I often romanticized what my undergraduate experience would look like. 

Impassioned discussions with professors by the fire, meeting classmates and bonding over a shared adoration of  Sylvia Plath or Stephen King and trees with actual colors other than a sorry excuse for green. In other words — and with all due respect — not Aggieland. 

Ah, Texas A&M University; the first college I was accepted into — and then proceeded to immediately reject. But a series of rather unfortunate events and one gap semester later, I nonetheless wound up a stumbling freshman in this place of obscene class sizes and sticky weather that never seems to end. 

It’s certainly been an adjustment, to say the least. 

After all, my high school graduating class was a mere 75 people, having instilled in us early on the notion that academics take priority over everything, everyone. It shouldn’t be surprising that I’ve placed an almost manic emphasis on the precision of my grades — I’ve got the white hairs to prove it.

And to be honest, that was the easy part. 

Who knew that staying sequestered in your room all day studying would make it kind of difficult to, like, interact with other humans? For all the hours, months and years I’d spent priding myself on my knowledge about every subject there is to fit in an 18-year-old high school brain, I didn’t have the first clue about making friends. I still don’t.

As I finished the last exam of my first semester, wallowing in this self-pity, a serendipitous encounter brought me to The Battalion: I read the worst opinion column ever. But in my arrogant dismissal that led me to toss the worn print copy to the side, I caught a glimpse of an advertisement that exclaimed, “We’re hiring!” 

I submitted my application the same day. 

I’ve come a long way in the past three years, with enough accomplishments to actually fill up a resume for the first time in my life. Yet, with all the “Congratulations” and “I’m so proud of yous” from strangers, friends and family alike after earning my ring, I’ve found myself repressing the violent urge to ask, “For what?” 

Though I didn’t know it at the time, that application to be an opinion writer would be the impetus for some drastically needed personal growth. The basement that started as a place for words on pages turned into one where I met my first real friends, and through — at times, brutal — feedback, my editors turned me into a better person.

So I’ve come to understand that it’s not the traditions that make the Aggie; it’s the Aggie that makes the traditions.  

I’ve never been to a football game or Midnight Yell, but I’ve definitely spent more midnights than I can count in the newsroom and edited enough football articles that I basically watched the games anyway.

I’ve only been to Northgate once because I spend every Friday volunteering to play with the wildest, most adorable bunch of kids you’ll ever meet. Though seeing that both makes me exhausted and gives me a headache two hours in, it’s not like I’m missing out on much. 

And yes, I’ve walked under Century Tree alone — on my way to the office of the professor who took me under his wing as a teaching assistant, making my boyfriend (who never even took the class but wants to support me) and I genuinely part of a family. I’ve graded hundreds of papers and lectured to hundreds of students, all because COMM/RELS 257 feels like home.

Despite the excessive student enrollment numbers, community isn’t just a word at A&M. It’s an integral part of our everyday lived experience, and I’m so grateful it helped me find where, and with whom, I belong. 

Whether it’s hunched over proofs in the newsroom alongside the other editors, covered in chalk from playing outside with the North Bryan Community Center kiddos or reassured as I’m about to give my first lecture because the professor has been with me every step of the way, Aggieland has given me places where I belong.

And it is the wonderful people who comprise these communities who are the true tradition. 

An Aggie Ring doesn’t really mean anything; it’s just a chunk of gold. But the experiences of those who wear it mean everything. 

Therein lies its significance — not in what it represents, but who. 

Isabella Garcia is an economics senior and opinion editor for The Battalion.