I have been poor. I have felt the weight of every dollar, counted every coin in my hand like it was a sacred artifact, each one representing a decision: gas or food, rent or phone bill. I’ve stretched paychecks until they snapped and learned how to make instant noodles feel like a feast. I’ve skipped meals not for fitness but because hunger was the only thing I had an abundance of. I’ve smiled through worn-out shoes and borrowed clothes. I’ve known the kind of broke that makes you creative, the kind that makes you humble, the kind that makes you listen more and judge less. I have been rich too. Maybe not billionaire yacht rich, but rich enough to forget to check the price tags, rich enough to tip 100% just because I could, rich enough to indulge cravings instead of suppressing them. I’ve known what it feels like to have doors open without knocking, to sit in rooms with chilled air and warm wine, to feel the comfort of financial safety like a weighted blanket over every problem. And let me tell you something—it’s easier to be a good person when your bills are paid and your stomach is full. But it also takes a different kind of discipline to stay kind when you don’t need to be, to stay grounded when you can float above it all.
I’ve been fat. I’ve carried the extra weight like a badge and a burden, endured the stares and the shame, felt the judgment in every glance that lingered too long at the wrong angle. I’ve been the punchline, the before photo, the guy who was always told he had a “great personality.” I’ve felt the ache in my knees not from age, but from mass. I’ve known the quiet self-hate that creeps in during mirror moments and the loud jokes you make about yourself before others can. I’ve hidden behind humor, avoided pools, and pretended I didn’t care when deep down I did. But I’ve also learned resilience, because being fat teaches you to fight for self-love in a world that ties it to waistlines. And then, I’ve been skinny. I’ve watched the same people who ignored me light up at my transformation. I’ve seen how clothes suddenly “fit” not because of fabric but because of the body inside it. I’ve heard compliments that feel like insults in disguise—“You look so much better now.” I’ve basked in the ease of mobility, the confidence that comes with smaller shadows and tighter skin. But I’ve also wrestled with the fear of returning to the old me, the calorie-counting, the compulsive workouts, the never-ending chase for a version of myself I’d finally like. In both versions, the fat me and the skinny me, I’ve learned that peace isn’t found in the mirror—it’s found in the mind.
I’ve been broken and rebuilt, fallen and risen. I’ve seen love and heartbreak, success and failure, gained friends and lost them to time, change, or betrayal. I’ve known the taste of defeat and the rare, sweet nectar of true victory. And through every version of myself—broke, rich, overweight, shredded—I’ve held one absolute truth: the Texas A&M Aggies have always sucked. Through every transformation of my life, one constant remains. The Aggies, with all their traditions, all their weird yells, and all their overhyped potential, have never managed to rise to the occasion when it matters most. I’ve been a different person a dozen times over, and somehow, year after year, the Aggies find a way to disappoint in exactly the same way.
I remember when they swore Johnny Manziel was going to change everything. For a minute, it felt like he might. He brought flash, electricity, and swagger to College Station. He beat Alabama. He won the Heisman. And still, the Aggies Aggied. They turned a generational talent into a few viral highlights and a bunch of what-ifs. That’s the thing about A&M—they sell hope better than anyone. Every preseason is “their year.” Every coaching hire is “the final piece.” Every quarterback is “the answer.” And every season ends the same—with excuses, frustration, and a premature focus on the next year. I’ve seen them outspend everyone in the NIL era and still fall short. I’ve watched them recruit five-star talent like they’re building an NFL farm system and somehow finish third in the SEC West. I’ve witnessed epic meltdowns, coaching chaos, and more hype than a Hollywood reboot—yet the results remain as unimpressive as ever.
Being an Aggie fan has to be one of the most exhausting hobbies in America. It’s like rooting for a gourmet chef who insists on burning toast. They have the facilities, the money, the backing, the alumni support, and the national attention. But when it’s time to deliver—when it’s time to actually be great—they fold. They trip over their own ego. They lose games they should dominate. They find new and inventive ways to disappoint the people who believe in them. And what’s wild is how loyal the fanbase remains. It’s admirable and tragic all at once. They show up, yell their lungs out, sway to their chants, and pretend that this next Saturday is going to be different. It rarely is.
I’ve watched other programs rise and fall—USC with their dynasty dreams, Miami trying to relive the swagger of the early 2000s, Texas perpetually “back.” But the Aggies? They never even got to the top to fall from it. They’ve been perched just below greatness, just outside the spotlight, just short of mattering on the national scale. Perennial underachievers wearing the costume of contenders. Even their victories come with asterisks. Beat Alabama? Awesome. Go 8-4. Win a recruiting class? Cool. Watch half of them transfer within two years. Hire a big-name coach? Great. Pay him a fortune to leave before he delivers. There’s a pattern, and the Aggies wear it like a uniform.
I’ve seen rivals change. I’ve seen programs reinvent themselves. LSU flipped a switch and won a title. Georgia climbed the mountain and stayed. Michigan found its soul again. Even Texas, for all its bluster, managed to make the Playoff finally. But the Aggies? They stay stuck. They’re the eternal “almost.” The forever bridesmaid in a dress that cost more than the bride’s. They bark louder than their bite, flex harder than their record shows, and act like winning the recruiting rankings is the same as winning games. But it isn’t. And it never will be.
Yet, maybe that’s the point. In a world where everything changes—money, body, status, relationships—it’s oddly comforting to have something that never does. Maybe the Aggies are my one constant, my anchor in a sea of unpredictability. Through all the versions of me, they’ve stayed the same. Consistently inconsistent. Loud, proud, and ultimately let down. Maybe that’s why I keep watching. Because no matter what happens in my life—no matter how high or low I go—I can always count on Texas A&M to remind me that no amount of money, muscle, or hype can replace execution, identity, and championship DNA.
So yes, I’ve been poor, and I’ve been rich. I’ve been fat, and I’ve been skinny. I’ve evolved, grown, stumbled, soared. But through it all, one thing has remained true and unshakable: the Aggies have always sucked.
