How to Write a College Essay:
Telling Your Standout Story

The P in my name stands for Perfection.

At least, that’s what 13-year-old me believed.

I was the eldest daughter of immigrants. The child of survivors who fled genocide, crossed oceans, and rebuilt their lives from scratch. The least I could do was make those sacrifices “worth it.” Get the grades. Win the awards. Be the example. Get the college degree they never could. The pressure wasn’t loud, but it was always there. A pulse beneath every test score, every group project I led as class president, and every moment I told myself, “You don’t get to fail. Not when they gave up everything so you could succeed.” I wasn’t just chasing success for myself. I was trying to justify their pain, their sacrifice, and their hopes, trying to make it all worth something.

So, I kept my head high and continued being the perfect student. The dependable daughter. The role model for my younger sisters. I thought that was what strength looked like. I thought that was what it meant to honor where I came from. Yet even while desperately trying, I never truly felt the fullness I was chasing.

Then came my aunt and two surprise tickets to see Mary Poppins the Musical.

Walking into it, I expected to hear some cliché songs about imagination and childlike wonder, two things I had long since left behind. But funnily enough, it was exactly what I needed to be reminded of. As the performance drew to an end, the song, “Anything Can Happen if you Let it,” started to play. As the lyrics filled the theater, it felt like the universe was speaking directly to me. Offering a challenge: “What if you just let go? What if there’s more to life than being perfect?” As the curtains closed, I realized what I’d been too afraid to admit. I wanted more. Not just success, but fulfillment.

So, I auditioned for my own school’s musical the next month, and to my surprise, got a role.

It was a small one, but still. I was terrified. I had no experience, just years of dancing alone in my room and singing karaoke when no one else was home. But, as overwhelming as the fear was, my need for change was even greater. And change is exactly what I got. Performing, though scary, felt natural. It felt like finally acknowledging a part of myself that had been repressed. When I was younger, I was so sure of who I was. I boxed myself into being “the smart one” because it felt secure. But through theater, I slowly discovered a new side of me that had been dying to get out. For once, I wasn’t performing for approval, but for the pure joy of just being. It didn’t matter that it didn’t add to my academic résumé. It added something deeper to my life. Something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.

Theater taught me what I had been blinded to for so long. That it’s okay to take up space, and to be seen not only for what you achieve but for who you are. I stopped holding myself back and started embracing the fullness of myself. Both the academic and the artistic, the dutiful daughter and the dreamer. I stopped treating my family’s story as something to repay and started treating it as something to expand.

I’m still the firstborn child of immigrants. I still carry the weight of generational sacrifice. But I’ve redefined what that means. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about being whole. I’ve learned that honoring my roots doesn’t mean suffocating under their expectations. It means living fully, loudly, and joyfully, so those who came before me can finally rest knowing their struggles weren’t just for my survival, but for my enrichment.

Now I know that the P in my name stands for Passion.

643 words

There’s something satisfying about a “grindset.” Fighting an uphill battle, climbing the down escalator, mashing a puzzle piece where it doesn’t fit. Blacking out from nerves every debate round.

Well, maybe not that last one, but you couldn’t tell me that during my first two years of high school.

I was proud of the Lincoln Douglas grind: a high-intensity 1v1 competitive debate. I’d found success by sophomore year, but wanted to prove myself as a female role model, a girl excelling in a male-dominated activity.

Except, when junior season came around, I just…didn’t care.

Don’t get me wrong, I still loved the team and the activity, but the rigid structure didn’t entice me anymore. Debate preparation—once exciting—began to feel like a chore. I wasn’t passionate about assigned topics like America’s housing infrastructure; any creativity I had felt stifled. Even when I succeeded competitively, it felt like something inside me couldn’t breathe. I tried to muscle my way through (after all, my family’s motto is “Smiths don’t quit,” and as an adopted daughter, I felt chosen to fulfill that legacy), but as time went on, no matter how machine-like and efficient I was, it became increasingly clear that this one gear didn’t fit.

Had my initial interest in debate had actually just been the pressure I felt to defy a stereotype, to prove myself? Had I simply wanted a place in a new school to belong? This was no minor extracurricular stumble, I could feel myself being stripped of my type-A, hyper-perfectionist badge of honor. What did it mean that I couldn’t just…do it? Worst of all, if Smiths never quit, what kind of Smith was I?

