From a relatively early age, I knew I wanted to do big things. In high school, this desire manifested as going to college, the obvious choice of progression after your senior year. And furthermore, somewhere along the way, I decided that going out-of-state would be the best way to make sure I was doing the absolute most that I could to be the best me possible, because high school had instilled within me the idea that going far away was the best way to really prove how hard you were working, that you were doing great things.

So, when it came time to submit college applications, I applied all over. Not just in Alabama, but Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, even California. And I got accepted all over.

But when it came down to the final decision, I only managed to get as far away as Louisiana. For a long time, I thought that I had failed, in some way. But in reality, the fact that I had gone to one of the closer schools on my radar was a blessing in disguise.

I guess, in my race to be the best and the greatest, I had overlooked thinking about how hard going far away would really be. The small town I come from is not incredibly accepting, and so, for the most part, I thought that getting away would be the easier of the two choices I had as far as staying or going went.

But I was so, so wrong.

In all of my preparation, I could have never guessed how hard being five hours away from your family is. Nothing could have prepared me for the crushing sensation you feel every time you drive away from all you have ever known and loved, alone, on the road for five hours each time. And nobody could have told me what it feels like to say goodbye to your mother, father, brother, aunts, uncles, grandparents, your best friend and know, as you do, that you aren't just saying goodbye for a couple of days or even weeks, you're saying goodbye for what is sometimes a month at a time.

You know, as you drive away, that you will be missing out on birthdays, on family events, or just general outings that you always took for granted. You will not be there for your grandmother's cooking on a Friday evening or a Saturday afternoon. You won't be there when the first fire of the year is lit and you won't be able to help your mother with errands when she's having a hard day, or go to the grocery store with her, excited about the prospect of helping her plan dinner. You won't be able to go down to your aunts house to chat after yoga. You won't be able to go on your regular adventures with your best friend, driving an hour to a state park just to be rained on, and to enjoy every second of it anyway. When your brother has surgery, you won't be there. You won't be available should some emergency come up. You will miss all of these things, and so much more.

The only compensation for all these things that I have missed is what I gained in return. Because nobody could have ever told me how strong I was.

For all of the things you miss, you learn to do so much by yourself. Things that some people never learn to do to begin with. You're strong enough to plan your day by yourself, get everything you need to done. You can go to the grocery store by yourself, do your laundry by yourself, figure out how to carry two coolers and two cases of water up to your forth floor room by yourself. You don't innately have someone to accompany you to any sort of outing. But eventually you find that that's okay because you've learned to be okay with doing those things by yourself.

I have learned to be independent in ways most people never do. I am comfortable taking care of things on my own. I am strong enough to take care of myself on my own.

And, I guess in that way, going out-of-state has made me the best version of myself that I could be.