The only thing I’d ever really failed at in my life before senior year of high school was playing basketball, but at 5’3” that wasn’t exactly a shocker. Besides height-related activities, I found that whatever I tried—academics, standardized testing, student government, debate, even dating—could be mastered with hard work and dedication. I was never actively conscious of this at the time, but I now realize that back then, I believed that every aspect of my life was fully within my control, and, being a capable person, I therefore could not fail. I would never have admitted this to anyone else, but deep down, part of me expected to get into every college I applied to—most of all, Stanford University.

I’ll skip most of the corny “Ever since I stepped onto Stanford’s campus…” part, but suffice it to say that I had my heart set on the school since attending an academic camp there the summer before my senior year. The place had a mythical aura; how could one school have the best reputation and the best weather, the most famous alumni and the most all-around successful athletic program, a location near the alluring Silicon Valley and a campus that belonged between the pages of a travel magazine? It was too good to be true, so naturally, it was the perfect school for me. Everyone at the camp said that if one of us was going to get in, it would be me.

When it came time to complete the Early Action application, I did what I’d always done to be successful: worked as hard as I possibly could. I got everyone I knew, parents, friends, and teachers, to give feedback on my essays. I wrote and revised, revised, revised. When I submitted my application, I knew it was the best possible representation of myself that I could put on paper. As I waited to hear back, the logical side of my brain tried repeatedly to prevent me from getting my hopes up, but to no avail. Hard work and honest effort had never failed me before, why would it now?

When Stanford released its EA decisions, I was sitting alone in the house, my dad in another room. The clock turned to 5 P.M., my heart rate spiked, I took a deep breath, refreshed the page, read “We regret to inform…” and stopped reading. All the emotions that I had not prepared myself for—disappointment, fear, shame—rushed over me, but for the moment I was quiet. I told my dad. He assured me that Stanford didn’t deserve me, that I’d done everything I could, etc. He didn’t realize how upset I really was. He had to go out somewhere, and then I was alone in a dark house with my rejection letter.

I started to cry, to get angry, to blame everyone in my life for getting my hopes up, for failing to prepare me for this eventuality. I wondered, where did I go wrong? Why didn’t Stanford want me? It certainly wasn’t a lack of hard work, and that implied that there was something inherently deficient about me, something no amount of effort could make up for. My self-confidence was deeply shaken. I got so angry that I made the rash decision to gather up all my Stanford sweatshirts and t-shirts, rip them up, and cast them ceremoniously into the trash.

Dad had already told my mom the news by the time she got home. She told me things that were true but hard to hear while the wound was still raw: that it didn’t matter where I went to school, that I’d be happy anywhere, that a lot of the college admissions process was not in my control and the decision didn’t say anything about me as a person.

By this point friends had texted asking for news. Something in the tone of my response must have clued them in to how I was feeling, because four of my very best friends showed up shortly thereafter with a tub of ice cream. The fact that they cared about me enough to do this was the first thing that really made me feel better. The ice cream didn’t hurt, either. The wound healed slowly. I got into other schools—among them, MIT. Due to my Stanford obsession, I hadn’t previously delved into the details of life at MIT, but once I began to explore and learn more, I discovered it was the perfect place for me. Just in my first year, the quality of my classes, the opportunities I’ve had, and the people I’ve met have astounded me. I feel incredibly blessed to be in such an amazing place. Would Stanford have been better or worse? I’ve come to realize how unimportant that question is, because what kind of person you decide to be affects your life one billion times more than where you go to school. Being in college at all is pretty awesome. Wherever you end up, you’ll take fascinating classes, work on interesting projects and meet amazing people.

I understand now that my intense reaction to my letter from Stanford was the result of a bad mindset. I had built up the idea of the place in my mind as something more than what it really was (just a school), and had constructed my own vision of my future around that idea. Now I realize that failure doesn’t make me a deficient person, it just means I’m setting my goals high and challenging myself, and those are good things. After a semester here at MIT, I’m becoming more comfortable with failure. I tried out and interviewed for a bunch of clubs and activities in the fall, and I didn’t get into all of them, and I’m okay with that. I see it not as a reflection on my potential as a person but as motivation to continue learning and growing. I once heard someone say that if you’ve never missed a plane, you spend too much time in airports. I don’t know how sound that advice is, but I know this to be true: if you never get rejected, you aren’t setting your sights high enough.

Sarah is a freshman at MIT majoring in Electrical Engineering and Computer Science. Originally from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, she enjoys sunny days, rock climbing, kids, dogs, and building electronics. She thinks electricity is magical and everyone should be more excited about it.