Maybe it’s because it was the first college I’d ever heard of, maybe it was because Gabriella from High School Musical went there, or maybe it’s because even the mention of the name brought wide eyes and amused faces upon my small, childish frame, but for as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of going to Stanford University.

With one of the lowest national acceptance rates, Standford University is amongst the most exclusive universities in America and is the crown jewel of the west. This prestige was definitely a main part of why I wanted to go. When I was sixteen, my family went on a road trip to San Francisco, and I begged them to take a slight detour to tour the Stanford campus. I was so excited when I got there. I was wearing my “Home of Champions” shirt as we walked about the beautiful campus. The grass was green and pieces of art were scattered about. The buildings were lofty and dignified. The chapel was one of the most beautiful things I have ever laid eyes on. Everything there seemed impressive and noteworthy and exclusive and something I desperately wanted to be a part of.

But only a year and a half later, here I sit days past the application deadline with no green check mark by “Stanford University” on my common app. In fact, it’s not even on there because about 8 hours before the application deadline, I deleted it from my dashboard.

These actions didn’t come from a realization that the school was too far out of my reach: I’m intelligent and academically ambitious, the valedictorian of my senior class with a long resume of activities and extracurriculars. When I wanted to apply, acceptance didn’t seem impossible, but it definitely didn’t seem easy or certain. I’ve had friends and teachers assure me of getting in, but knowing my national competition, I still saw the admissions decision of going either way and continued to see it that way up until the night of the deadline.

But then I got to wondering about why I really wanted to apply to Stanford. By now in my college research, I had selected a major: journalism and a preferred location: near a big city. Stanford, along with the Ivy Leagues, did not offer an undergraduate journalism degree, and though I previously decided a communications degree would work for me, by this time I had resolved to receive a specific journalism degree. The University is also about an hour away from San Francisco, the kind of city I wished to be close to for internships and news stories. A flop on two of my most desired college qualities, it finally dawned on me that my childhood dream would not satisfy my young adult needs.

Still, I looked at the computer screen and contemplated turning in the application anyway, just to see. The idea of making it into the elite of the elites used to excite me, but I now found it lackluster. After consulting a dear friend and mentor, I solidified my indifference and released the last grip the farm still had over me.

While some might label my decision not to apply as “dumb” or “stupid," I am perfectly fine with my choice. Putting a large amount of hard work into Stanford’s extensive application just to A.) get rejected or B.) snub an acceptance is both dumb and stupid. I don’t need to get accepted into Stanford to be accepted by myself, nor do I need their admissions decision to define my intelligence. I most certainly do not need their acceptance to give me an ego boost, and rejecting the king of rejections will not make me feel better than everyone else, like perhaps I earlier had dreamed of.

The truth of the matter is that Stanford University no longer fits my ambitions, and I am not defined by whether or not Stanford, or any other university for that matter, wants me. Usually one for closure, I find myself at peace with this open ending, never knowing whether or not I was good enough for Stanford because, in the end, I’m good enough for me, God, my family, my friends and that’s the best acceptance I could ever receive.