The second I walked out of my high school gymnasium after graduation, I never felt a stronger wave of relief. I didn't have to deal with that dreaded English teacher anymore, I no longer had to listen to young women have petty arguments over some boy in their Algebra class who didn't know the difference between actual deodorant and Axe spray. I was free from the constraints of that brick building, and I was ready to never turn back.

Once I moved into my college dorm and finally got settled, there was a noticeable emptiness within me. Most first-year college students feel this, that overwhelming abyss that resides in the pit of your stomach once you realize that you don't actually know how to work a stove, but this emptiness was a little different than that.

I soon realized what exactly was missing from my life: music. I hadn't touched my instrument all summer, and I wasn't planning on participating in any ensembles in college. It wasn't that I didn't want to play, but I didn't know how big the music scene was in my new school, and I thought I wouldn't be good enough for any musical organizations anyway.

High school band (marching band, in particular, to increase my cool-factor), was one of the most welcoming environments I have been introduced to. Your talent level doesn't, matter, your experience doesn't matter. As long as you have a passion for your instrument (which, for the most part, people do), you are accepted into the family. Music allowed me to connect with people I would not have met any other way, people who were influential in my development as a musician and a person.

There is a warmness that envelops you when you realize you have found your place. I felt it the first time I sang a note in choir, I felt it the first time I performed on stage in a musical, and I felt it when I walked into my first day of band camp as a freshman in high school.

Of course, once you start actually learning drills and routines, that warm sensation turns into flames of anger and frustration. Performing the same steps over and over again, knocking into people as you're trying to transition into your next formation while performing sixteenth-note runs, and hearing your director scream "one more time" for the eightieth time is not a teenager's idea of an invigorating Friday night.

Eventually though, as shows get learned and notes are memorized, you begin to appreciate everything that band is. On top of a welcoming community, you learn your personal strengths and weaknesses as an individual. You recognize the benefit of hard work and determination, and you figure out where your breaking point is (after the eighty-first "one more time" is heard).

I knew that, in order to feel like myself at this new school, I had to do something extracurricular with music. I attended an information session in the performing arts center just to understand the essence of what music meant here.

My heart fluttered as I walked into the room and observed a crowd of students communicating with each other. I was introduced to people with various degrees of musical backgrounds, people who were obviously more experienced than me along with people who just enjoyed public radio. That fond, cozy sensation began to spread within me once again, and the ominous pit began to close up. This was where I belonged here.

I knew it wasn't going to be the same as high school. The competition here was going to be stiffer, and there were no marching band uniforms in sight. But that didn't mean I had to stray from my passion. My fear of not being "good enough" almost drove me away, but I pushed past these insecurities and put myself out there anyway.

Of course, I'll always miss being a high school marching band geek. I'll never find something as stylish as those pantsuits.