Nobody could believe it. For my last two years of high school, all everyone wanted to know was what schools I was interested in. And when I told them, they didn't like the answer. I'm looking at the University of Alabama, University of Richmond, University of Central Florida and-god forbid-University of Oklahoma. And no, I haven't lost my mind.

I'm from Rochester, New York, a city several hours upstate from NYC but still decidedly Northeastern. Most of my classmates continued on to the amazing schools we have in-state and in the surrounding states. New York alone has over 600 colleges and universities, and when you widen your net to include Pennsylvania to Maine, you can capture an overwhelming share of the schools consistently ranked among "the best" by US News and the Princeton Review. So naturally, most of us stayed in the region. I knew the best schools were close to me, and I had always assumed my perfect school would be no more than eight hours away. Besides, I figured I was too restless for the Midwest, too easily sunburned for the West Coast and too liberal for the South.

But life doesn't always work out as planned. As I moved into my senior year, I found myself doing in-depth research on the colleges I'd fallen in love with, Wellesley and Cornell and even my parents' alma mater, SUNY Geneseo. I crunched numbers and trolled school websites and message boards, but things just weren't adding up. None of the schools I'd always dreamed of could offer me enough financial aid to make the cost of college bearable, especially with three of us Brind'Amour girls college-bound.

So, we got creative. My mom and twin sister and I took to the internet again, researching merit scholarships and potential offers from those "stalker schools" that hounded our emails. Instead of chasing after dream schools in the Northeast, I followed the money to far-flung schools that I would never have considered at first, schools that really wanted me. My Valentine's Day 2015 was spent at an airport hotel in Buffalo, attempting to beat a snowstorm, en route to tour schools in Alabama and Oklahoma. We may have been snowed in, but l still had to do my Cornell phone interview as scheduled. Of course, my interviewer wanted to know what schools I would be touring. I hesitated, then told her. University of Alabama and University of Oklahoma. She just laughed. "Oklahoma? What's in Oklahoma?" I watched planes take off and land amid the swirling snow, and suddenly, briefly, I felt like I was on the wrong path. Was I really crazy, to consider leaving all this snow and prestige behind for some great (hot!) unknown?

But I couldn't ignore the facts. At schools like Cornell, Amherst or Wellesley, I was just another nerdy Northeasterner, desperately seeking validation and the promise of a lucrative degree, praying for mere acceptance. But at my Southern schools? I was an honored guest. These schools actually helped pay for flights, hotels, catered meals, all so I could visit. They offered me opportunities that I couldn't dream of at your average New England debtor's prison. Beyond just insane scholarship money, the Southern schools offered textbook stipends, study abroad funds, research as a freshman, private honors college classes, even special housing (at Oklahoma, this meant an entire floor dedicated to only National Merit scholars, which friends and family declared "A bit too nerdy. Even for you.").

When all was said and done, I had applied to 22 schools. And at the very last minute, as is characteristic of me, I finally made my decision: University of Richmond in Virginia.

I know college in the South is not for everyone. My twin sister got an amazing scholarship at University of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and loves every minute of it. Some people see a school's rank as something that cannot be compromised upon. Some people don't want to be too far away from their friends and family. Others feel like they simply wouldn't fit into "the South," and sometimes I feel the same. I don't own any Lilly Pulitzer, I don't understand football or Greek life, and once a university shuttle driver took one look at my Birkenstocks and "bold" pants and asked "Are you really a student here?"

So occasionally, when the humidity of September in the South gets to my head (and hair), I think about what might have been. About ivy-covered brick and everything that comes with it: famous professors, powerful degrees, genius classmates. High suicide rates and cutthroat competition and student loans chasing me to the grave. I've found that I can get my fair share of competition and prestige right here at UR. Every day, I feel like I'm getting away with something, like I gamed the system. My classes are challenging, my professors are amazing and my new friends are brilliant, kind, motivated people who fell in love with this Southern school for the same reasons as me. It's like we've all discovered a secret, an amazing opportunity that others throw to the wayside for simply being "too far South."

Now that I'm home for the summer, all my friends and family are asking about life in "the heart of the Confederacy." This is my answer. This is an ode to sweet tea, to shorts in October, to Chick-fil-A. To cherry blossoms and mild winters and hushpuppies. An ode to escaping your comfort zone, escaping the chill of February, escaping the chains of New England convention. College is about finding yourself, exploring your world, thinking deeply. That warm Virginia sun has brought me unprecedented bursts of creativity and confidence and optimism. And I'm thankful every day that I chose to go to school in the South. You know, believe it or not.