Finally, through a mess of tears, I blubbered to my parents, “I don’t think I can do debate anymore, I just…can’t. Something has to go.”

I felt small, terrified, and absolutely lost.

But then my parents reminded me of what it really meant to be a Smith.

“Never quitting doesn’t mean blindly chopping through life,” my mom said. “It means always applying yourself, and adapting when things are difficult.”

She asked me a question so simple and trivial it would have been funny…if it hadn’t completely stumped me at the time.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

I took a good look at myself. I thought about my love for writing, my appreciation for whimsy and comedy, and my interest in deep analyses of societal phenomena. Suddenly, I had my answer.

I approached my debate coach a few days later. “I want to do Speech,” I announced. “Original Oratory.”

My whole world opened up. Again, I could breathe. Immediately, I got to work writing a speech on the Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype in film: an eccentric character whose only function in the plot is to aid the male protagonist, and whose representation in media has a tangible impact on the development of women’s identities. The activity felt like an extension of myself, and my beloved “grindset” became positive and productive. Tournaments became exciting opportunities. Time I used to spend scrambling for arguments turned into time I spent memorizing observations and jokes.

More personally, all of this resulted in a true metamorphosis. I’d come to fear that my babbling excitement had become annoying, and so had stopped expressing myself outside the bounds of normal teenage conversation. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being nerdy (and a little corny), until I began to win national awards for being a dork! I am still a Smith through and through, which means I don’t quit, but I also know how to apply my strengths and optimize my efforts. Most importantly though, I recognize that there will always be times when a gear doesn't fit, and that, rather than forcing it, I can use those opportunities to adjust, and still stay true to myself.

After all, I am far more than just a well-oiled machine.

Names have been changed for privacy.

650 words

My little fingers frequently traced the golden lace framing the rectangular jewelry box I’d inherited from my mother, its velvet inside still faintly stained with her perfume, and the mirror reflecting the home she left behind in Belarus. At its center, a porcelain figure skater anchored at the toe, and delicately made for this purpose—to spin—until she was interrupted, and crushed under the weight of the glass lid. But even then, I saw, she kept her composure. The perfect little figure skater. She didn't shatter, patiently waiting to spring back up and resume her perfect rotations.

Along with my mother’s jewelry box, and a thin Russian accent, my inheritance also included 23 American dollars my grandmother gifted my dad upon their arrival at the O’Hare Airport with nothing but fear and suitcases full of priceless Belarusian porcelain and crystal glass (my grandmother couldn’t sell her porcelain before leaving: people couldn’t even afford to buy bread). To me, they were priceless symbols of the sacrifices that allowed me to fearlessly create my own opportunities and forge a bright, potential-filled future.

That, I came to realize, was my true inheritance. The possibility of an American life, blessed with the chance to create my own opportunities, even as a teenager—from being able to contribute to neurocognitive research or raise tens of thousands of dollars to combat hunger.

And so, in honor of this inheritance, like my porcelain skater, I too spun faster and faster, fueled by excitement and curiosity, feeling burdened by the weight of my family’s struggles as they cracked under the pressure of a new life. I pushed myself to spin faster, to make up for what was broken, to be the perfect daughter. Proud of how fast I was able to reassemble the shards that others broke, I gave up parts of myself to make up for pieces of our family that went missing in the process. I was proud of how naturally I became the porcelain skater—precise, focused, resilient under pressure.

I became her in a literal sense too, with every new pair of skates and competition trophies, stretching myself in all directions, testing the thickness of my bones and the tolerance of my body. I took pride in how quickly I was able to spring back up despite the lid of life’s challenges. I was proud of the bruises I got from falling on early-morning ice, proof that I was able to rotate without hesitation and to fall without fear—living without pause.

This fearlessness, I realized, was a gift too—another piece of priceless inheritance that the porcelain figure skater and I shared. Hers came from a golden spring hidden beneath her blade; mine came from absorbing the silent rhythm of my mother's strength. I saw the way life—especially the emigration from Belarus—chiseled my mother’s shape, and I admired the grace with which she endured. In watching her carve herself, I unknowingly carved myself too, allowing the force of her resilience to press into me. Now, when I see myself in the mirror of my jewelry box, or down at my blades, I recognize her in the shape of my own edges.

