For 5 years, I marched on the dance line in my high school marching band, and I loved every second of it. One of the hardest things about graduating for me was leaving that behind. I knew that marching in college would be a lot more time and effort than it had been in high school, and since I knew that I would never pursue music or dancing as a career, I made the very difficult decision to end my marching career in high school.

However, that doesn't mean that I didn't love marching. That doesn't mean that I don't miss it. And that doesn't mean that a part of me won't always be a band kid. I still check to make sure I'm in step with the person walking beside me sometimes. I still catch myself tapping my foot or counting to the beat of a song I'm listening to. I still find myself rolling my feet when I'm walking to class. Fond memories come to mind when I hear my college band friends talk about auditions and exhibitions and their halftime show. And every single time I hear a song that I performed to in high school, I have to fight the urge to do start dancing right in the middle of wherever I am.

When I go home and visit my old high school, I still somehow find myself in the band room, and it still feels like home. I can look at the best in class trophy my team won my senior year, and the overwhelming happiness and excitement that filled me that night all comes rushing back. And when I went to watch my sweet band babies at competition this season and got to see them earn straight superior ratings, I couldn't help but feel a little sad that I wasn't getting to experience that euphoria with them.

I will always love band, and it will always be a part of me. It gave my friendships where there otherwise might not have been. It gave me creative outlet that I otherwise would not have had. It taught me about punctuality and teamwork and that life is a constant period of adjustment. It showed me the value of hard work. It made me the person I am today.

Band gave me a second family that was there for me just as readily when times were bad as they were when times were good. They saw me at my best, and at my worst, and they loved me just the same. I may not march anymore, but a little piece of my heart will always live in my high school band room. It's walls have seen more sides of me than most people probably have. I walked into the band room for the first time in sixth grade as an awkward, immature 12 year old with very few real friends. I walked out for the last time as a student a smart, confident, albeit still somewhat awkward young woman with a second family that I can still count on to this day, and for that I will forever be thankful.