I remember when I first came to Vermont to visit Middlebury College, which is when my love affair with the Green Mountain state began. I was 16 or 17, and it was my first time ever in Vermont. Growing up in Princeton, there were Beemers and Audis in the parking lot at my high school (I drove a Honda Element in Burnt Orange Pearl, aka orange, and won the senior superlative for “Ugliest Car”… I didn’t know then that it would be the perfect Vermont vehicle, kick-ass in the winter and on bumpy back roads). We shopped at JCrew, wore plenty of makeup and spent more time at the mall than outside.

I had never heard of quinoa, kombucha, chaga, arnica… anything even remotely crunchy. Hell, I hadn’t even had an avocado. I thought all hippies were dirty, with green dreads… little did I know I would end up befriending them and loving my life here in Vermont.

During my first visit to Vermont, I saw a license plate that said, “Don’t Jersey Vermont.” At the time, I’m not sure I got it. Over the past 12 years, every bit of “Jersey” in me has largely disappeared, and I can recognize why there is now a Facebook community and a whole line of swag for “Don’t Jersey Vermont”.

I don’t speed. I don’t have road rage. The only middle fingers I let fly are to a certain colleague of mine when we pass each other driving around our small town. I don’t fight traffic. I don’t even honk my horn.  I know where all of my food comes from; in fact, I grow most of it. I don’t have dyed hair; I get by with a swipe of mascara and lip gloss most days. I like to think I’m real. Down-to-earth. Kinda crunchy. (Don’t worry though, I still shave my legs.. and arm pits.) I like who I am and how Vermont has helped me see the real me.