Freshman year of high school hadn’t lived up to the hype. Mind-numbing classes grappled at my interests feebly and I grasped back with as much willingness as one reaching for cough syrup in a medicine cabinet. My life was dreary and high school a disappointment. As I exited my thoroughly unimpressive freshman year, I knew I was due for a change.

My older sister was in my high school’s marching band, as part of the color guard. Previously I had refused to partake in the activity, determined to spend high school independent from my sister, but after considering my tedious first year, I abandoned this tactic and decided to give color guard a try. It seemed like a good idea; I’d been dancing since I was three years old, I would make new friends, and have my weekends filled with football games and competitions. It was an obvious win. Until I stepped into my first practice.

It was the first Wednesday of summer when my alarm clock blared me into consciousness and just 45 minutes later I stepped into my high school’s band room. As practice began I only felt somewhat out of my comfort zone. Okay, this isn’t so bad. I can do this, I thought to myself. My confidence, however, diminished as I picked up a flag. I clutched the foreign object, sure any second the pole would turn into a snake and be the reason for my demise.

“Okay, we’re going to start with a few basic tosses,” said the instructor nonchalantly. Panic seeped through my nerves. Dancing I could do. Spinning a flag? Not so much. I fumbled my way through the positions, barely understanding how I was supposed to make this six foot pole of doom do a single, perfect spin. Needless to say, my first attempt ended badly.

The clashing that ensued from my messily thrown toss echoed across the room and my faced burned with humiliation. I was mortified. How could something that looked so easy be so hard? How could that flag be so heavy? How could I be that bad?

“Don’t worry, it takes all summer to really get down the basics,” said the girl to my right as she caught her toss with ease.

That night I wept into my mother’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said in hysterics.

“Then don’t, honey, you don’t have to go back,” my mother responded simply as she consoled me.

And she was right, I didn’t have to go back, in fact I was one hundred percent sure I didn’t want to. But when the next Wednesday rolled around I was back in the band room, in running shorts and a tank top. For some unknown reason I was determined. Determined to tackle this impossible activity that seemed to stack all the odds against me. Determined to see this through. Color guard might’ve caught me off guard, but I wasn’t going to let a stupid flag defeat me. It kicked my butt but I wasn’t going to let it keep me down. And for a long time I hated everything about it; the people, the bruises, the mental and physical exhaustion. I went to bed hearing my instructor’s voice, had nightmares every night and cried often. Nothing had been so challenging.

I’m not sure when the turning point was, at what point in the season I went from loathing it to loving it. It could’ve been when I finally caught my first toss, it could’ve been my first performance, or even some random Tuesday night rehearsal. It could’ve been anything, and how it happened doesn’t really matter, it only matters that it did, because color guard as impacted me so irreversibly and it proves that we, as humans, fall victim to misleading first impressions, and sometimes second impressions are even more wrong.