I am here to say I love One Direction, and it has no bearing on my intelligence. Being a fangirl does not make me inherently silly or ignorant or brainless. This past September, I saw One Direction four times when they played the O2 in London. I regret nothing, yet many of my peers seem to think I should. I am here to explain why we must stop judging a person’s intelligence and worth based on their interest in a band.

I know what you are thinking. I always thought she was a mature, responsible person. She seems so smart and driven and on top of things? Yes, I am all of those things. I am intelligent and independent and confident, and I also happen to be a huge fan of one particular boy band, which is why I am currently seated in the front row of the O2. My intelligence and my love of One Direction are not mutually exclusive. However, my bank account and said obsession does appear to be.

So maybe I dropped more money on these tickets than I feel comfortable admitting to anyone, especially my parents. But you know what? My only regret whenever I do this is that I didn’t spend more money on more tickets. Did I just admit to having spent probably thousands of dollars on One Direction tickets for seven shows in the past year? Oops. Well, it was going to come out eventually and like I said, I am not ashamed of it. Why would I be ashamed of something that makes me happy? Probably that rationale wouldn’t be valid for say, an alcoholic, but for a boy band? It’s like what I always tell my parents whenever I come home at four in the morning: "Mum, Dad, I could be addicted to heroin."

The O2 is finally starting to fill up, and I am bouncing on the balls of my feet with an excitement and energy that I have only ever felt before a state championship swim race. But this is better. There is no pressure to swim my fastest or the fear of letting my team down. No matter how the night ends, I have already won. Someone bumps into me and his beer sloshes over the edge of the cup onto my Hawaiian shirt (it’s ironic, Harry would appreciate my humor). Oh well, I wore it last night too, so it already smells a bit.

I have never understood why people don’t want to come early enough to see the openers. Tonight (and last night and the night before) is Augustana. Had my interest in them turned into obsession, I would wager I would receive significantly less flack than I do for the whole One Direction thing. People are often shocked when they find about that one thing (Get it? That’s a song from the boys’ first album), that one bit of my personality, the One Direction thing. I enjoy when people are shocked. It’s funny. I like to think that in some small way I am breaking down stereotypes. Just because I am a well-rounded, intelligent student does not mean I cannot love a Top 40 hit from a British boy band with funny haircuts. Have you ever heard of The Beatles?

I rock back and forth and nod my head in time with "Either Way, I'll Break Your Heart." I have no sense of rhythm, but I have heard the song enough times to not be too offbeat. This is the last song in the opener’s set. I know this because this is my third night in a row at this same concert, but my first night in the front row. Now comes the most anxiety-riddled part of the whole night. The waiting game. In a half hour, a video of the boys on tour will play, the lights will dim and then the opening chord of "Clouds" will play, and my heart will jump into my throat. It doesn’t matter that I know what will happen. It doesn’t take anything away from my experience. When Harry, Louis, Liam, Niall and Zayn—

I have to catch myself and stave of the tears that threaten to spill over just like the now sticky beer on my shirt. Do you remember where you were on March 25, 2015? I do. I can tell you exactly how my afternoon went. It was a Wednesday. It was raining. I was walking out of the science building, having just completed my chemistry lecture when I checked my phone for the first time in hours. I had more missed calls and texts than I ever receive. Let alone at one in the afternoon on a Wednesday in the middle of a semester. I could hardly believe what the texts said. I almost tripped through the mass of students walking to their next class and the tears started to fall. I cocooned myself on my couch and cried while "Spaces" played on repeat because I obviously wanted to be in even more pain: "Spaces between us keep getting deeper…who’s gonna the first to say goodbye." I skipped the rest of my classes that day. I am not ashamed of it. I was properly heartbroken, maybe for the first time in my entire life. When you care about something, you are upset when something or someone hurts it. This is not a sign of weakness—it simply means you are passionate, and that is a trait we ought to celebrate more. That was a horrible week, one of the worst of my life. But here we are, exactly eight months later, Harry, Louis, Liam, Niall and me. Here we are for six sold out shows at the O2.

The lights begin to flicker on and off and I am pulled from my memories. Everyone around me begins to get to their feet to join me. It is one of the greatest moments of community I know. I jump up and down, I clap, I scream because hey, stereotypes are bullsh*t, but they normally come from a place of truth. Beeps and whistles ring through the arena and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. A projector illuminates the stage. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, the screen shows like an old time Hollywood film reel. Their faces are larger than life, larger even than in my dreams. My ears are ringing from the shrieks of girls surrounding me, and my cheeks are beginning to hurt from smiling. Then the arena is submerged back into near darkness. All I can hear is the beating of my heart and the heavy breathing of 20,000 other people. I hear everything and nothing as the first chord hits me like an electric shock. And then, finally, they are there on the stage, mere feet in front of me, and nothing else matters. Not the pain, not the heartbreak. All that matters in the fact that my favorite people in the world are within spitting distance.

In that moment, I feel my happiest. I feel at peace. I am no sillier or less intelligent than I was in my advanced architectural history class that morning. I am still the same person I am every other day of the year. Only in this moment, I am more excited than I have been in months. After all, "you love who you love," and who are we to judge someone else’s happiness?