I was born and raised Catholic. I know you can’t technically be born a religion, but when you’re born into a family in which your grandmother wanted to baptize you in the sink because waiting two months for the official baptism is too long, I’d say I came pretty darn close. My family is not just the Christmas-and-Easter kind of Catholics. We’re uber-Catholic. I grew up thinking it was normal to have a priest over for dinner, to have my hometown Archbishop know me by name and to meet a Cardinal by the time I was 1. We have holy water by our front door, and I thought that every family used the “Catholic Household Blessings and Prayers” book for birthdays, anniversaries or significant family events. Boy, was I wrong.

This realization didn’t come for quite some time. I went to Catholic grade school, of course. As much as I would love to say it’s not as cliché as everyone makes it out to be, aside from nuns with rulers, St. James was a straight stereotype. Pleated plaid skirts, Mass every week, memorized prayers and sneaky pubescent kids making out in the coat closet.

In 8th grade I transferred to a public school and experienced major culture shock. My world began to transform. I realized kids watched TV shows besides Touched by an Angel and Full House. Secular radio replaced my Amy Grant and DC Talk CDs. My freshman year in high school, I even went to a concert without my parents. Hanson was so rebellious.

Being Catholic, I’m no stranger to alcohol. My parents introduced my three siblings and me to their good friend moderation when we were teenagers, allowing us to drink casually at the dinner table. My parents always exemplified drinking responsibly. But, as I grew older, I heard stories of my dad’s frat-tastic days of yore, and it didn’t take long for this apple to fall near the beer bong tree.

In high school, I felt like such a badass drinking my Bacardi Ices and Smirnoff Twists. After getting caught once or twice lying to my parents and attending college parties, I calmed down a bit. My dad said he knew I was going to drink in college—he just trusted it would be done responsibly. Not even I could have predicted how far from the truth that would turn out to be.

If you look at a photo album from my freshman year of college, you would think it was a public service announcement for alcohol abuse with the tagline “Drinking makes you ugly.” My eyes were squinty, my mascara was running and it was apparent that the party cup superglued to my hand spilled and gave me a beer shower. With fake IDs and random make-outs, my freshman year went off with a bang. I still went to church every Sunday, though it was almost mechanical: Sit, stand, kneel. It’s not that I ever stopped believing. I just wasn’t thinking about it. I found myself going to church simply because that was what I’d always done. It was my routine.

After drunk dialing a close friend and having him overhear some debauchery at a bar, he told me he was worried. That winter break, he asked me if this was who I really wanted to be. It got me thinking about my daily life: Was this really me?

I calmed down…for a bit. I attended a church retreat…because all my friends were out of town. I stopped drinking…to save money for a trip to California.

I wasn’t choosing to calm down for myself, and so the life of boys, bars and booze came back just as quickly as it left. After a few months, however, something changed. I started paying attention in Mass and getting something out of it. I actually wanted to go to church, this time for me. I became more involved with the retreat I so reluctantly went on. Slowly but

Surely, my main group of friends evolved from bar-hoppers to members of the St. Lawrence Catholic Center. I didn’t stop the hardcore party scene because I felt judged by my new friends, but I suddenly became more aware of my hypocritical lifestyle. I didn’t want to be the girl who worried about being so hungover on Sunday that she gags a little bit when she takes the wine at communion. I didn’t really make a conscious decision to change my ways. It just felt right to pray more and enjoy my faith. The more I prayed and the closer I came to God, the more at peace I felt.

Now, in my senior year, I wonder how this happened. If you had asked me freshman year if I thought I’d be leading retreats and going to Mass daily, I would have thought you were crazy. I hadn’t turned into some born-again Christian à la Mandy Moore in Saved!, who forced people to be “FILLED with Christ’s love!” So who am I becoming?

I now try to live out my faith in everything I do. I haven’t sworn off boys, and I’m not on some crazy prohibition crusade. Those who see me at Quinton’s know this. But I’ll stick to my beliefs even when it’s uncomfortable. A nickname I have among a close group of my non-Catholic friends is “woman of the faith.” I don’t mind being the token faithful. In fact, I kind of like it. My friends know it’s not the only thing that defines me. It’s just part of who I am.

Just as my time away from the sheltered days of Catholic school has helped me to be more accepting, I hope that through being myself—my whole self, from quirky sarcastic remarks to Jesus-lover to bar-goer—I can bring about a new stereotype for a Christian. One that doesn’t involve an overbearing, “the-power-of-Christ-compels-you” speech, but instead one that shows you can have fun and still stick true to your beliefs. You don’t have to choose one or the other.