If there is one thing I hate, it's being called a statistic.

I've spent most of my high school career skirting the title, trying hard to carve a unique cast from the archetypal small-town, middle-class, Caucasian mold that all too often defines my life.

So when I considered prospective colleges way back in my junior year, I decided to apply to equally distinctive universities and liberal arts colleges. I ended up applying to 15 institutions, which may seem superfluous, but I'm not exactly the type to do anything half-way.

Deep down though, I had my heart set on only one: Princeton University.

Last summer, I spent 10 days on the Ivy League campus as part of its elite Princeton Summer Journalism Program. I shook hands with the dean of admissions. I ate lunch with a few professors. I even talked politics with the president of the university.

I knew it was tough to get in, but I thought I had an edge in the game.

When my peers asked me where I wanted to go after graduation, I feigned uncertainty: "I'm not really sure yet. I'm casting a wide net now and will decide later," I would tell them.

But I was more than just hopeful. I already bought a Princeton sweatshirt and a matching pin to put on my school bag.

Of course, I didn't leave anything to fate alone. I dropped the fall drama production -- one of my favorite extracurricular activities -- to focus on studying for the SATs and subsequent exams, writing personal essays, and sculpting all other necessary ligaments of the perfect application model.

My mentors, a small network of Princeton alumni whom I got to know over the summer, were with me the entire way, proofreading my essays, talking me through my stress, and giving me a congenial kick in the pants when I needed it. Without them, I wouldn't have been able to hammer through the SATs four times.

In the end, my hard work came together:

* An SAT score above 2000. Check.

* A stellar personal essay edited by two Princeton-grad journalists. Check.

* Three recommendations pulled from interests both inside and outside of school. Check.

* Transcripts highlighting my tough academic load and college course work. Double check.

All was set.

Then the waiting game set in. Three drudging months went by.

Finally, April came. And the showers came with it. Out of 15 colleges, six brushed me off into the dreaded wait list limbo, including Cornell University, from which both my parents graduated.

But Princeton, and two others, straight up rejected me.

Was it because I'm from a small school with limited opportunities? Am I too white, too middle-class, too typical?

The doubts and questions swaddled my mind. I was bummed for myself. But I was more worried about telling my friends, my mentors, and most importantly, my family, that I didn't measure up to their expectations.

I avoided the conversation when I could and acted like it was no big deal when inevitability set in. But deep down, I was still perturbed. To help ease my unsettlement, my mentors consoled me with just how difficult it was this year to get into college.

In May and June, 3.32 million seniors will walk down the aisle to receive a diploma, according to estimates of the U.S. Department of Education. Not only is it the highest number of graduating seniors in the history of our country, it's also a banner year for the percentage of graduates who are expected to attend college next fall.

The number of freshman openings, however, has not adjusted to meet the newly saturated applicant pool, especially in already competitive schools. In addition, most of these college-bound seniors played pre-emptive cards similar to my own, applying to an average of 10 to 12 colleges.

Top institutions had to turn away good students they would have easily accepted two years ago. Princeton only accepted 11.9 percent of its applicants.

So my rejection was far from the exception. But hearing this didn't give me the comfort it was supposed to. I wanted to be the exception. I wanted to be that small-town diamond in the rough who got her chance of getting discovered. Instead, I was just another statistic. For a while, I lost myself in this marker.

In the weeks following the news, I spent many long car drives and many more restless nights just thinking. I asked myself tough personal questions and easy questions with tough answers: Who am I, really? What do I want out of life, really? What makes me happy, really happy?

Seeking closure, I came across a letter written to me by a professor at Central Washington University a few months ago. It was a sweet and pithy note responding to one of my articles in the newspaper. Reading over the inspirational words helped me reconnect with my roots.

Writing, I concluded, will always be an important part of my life, mostly because it's such an open-ended medium to express myself. But I came to see the craft as a conduit for something more. Writing can also be a stage. It grants a unique standpoint from which to view the world and lets writers intellectually reach out to their audience. The letter I held in my hand was proof. This was what life was all about. It's what I've been cheating myself out of these last few months: a real, human connection to the world.

I still don't want to be a statistic. But I don't want to lead my life just trying to avoid the title either. And there is a big difference between the two.

Life, I realized, isn't about getting to open the acceptance letters; it's about understanding how the rejection letters can open up even more possibilities for you. Like so many other things in life, it's all about mindset.

I know it sounds trite, but I also think it's one of those lessons we learn and re-learn many times over: Life is what you make of it.

For me, that means it's less about what college I attend and more about what I can take from my college experiences that really matters. Sure, the prestige of a Princeton degree might make my career outlook more auspicious, but as long as I continue to pursue what makes me happy, really happy, then the rest of the puzzle will find a way to fit in behind me.

Come August, I'll pack my bags and head 3,000 miles east to attend Middlebury College in Vermont. On the surface, the school is recognized by it's No. 5 ranking on the U.S. News and World Report of best liberal arts colleges. (Princeton is ranked No. 1 for best national university.) But on a more intimate level, the New England college is revered for its down-to-earth community, tight-knit alumni, and a history of casting new molds, from graduating the nation's first black student to starting the first environmental studies major. It's because of these latter qualities that I chose to take a plunge and turn down a scholarship to Whitman College and four other quality schools.

Middlebury may not have been my first choice, or even the most perfect "fit" for a Northwest kid like me. But my intuition assures me Middlebury will push my personal growth into new and surprising directions, something I finally feel ready for.

Besides, I've decided: I'm done with trying to define myself by fitting into or out of molds. I just want to find my own niche in a school that nurtures such expression.

Statistic or not, I'm doing what feels right. And I'm throwing the rest to the discretion of Northwestern winds 3,000 miles back home.

* Jordie Ricigliano attends Zillah High School.