My hope is that 10 years from now, after I've been across the

In the words of Sandra Day O’Connor, “My hope is that 10 years from now, after I’ve been across the street at work for a while, they’ll all be glad they gave me that wonderful vote.” we hear the humility and resolve of a woman stepping into uncharted territory. This was the voice of the first woman ever nominated and confirmed to the United States Supreme Court, speaking of her confirmation to that highest bench. It is a statement heavy with history, yet spoken with grace—an acknowledgment that the gift of trust must always be repaid with the labor of integrity.

The origin of this remark lies in the extraordinary moment of 1981, when President Ronald Reagan fulfilled his campaign promise to appoint a woman to the Court. O’Connor, then a judge from Arizona, became that pioneer. Her words reflect not triumphalism but a solemn awareness: she knew that her presence was not just about her, but about what it meant for women, for the Court, and for the nation. She recognized that the vote cast for her confirmation was more than a political tally—it was a doorway opening into history, and she bore the weight of making sure that those who trusted her would never regret it.

History shows us many moments where pioneers have spoken with such humility. When George Washington accepted the presidency, he confessed not ambition but fear that he might not prove equal to the trust placed in him. When Abraham Lincoln took the oath of office, he said he felt as though he held “a task greater than that which rested upon Washington.” And so O’Connor, though not leading an army or founding a republic, understood that her appointment bore symbolic power equal to such deeds: to be the first is to bear the expectations of generations yet unborn.

The deeper meaning of O’Connor’s words lies in her vision of accountability. She does not presume that the honor of appointment secures her reputation forever; she measures success not in the present but in the test of time. “Ten years from now,” she says, implying that judgment belongs not to the moment of applause but to the long work of justice. Here is the wisdom of the ancients: true greatness is not in being chosen, but in proving worthy of the choice. She reminds us that every vote, whether for a judge, a leader, or even a cause, demands continual fidelity to the trust it represents.

And indeed, O’Connor’s tenure bore out her hope. She became the swing vote in many of the Court’s most critical cases, steering a careful, pragmatic course between extremes. She was neither ideologue nor partisan, but a guardian of balance. In questions of abortion, religion, affirmative action, and states’ rights, her decisions often carried the weight of law for a generation. Through her work, she justified the “wonderful vote” given to her, proving that the courage of her confirmation was not misplaced.

The lesson for us, O listener, is eternal: when trust is given, do not bask in it as a prize—treat it as a responsibility. Whether it be the trust of a community, a family, or a nation, the worth of that trust is proven not on the day it is received, but in the years of labor that follow. O’Connor teaches us that honor and responsibility are inseparable, and that the true measure of success is whether, years later, those who entrusted us can say, “We were right to believe in you.”

As for practical action: when you are given trust—be it in work, leadership, or relationships—make it your aim to live so that others are grateful for the faith they placed in you. Do not seek honor for its own sake, but seek to deserve it in the quiet consistency of your deeds. Look ahead, as O’Connor did, not only to today’s approval but to tomorrow’s legacy. For the highest tribute is not applause in the moment, but gratitude in the years to come.

Thus, Sandra Day O’Connor’s words resound across time. “My hope is that… they’ll all be glad they gave me that wonderful vote.” This is not only the prayer of a judge, but the prayer of every soul entrusted with responsibility: to live, to labor, and to lead in such a way that history itself is thankful.