One, two, three letters came. All were very nicely worded, with the same message. “We don’t want you.”

I remember it like yesterday. There I was, innocently walking down the hall of my high school. Suddenly, I spotted the college guidance counselor. Apparently, she spotted me as well, because she said, “Avigail, just the person I was looking for. The principal would like to see you in her office.” Now, mind you, in my nearly four years of high school, I hadn’t had much occasion to visit the principal’s office. I did my homework, followed the rules, and generally tried to stay out of trouble. What on earth could the principal want from me?

I found out soon enough. The guidance counselor quickly escorted me down the halls, and I found myself seated on the other side of the principal’s desk, while the guidance counselor took a seat off to the side. The principal cleared her throat and began. “Avigail.” She paused. “Avigail, we’ve been speaking with the principals of the seminaries you applied to, and you’re not on the top of anyone’s list.”

My mind processed her words in slow motion. Not on the top of anyone’s list? The principal wouldn’t be calling me into her office to tell me that I was a school’s fifth choice. No, she meant I was at the bottom. They had all rejected me.

The principal kept talking, but I wished she would stop, because it was getting hard to hold back my tears, and I didn’t want to cry in front of her. Finally, I was allowed to leave. The guidance counselor took me back to her office. As I sat down, the tears I had been holding in until then burst forth. How could this have happened? Of all 98 girls in the grade, why me? How could I be the biggest reject?

I thought back to those fateful interviews. The careful thought that had gone into picking the schools, writing the essays, filling out the forms. Doing mock interviews beforehand. Getting dressed for the big day. The dread of being face-to-face with those mighty seminary principals, who seemed to hold my destiny in their hands.