Albert College - Review #8

Walking into Albert College for the first time, I felt like I was stepping into a mosaic, each tile a different story of students from abroad, local day students, artsy souls, athletes, quiet thinkers, bold leaders. What made Albert special wasn’t that everyone was the same, but that they weren’t, and yet the place worked. It’s rare, I think, to find a school that holds both high expectations and warm support. The teachers pushed me, sometimes harder than I believed I could take yet often with kindness. And it’s the small things like Ms. Clarke remembering my parents’ names; the way the Science lab had windows overlooking trees so on grey days you didn’t just feel boxed in.

Best thing that happened is leading a segment of the Winterfest organising committee, seeing our idea become decorations, lights, music, laughter in corridors, that feeling, when community comes together. How I’ve changed: I used to think stability meant staying in comfort zones. Now I embrace the discomfort that forces growth. I’m more open, more willing to speak up, and more curious.

What I’d do differently: I would join arts earlier to help with plays, try choir, even if my voice wobbled. I would tell myself, show up even when you’re not ready. Advice for new students: Don’t compare yourself too much. You’ll find your own path. Be brave enough to try things that scare you. And trust that teachers, classmates are more supportive than you expect.

Albert College felt like it was built not only for learners, but for humans. For laughter, for failing, for trying, for growing.

Look for moments: in the courtyard at dusk, in hallway walls decorated with artwork, in unexpected friendships, in meals. Those little things often stick longer than you think. Also, cherish event days like Halloween, Festival Night, Winterfest. They sound like fluff, but they knit memories.

The academic load was no joke. Some nights I lay awake thinking, why did I sign up for both Advanced Math and Physics this term? But the rewards were real. Mrs. B in Math didn’t accept I don’t get it as an excuse; she’d sit with me after class until something clicked. What I liked most was that Albert didn’t only teach what to think, but how to think. Essays, labs, project work all weren’t always easy, but they were meaningful. Even when I stumbled, the feedback was specific and not vague comments, but “this could be stronger if…” or “try arguing this side next time.” That kind of detailed support made me feel capable, not just temporarily smart.

Sport was my refuge. I joined badminton and cross-country though I didn’t always finish first, and I learned more about myself in those early morning runs than I did in some classroom discussions. The coaches expected commitment but also understanding such that when someone was injured, or down, or just exhausted they noticed. I appreciated that I could be both a “you’re-not-going-to-win-today” participant and still feel part of the team.

Art and theatre were where I saw people show vulnerability. I acted and helped build sets, painted backdrops sometimes disastrously, yes, with paint in the wrong spot, but those messes are fond memories. Choir, music nights were wow, those were healing. On nights when I felt like I was drowning in homework, a music performance or art show pulled me back to myself. Teachers in arts classes encouraged me to experiment even if it looked messy and to own what I made.

Volunteering was not just adding to a résumé but it was grounding. I helped organize the school’s Winterfest, fundraised for local shelters, served in the kitchen for community dinners. These roles taught me organizational skills like emailing people, running meetings, logistics, but also taught me empathy through understanding others’ needs, stepping up even when I felt small. I think those experiences shaped my values more than any textbook ever did.

Though I was a day student, dorm experiences of my friends affected me because I visited, I helped in residence mentorship events, and I saw the highs and lows. The nighttime conversations in dorm lounges, the shared laughter over international snacks, sometimes the tears from homesickness, the roommates’ gestures of making tea, sharing chargers all wove a sense of belonging that day school sometimes lacks.

Dining hall food had its days, some meals perfect, others “what is this?”, but it was never boring. Because eating was communal, tables where I heard stories from people I wouldn’t otherwise meet; meals where you decompress, drop pretenses. On Fridays, dessert time was something everyone looked forward to.

Belleville is quiet, yes, but it gives you breathing room. On Saturdays I’d walk by the waterfront, visit a café with friends, go to bookstores. Some of us made weekend trips to Kingston or Napanee. Having a small town as a backdrop meant you learned to appreciate small wonders like a garden, a mural on a wall, a street you’d only noticed by accident.

Some of the best experiences weren’t planned. It was laughing when someone slipped in the snow, joining random study groups, friendships with people in different grades, eating lunch in odd combinations of people you never expected. There was pressure of social media, school events, wanting to belong but I found people who saw me for more than what I could do or produce.