The first time I fell in love was in my sophomore year history class. I must admit it wasn’t love at first sight. It was a gradual love that began shallow and then slowly grew and grew until it became a passionate romance. I’m in love with history.

I grew up in a world surrounded by history. It was my dad’s passion and my brothers’ favorite subject in school. Our dinner table conversations were dominated by the battles of World War Two and the art of the Italian Renaissance. While most kids grew up watching "Hannah Montana" and "That’s So Raven," I spent my Sunday mornings learning the horrors of the Hundred Years’ War and the beauty of the enlightenment.

My true love for history didn’t begin until my AP European Civilizations class. At first, I disliked it as much as any other class. The homework was long, and the class itself frightened me; it was my first real advanced placement course. However, slowly things began to change. I found myself slowly enjoying the notes I had to do. I loved to immerse myself in the past and let it surround me.

I found the topics riveting. I would be transported to ancient civilizations where I would soak up all the knowledge I could get my hands on. All of a sudden I couldn’t stop talking about history to my family, friends, and even random people I had just met. I finally fell head over heels when I aced my first history exam. I was shocked to find that I hadn’t minded studying for the test, and I had found the test surprisingly easy. I was good at history, and I loved it.

I became the go-to history nerd for my group of friends. Whenever they had a question or needed help with an assignment, I was the go-to girl. No one quite understood my knack and love for history, and I, myself, had not a clue why the subject infatuated me so much. It became a part of who I am. History became a part of my identity; something I couldn’t live without.

My passion for the past slowly transformed itself into a yearning for knowledge. History provides so many raw facts and so much to discover. Humans have been studying history since the ancient Greeks and we still don’t know everything. The future is always changing, but history is stable. It’s in the past, but there is still so much we can learn from it.

History is concrete; it’s stable. I like stability. History allows me to take something abstract and make it into a concrete frame of thought that flows smoothly and makes sense. Growing up with four older brothers in a single-parent household, my life was never smooth or stable. My life was dog piles and “rub some dirt in it” and complete chaos.

That’s why I love history, because you get to take the madness and the confusion and the chaos and make it into something concrete. Don’t get me wrong, I love the madness. I love the fact that my house is never quiet and that we have to go grocery shopping every other day because my brothers eat like pigs, but I also love the calm that history brings to my life.

History isn’t predictable. History can be grey and confusing, but I live for that. I live for the grey parts of life that we have to piece together to form concrete black and white. History was my first love, and will always be my last.