wanting to have some damn faith in my life.

One final bit here. You know how one candle can light another candle without diminishing its own flame? You be that candle. Or you know what it’s like when you’re smoking a doob, and you can light another doob without diminishing the light from your own doob? You be that doob. Right on!

So let us recap.

Don’t give back, don’t have goals, don’t believe in anything. Don’t be a humorless do-gooder. Don’t be scared, you big baby!

Don’t let people tell you what to do or shouldn’t do, especially me. Don’t listen to me. Don’t let anyone tell you what to think. Be a sovereign human being. Get your bare feet on the grass and let the sun get into your eyes.

Do operate from the depth of your heart, so open to the funny and the ironic and the absurd that you can’t help but laugh stupid and cry ugly and be a beacon of light for anyone lucky enough to be in your presence.

And there is free will; no paradox here. Use it, and know that, unlike any time in history—and I really believe this—you have the wind at your back.

Congratulations, Class of 2026. And just in case any of you become my overlord: I love you, I care about you, and I hope that doesn’t make it awkward.

Thank you very much.

Top: Lynch in McGraw Tower with Chimesmasters.

Published May 27, 2026

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