I am tired. Exhausted. And it’s not because I was attempting to navigate the seven different staircases in Reese Phifer or because I shut down Gallette’s last night or even because I underestimated my senioritis and seemingly forgot that five meetings in a day is not fun.

I’m tired because for the last four years, I cared about this University.

And giving a damn is beyond exhausting.

There are two ways to be a student at The University of Alabama: you either care or you don’t.

And let’s be honest, most don’t. Why should you? It’s only a few years. Truly, this is a tempting path and one I almost recommend. It is stress free and fun. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was speaking some truth.

I started college this way – completely unaware of the ways of Alabama and utterly in love with what I thought it was. I dove into the college culture of oversized t-shirts, Vine videos, messy fries, swaps and that new Snapchat thing.

However, that quickly changed the moment my friend was denied a bid to greek organizations. She was humble, driven, personable and successful. She loved The University of Alabama. Oh, and she was black. Apparently one of these traits was “undesirable” for a sorority woman.

Whoever decided it was a great idea to have young women dressed to the nines parade around campus in Alabama August heat is a person I would love to give a talkin’ to. I would have never encouraged a woman to participate in this hell on earth experience if I didn’t truly and deeply believe she would be widely loved. More importantly, I had faith in at least my organization to see her for the amazing woman she truly was. However, I was wrong.

There really is no way to describe that rollercoaster of emotion I felt: anger, sadness, guilt – I was a mess. I realized there were two choices: to run away from a corrupt system or to stay and attempt to create sustainable change. In that moment, I became aware.

I switched to doing college the hard way. I didn’t just care – I was impassioned. My surrounding circumstances fueled a fire within me to create change. This is the hardest part of caring – suddenly it feels like you’re seeking out trouble. Not to fight, but to heal. Once you are aware, once you give a damn, you realize the everyday injustices all around you.

I am not completely ignorant to the fact that I see the reality of this campus through a privileged lens awarded to me by my socially accepted identity. As I work harder to grow in awareness, I cannot pretend to know the pain or depths of wrongdoings taking place every day to marginalized people groups on our campus and around the world.

I spent the rest of my semester feeling furious and betrayed. I took every opportunity I could to leave town. On one such weekend, I traveled to The University of the South in Sewanee, TN. This was the school I always imagined I would attend, as did many of my family members and friends. My weekend was incredible. Regardless of its true dynamic, for that weekend it appeared to me the campus praised diversity rather than systematically discouraging it. I am aware that injustice exists in all places, but in that quick glimpse of campus, I saw unity. I met people from all different walks of life as they were studying, eating or partying together. I thought it was so unlike Alabama. I thought it was the college experience I always wanted.

If I was discouraged before my weekend away, now I was heartbroken. I spoke with my mom upon my return and shared with her the goodness I had seen on Sewanee’s campus. I finally sighed and confessed to the woman who wished I’d attend her alma mater my whole life what I was feeling – regret.

All I could think was how much better it would be; how much happier I would be.

When I finished wallowing in my own sorrow, I finally looked up, dreading the “I told you so” look on my mother’s face.

But that’s not what I found. The next thing she said to me changed my life.

“Cammie, that would have been too easy.”

Instantly, I knew she was right.

This is why I am 500 words into a Crimson White column. Not because I wanted to leave the University I love with a final scathing review, but because I think every student who makes the choice to care needs this reminder.

It’s not meant to be easy.

These past four years have been the hardest four years of my life, yet the most important.

We leave high school for college to further our education, but my greatest lessons learned at The University of Alabama were never taught in a classroom or researched in a laboratory. They were gained as I witnessed my mentors defy barriers, classmates dare to ask questions, friends challenge traditions and the terrifying moment where I first stood up for what I believed in with 300 women staring back at me.

In thirty years, I may talk about the two football national championships we won when I was a student, but I will brim over with pride to say I knew the movers and shakers who fought to see sororities integrate, a non-machine African-American president be elected and a Diversity Center open.

We are not finished, but we are slowly moving forward. We are fatigued, yet alive with passion. Broken, but attempting to heal.

So to those of you with time left on campus, I remind you – it’s not meant to be easy, so get out there and find some trouble.

Cammie Cook is a senior majoring in public relations. She has received college credit on three different continents and is a member of the XXXI Women’s Honor Society. After graduation she will be joining LeadAbroad (a study abroad company) full-time in Atlanta and taking over one hundred students to Barcelona this summer.