It was December 15; the day every early decision applicant had been waiting for. Decision day. Either doomsday or dance-around-and-celebrate day, depending what the electronic letter said at 5:00 P.M. All day I had been waiting for a sign—hopefully a neon one that said “Congratulations!” or “You did it!” I was inspecting the details of every major building and street sign I passed on the way to and from school, but I couldn’t find encouragement anywhere. It wasn’t even etched into the back of the couch in my living room when I crawled back there and waited for my boyfriend to tell me it was time to check the website. At that time, I walked cautiously towards the computer and held my breath way longer than I ever thought I could.
As my mom and boyfriend read the electronic letter over my shoulder, I remembered what the lacrosse coach had told me when I visited the campus of my number one school: “It sucks that you’re a white girl from New Jersey.” Even though my ethnicity and home state were against me, I had to give it a shot. Logistically, it was the best school I was considering, and I knew that I had the ambition to succeed there. I even got through my whole interview, infected with tonsillitis and barely able to speak (the interviewer thought I lost my voice at a concert and just really liked the tea I was inhaling). This school gave me the feeling everyone talks about. The school colors matched my eyes. It was the place for me until the admissions department told me otherwise.
Rejection punched me in the face, and it wasn’t “awesome” like it is in Mean Girls. I felt that because I wasn’t good enough for the panel of admissions counselors, I wasn’t good enough for anything. I began to question everything I did in my high school career leading up to that moment and wondered what I could have done better. My close friends brought me ice cream and chocolate-covered pretzels and offered a few, “It wasn’t meant to be” and “You’re better than them” sentiments, but my eyes were glassed over and my ears were not obliging. It felt as though a vital organ was missing from inside my chest and that someone had surgically removed part of my stomach while I was too busy worrying about my future.
I needed a project (and a time machine to take me back to the day I decided to apply to that school). With enthusiastic approval from my boyfriend’s mother and grandmother, I decided it was time that he and I cleaned out his room. He took me to the Container Store and I stormed around in a determined rage to find the appropriate items. Then, after everything was purchased, we dismantled his bedroom. Clothes from middle school hidden in the back of his closet were tossed across the hall to his brothers, who must have thought they were caught in a hurricane. From 3:00 P.M. to 7:00 P.M. we swept, organized, and yes, rearranged all of his furniture (without the help of a tape measure… not the best idea we’ve ever had) until we were too hungry to stand. Despite our desire to get out of the room, we went back after eating and finished the job. Granted, after this I still cried on the drive home, but I was tired from working and not from feeling worthless.
The next day, I felt refreshed and could physically move again. I went to a friend’s house and threw a lacrosse ball as hard as I could against her garage with her. She kept my mind off of the school for the most part, but she let me throw in a, “But I think the worst part is,” or “It just bothers me that,” statement once in a while.
I thought my parents were my worst enemies, telling me that I had to figure out what I wanted to do now that I didn’t get my first choice. But they were right, I had to make a decision. I was already flinching at the possibility of being punched in the face again. The sting seemed too fresh, but the only thing threw me back into my old shoes was forming a plan B.
Turns out that plan B was the right plan all along. I am going to a school in the fall that I wish I had applied to before the other school because it makes me happy and not because the colors match my eyes (which wasn’t even legitimate before, because my eyes change colors). My experience with rejection taught me how to help friends going through a similar situation. It’s extremely important to have someone to talk to who knows how you feel because rejection is hard to comprehend if you haven’t been there. Applying to college is a gambling game, and there’s just no way to know what will happen. Remember that your first choice isn’t your only choice and you may find there’s a neon sign at the end of the tunnel.