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A Letter from the Head of School Dear Trevor Community: In my role as educator, I have attended nearly every Trevor Upper School commencement. For the first time in 2026, I had the privilege to attend as a parent. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For years, people have told me how lucky my daughter was to have her father at school every day. I think the luck was all mine. I got to see moments most parents never see: a passing wave in the hallway, a conversation with friends before class, a glimpse of the person she was becoming when she didn't know I was watching. Those moments accumulated quietly but prolifically. They were gifts I gladly accepted, but to badly paraphrase Spider- Man, with great gifts comes great responsibility. School is a place where children are meant to slowly loosen their dependence on their parents. It is where they experiment with different versions of themselves. They are expected to fail. And to recover. And to create friendships, private jokes, and complicated social worlds that belong only to them. School is, in many ways, their first independent space. It was my great responsibility not to overwhelm that space. Did my presence make it harder for her to disappear into adolescence the way every child deserves? Was the version of herself that she was becoming inexorably linked to being the Head of School's daughter? I carried those questions quietly, and used them to guide my way. There were days I wanted to walk down a hallway just to say hello, but instead chose another route. There were moments when I reminded myself that the best thing I could give her was not my presence, but my absence. Parenting is, after all, a long and occasionally excruciating exercise in learning exactly when to hold tight and when to let go. Like every parent, I wanted to protect my daughter from disappointment. I wanted her friendships to flourish. I wanted every opportunity to be hers. I wanted her heart never to break, and her confidence never to waver. But life has its own plans. Inevitably, there were disappointments that could not be negotiated away. There were ambitions that went unrealized. There were friendships that shifted, moments that hurt, and failures that felt enormous—because at 14, and even at 17, everything feels enormous. One of the cruelties of parenting is that experience gives us perspective, but not immunity. You know your child will survive disappointment. You know today's heartbreak will become tomorrow's wisdom. But knowing does almost nothing to lessen the ache of watching it unfold. I have spent my professional life encouraging parents not to rescue their children, believing that resilience is earned, not bestowed. It turns out, however, that those words are much easier to deliver than to live. Somewhere along the way, almost imperceptibly, my daughter learned to trust her own judgment. She developed the confidence to advocate for herself, the humility to admit mistakes, and the resilience to keep going when things didn't unfold according to plan. I was no longer consulted on every decision, and the visits to my office grew fewer and farther between— the bittersweet triumph and heartbreak of raising a child. And also along the way, she truly thrived—as a student, an athlete, a community member, and friend. When my daughter applied to Trevor for 6th grade, she was immediately drawn to the design—awed by the access to faculty and the collaborative atmosphere of our common spaces. She bloomed in this open environment. As one of Trevor's pioneering Environmental Studies Concentration students, she felt informed and fortified to fight for a better world; her first steps were to dramatically change our habits and culture at home. Her commitment in the classroom was equaled (and sometimes surpassed) by the time she dedicated to volleyball. She played eleven months a year, often ten to fifteen hours a week. Her intellect was fed. Her passions were celebrated. And her friendships challenged and supported her to be her best self. Watching all of this unfold gave me an entirely new understanding of the place to which I have devoted so much of my life. For decades I have known Trevor to be an exceptional school. I protected our mission. I admired and learned from our educators. I celebrated our students and stood in awe of our graduates. I believed deeply in what we were building together. Then I watched those same colleagues whom I so deeply admired care for my own child. Teachers who noticed when she needed encouragement. Advisors who knew exactly when to push and when to simply listen. Coaches who imparted lessons that had little to do with winning and everything to do with becoming a good and gracious human. I found myself becoming not just the Head of School, but one of Trevor's most grateful parents. People often ask what makes a school extraordinary. I believe it is found in whether a child walks out knowing, deep in their bones, that they can meet the world with confidence and courage. That confidence doesn't come from constant success; it comes from discovering that you can survive setbacks. It comes from adults who neither rescue you too quickly nor leave you alone for too long. It comes from being known. As a Head of School, I have always believed that. As a father, I am grateful to know it to be true. Sincerely, Daniel Feigin '84, P'26 Head of School TREVOR DAY SCHOOL / 3 INSIDE TREVOR TREVOR TRANSLATES FEATURE AR TICLES ALUMNI

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