I once had a dream like most other kids my age—to go to Harvard. I could go on listing the endless clichés of how my personal endeavors make me a likely candidate, from grade point average to a plethora of hours of community service. At the end of the day, though, applicants are all striving to receive the same thing—the revered acceptance letter. I imagined it would be smothered in congratulations, a gold seal emblazoned on the flap. Maybe even a personal note.

That was six years ago, when I thought I had life figured out. And boy, was I wrong. I am a junior now, anxiously waiting for my senior year, which will be the best (and worst) year of my high school career. Of course, it is often considered the “chill” year as most like to call it, but it is also the year that everything changes. Everything. It is the year that I will be tackling the dreaded college applications that will determine my entire future.

That gave me chills.

My parents always sang in my ear that it’s not where I go, but what I’ll do with it, referring to my degree and how I will use it to my advantage after college. I am finally starting to have an epiphany about what exactly that means. In the past, I have heard of countless Harvard graduates living on the streets, unable to find a job. What scares me more, though, is that they are unable to live their dream. A dream they have occupied their entire lives with, waiting to live. And so another dream dies.

I may not be a rocket scientist or Harvard graduate, but I have decided to make the assertion that I don’t need an Ivy League diploma to be successful. Selecting the college that is meant for me will truly be enough.