De5tiny

Six years ago, around this time of year, came the period of Judgement. Everything I'd worked for and accomplished in my 18 years of life, now weighed and judged by college admissions, would return to me in the form of acceptance and rejection letters.

I found out that I'd been accepted to UC Berkeley and Duke University in the same afternoon. My friends in journalism were ecstatic. My brother wrote on Facebook: "HOLY FUCK YEAH! dude we're gonna video tape dad's reaction. first, you gotta fake cry, then suddenly scream in joy. i can't wait!"

As it turned out, my parents hardly reacted. They were waiting for the big enchiladas -- Harvard, Princeton, Yale. A few days later, I was rejected from all three.

It was subtle--but I knew and felt it. Their disappointment seeped through the seams, in offhand comments that they made. Even my mother, who eventually helped convince my father to let me go to Duke over Berkeley, said something about "expecting better results." Why didn't I study harder for the SATs? Why didn't I have better scores? She said I should have taken more practice tests, and soon funneled all her energy towards my brother. And I've written here before about my struggle with convincing my father to let me attend Duke, and the ensuing stress that debilitated my freshman year.

For other people, getting into Duke might have been a victory. But it didn't feel like one to me.

Fast-foward to last night. I'm at an Irish pub in New Orleans, sitting at a table packed with Duke fans and graduates. Our contingent of Duke Blue is outnumbered by the swarm of Wisconsin red, but it doesn't matter. When Grayson Allen turns on the heat and almost single-handedly cuts down Wisconsin's lead in the second half, we roar. When the buzzer goes to zero at 68-63, we jump to our feet screaming. My Facebook feed goes nuts, my phone shakes with messages from friends and old classmates.

I think of the last time I experienced something like this, five years ago at the end of the worst academic year of my life. I'd asked myself so many times then if I'd made the wrong choice, if I should have gone to a UC instead. When we won the NCAA national championship that spring of my freshman year, the doubts didn't evaporate overnight. But something changed. I found myself standing in the middle of Cameron Indoor Stadium the night we defeated Butler, with people laughing and crying in triumph all around me, and realized just how damn lucky I was to be here.

If I could tell my 17-year-old self one thing, it would be this: Call it fate or destiny; everything works itself out in the end. And someday, it will be impossible for you to imagine being anything other than a Blue Devil.