If you see me today and I look tired, that’s likely due to two things — the last weekend of a legislative session is a marathon work stretch that runs about 96 hours straight, and I learned a long time ago not to wear water‑soluble mascara on retirement‑speech day.
For people who don’t spend a lot of time at the Minnesota Capitol, retirement speeches can seem like a sentimental extra, something used to fill time while members are milling around waiting for the next thing to happen. And sometimes that’s literally true. But in the second year of a biennium, like this one, the state Constitution requires that all bills be passed by midnight on Sunday — nothing can pass on the official last day of session. That means Monday becomes a kind of celebratory space: no more legislating, but plenty of time for goodbyes.
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Regardless of when they’re delivered, retirement speeches are, in my opinion, one of the most important traditions we have.
What makes these speeches powerful isn’t the nostalgia. I think it’s the clarity.
When a legislator decides they’re not running again, the language they use has a tendency to shift. They talk about the job instead of the game. They talk about the people instead of the politics. They talk about the small moments that shaped them as a leader, not the big ones that made the front page of the paper. And they talk about the institution with a kind of protective affection that only comes from having seen it at its best and its worst.
They also tell the truth about what the work actually requires. Not the performative version, but the real version: patience, humility, curiosity and the ability to lose a vote without losing your temper. They talk about the staff who keep the place functioning, the advocates who show up year after year, and the colleagues — sometimes from the other party — who became unexpected partners. They talk about the bills that passed, the ones that didn’t, and the ones they hope someone else will pick up and run with. And they talk about their families — they’re universally thankful for the sacrifices that their families share to allow them to serve.
Sometimes they talk about regret. Not dramatically, but honestly. Regret about conversations they didn’t have soon enough. Regret about assumptions they made too quickly. Regret about the times they let the pressure of the moment override the relationships that make the work possible.
(I have also seen, thankfully rarely, when a retiring legislator uses their 2-minutes-per-year-of-service time to re-air old grievances or bash somebody. I’m also thankful that those speeches don’t seem to land well.)
I’ve watched legislators sob through their speeches. I’ve watched what looks like more nervousness than any other time they’ve stood to be recognized, mic in their hand. I’ve watched genuine hugs between people who had been passionately debating on the same floor less than 24 hours earlier.
These reflections matter. They cut through the assumption that everyone in the building is playing a cynical game. They remind newer members — and sometimes even veteran ones — that the institution is bigger than any single vote, any single caucus or any single session.
They also model something the Legislature rarely has time to slow down and demonstrate: perspective.
Perspective is what lets someone say, “I wish I’d listened more.” Or, “The people who disagree with me aren’t my enemies.” Or, “This job is about service, not spotlight.” Perspective is what keeps the institution from collapsing under the weight of its own importance. And perspective is what retirement speeches deliver in a way no rule, no deadline, and no floor debate ever can.
There’s another reason these speeches matter: they’re one of the few moments on camera when legislators are really speaking directly to each other instead of past each other. Not to set up the next amendment. Not to score a point. Not to get a clip for social media. But to say, plainly, “Here’s what I learned, here’s what (and who) I’ll miss, and here’s what I hope you carry forward.”
Retirement speeches remind everyone — members, staff, lobbyists and the public — that the Legislature is a human institution. It is shaped by the people who show up, and reshaped by the people who leave. So if you really want to watch the best of us, the best of the Legislature, and hear some real wisdom, tune in on Monday.
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Retirement speeches don’t fix the system. They don’t erase tension or partisanship or procedural battles. But they do something just as important: they leave breadcrumbs. Lessons. Warnings. Encouragement. A record of what mattered to the people who spent years inside the walls trying to make the state better. If those who enter the chambers in January 2027 remember those lessons and warnings, maybe the next session will be better than the one before.
And if the next generation of legislators listens closely, they might hear something that helps them build a Legislature that works better — not just for Minnesota, but for themselves too.
Shannon Watson is the executive director of Majority in the Middle, a St. Paul-based nonprofit. She’s also a longtime State Capitol observer and will provide occasional Voices commentaries during the 2026 legislative session. You’ll find Watson’s previous Middle Aisle columns here.
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