Tiny Town Life
“You’re the first person I’ve met from Montana!” 

If I had a nickel for every time someone has made this proclamation to me, I would have at least a dollar by now.  I grew up on a sheep and cattle ranch in a tiny town in northcentral Montana. Houston does not have the barbed wire fences, herds of grazing livestock, bitter cold , or silence of rural Montana. However, Montana lacks the bumper-to-bumper traffic, variety of cuisine, public transportation, and lively events of downtown Houston. There is beauty in both lifestyles.

The biggest challenge I faced when coming to Rice was leaving behind everything I had ever known. Until that point, my entire life had centered around caring for animals in all weather, complaining during persistent years of drought, worrying about grizzly attacks, and itching for horseback rides in the tranquil mountains. Agriculture is the language of my hometown — anyone who isn’t fluent is an outcast, whether intentionally or subconsciously. My favorite parts of ranch life were riding my horse across vast acres, enjoying the beautiful land, and learning self-reliance. Yet, the constant threats of frostbite, devastating days, and a desire for something beyond the status quo pushed me to find a school somewhere warm, out of state, and beyond my bubble. Simply put, I didn’t want to pursue ranching or agriculture.

When I told my high school guidance counselor I wanted to  go somewhere in the South, she responded, “So, like Billings?” But I didn’t want to pursue higher education in Billings, Montana. My sights were set farther south. My ambition led me to apply to Rice — a prestigious university not widely known in the North, my dream school, and somewhere I didn’t think I could get in. I wanted badly to escape the Montana igloo, but I wasn’t sure if I was qualified. I hoped that my decent GPA and Associate of Science degree would be appealing. I even talked to a palm reader in New Orleans to predict my future, and tried not to jinx my chance by acting nonchalant. Even so, the fear of rejection crept in during moments of anxiety.

Tears flooded my eyes the moment I discovered my acceptance — I was ecstatic in a blur of surrealism. Even then, community members subconsciously limited me to their expectations: attend an in-state school, earn a degree, and return to the ranch to take over for Mom to retire. Sometimes I handled their comments with grace, but more often, resentment piled inside me and I could not wait to run away.

Between Two Worlds
When I arrived at Rice for O-Week, an overwhelming wave of Imposter Syndrome crashed over me. Suddenly, I was surrounded by absolutely brilliant people, and I was the only one from Montana in my residential college (shoutout Murt!). At first, I felt like a shining pearl, but soon I felt utterly out of place. Just the weekend before, I had been packing horses in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. The beautiful scenery recently captured on my phone made for excellent talking points initially, but slowly faded when I realized how many of my peers were from elite private schools, big cities, or accelerated programs. Before coming to Rice, I felt caught in the middle: too clever to be satisfied in agriculture, but too dumb compared to my peers at Rice. This struggle lasted for a few months, and the feeling of cosplaying a sophisticated, educated woman still creeps into my thoughts every so often.

For context, my high school did not offer AP courses, so I earned my Associate of Science degree through dual-credit courses at a local junior college. My graduating class was 41 students, most of whom went straight into agriculture in some capacity. I admire their choices,  but I received noticeable resistance to my ambition to pursue a career outside of ranching, and to move across the country to do so, no less. School had always felt easy, so arriving at Rice and experiencing intellectual challenges and not being the smartest person in the room was a difficult but incredible adjustment.

I lost several hometown friends to jealousy, loss of respect, and misunderstandings. It felt lonely and confusing, but I knew I had to push myself to experience something greater that Montana could not give me. Now, when I return home, I spend time with my mom and schedule coffee dates with friends and family members to catch up on our parallel lives.

What the Ranch Taught Me
Houston has taught me more than I ever expected, yet my Montana knowledge peaks at random moments. Around Rice’s stunning campus, I can identify different species of grass. Recently, I explained  animal gestation periods and the birthing process to a professor from a rancher’s perspective. I can identify predator species based on tracks and scat. I have scars on my arms and face from building barbed wire fences, and I can maneuver heavy machinery like skid steers and tractors. Best of all, I know how to train horses and can read the specific signals they communicate using only their ears. Montana gave me unwanted exposure to extreme freezing temperatures, fits of frustration, and tearful goodbyes, but it also gifted me with independence. Without my background, I’m not sure I would have taken the risk to move across the country, study in the top programs, and blossom into this chapter of my life.

I am incredibly thankful to Rice for acting as a launching pad, but I can’t forget my unique and empowering upbringing. It is truly special to have  two homes — one in Montana and one in Houston — and I am thankful for the expansive differences that shape my unique student perspective.

My advice to new students moving to a big city or coming to Rice is simple: rather than “don’t be afraid to try new things,” do it scared. People will tell you all the time not to be afraid. But it is absolutely terrifying to leave behind everything you have ever known and take risks. Don’t let fear limit you. Do it scared. You’ve got this!

-Abby, McMurtry ‘28 (Published on 6/16/26)