Just like my porcelain skater, I learned to anchor myself on my blades’ toe. While the resilience and love-for-life I inherited from my mother is my spring, my dad’s words serve as my blades’ anchor. “Имей совесть—hold on to your moral center,” he told me, “think of others.” This carved-in sense of consideration for every person forces me to slow down. It allows me to simultaneously embrace and forgive the little porcelain figure skater inside of me—forgive her for sometimes stopping her endless rotations, and for supporting others over the endless chase to be perfect. Instead, she and I will choose to always remain honest and genuine with “открытой русской душой—open Russian soul” that freely spins toward new possibilities, while never losing count of their blessings.

649 words

It was an overcast and humid afternoon on Lake Windham. The clouds were dark and heavy, but the kids were still playing in the water. Suddenly, we heard muffled cries and saw the overturned kayaks. That’s when I realized I had to save their lives. As a lifeguard and counselor at Camp Silver Birch in New Hampshire, it was now my responsibility to protect these 6 to 8 year olds. Over the next five weeks, apart from being a lifeguard, I developed the communication skills, compassion, and patience that made me into a more confident leader.

First, I realized I had to lead by example, teaching my kids to take responsibility for their actions, respect property, and communicate effectively. Being a role model made me more aware of my own behavior. If I expected the kids to perform an action correctly, even with something as simple as brushing teeth, it was up to me to show them how to do it. I also modeled how to communicate constructively with others, respect others’ privacy, and ask for help. I came to understand that speaking up is essential in a crisis and listening is important in a situation where two people feel as though their position is right. When 7 year olds Patrick and Liam were fighting over a lacrosse stick, both claiming it to be theirs, I learned that talking to them in a calm voice was much more effective than raising my voice.

In addition to communication skills, I helped campers learn compassion through good sportsmanship and inclusion. During a tennis match, Nate lost six games to two and started to cry. I explained that by learning to lose in a positive way, you share the thrill of winning with your friends. I was happy to watch Nate grow over the next few weeks and see the kids embrace him whether he won or lost. Apart from good sportsmanship, I taught campers about inclusion. For instance, when a group of boys were playing Nok Hockey, and they did not allow another boy to join, I suggested they include everyone who wanted to play.

Finally, I helped my campers with their homesickness, which required patience. When Logan started crying after receiving a letter from his parents, I reminded him of all the fun he had been having at camp and how focusing on home would make him miss out on what was happening right now. After our conversation, Logan was able to immerse himself in camp and did not complain of homesickness for the rest of the summer.

The kids were eagerly awaiting our arrival near the kayaks. As we scooped each of them up into the rescue boat, their cries slowly dissipated, and we got them safely back. Through this and many other experiences as a counselor, I learned not only about how to save lives on the water, but I also strengthened my communication skills, compassion, and patience. I know these will be helpful in college for group projects, building friendships, and making thoughtful decisions when situations arise that require a level head. As a result, on campus, I can see myself becoming a dedicated RA, participating enthusiastically in a club sport, and being an active member in the campus Hillel. In all these situations, my goal will be to be inclusive, resolve conflicts, and foster an exciting and safe environment for everyone.

Names have been changed for privacy.

564 words

Throughout high school, my peers have often told me that I remind them of Miles Morales from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. I used to fight this notion, thinking they were talking about physical resemblance, but over time, I’ve come to realize that, in fully embracing “leaps of faith” in my own desire to grow, my classmates may have actually been onto something.

My parents immigrated from Nigeria in the early 2000s, exchanging Jollof Rice and pounded yam for unfamiliar dishes and unreliable international phone service, leaving them isolated from friends and family with only themselves to rely on. But patience, hard work, and ambition propelled them to success. Today, I can see that in order for me to leap, they had to fly. In that, my parents are like my Spider-Man mentors, passing down values that shaped who I am. But their journey gave me more than just the gift of my culture—it was also my spider bite, providing me the foundation I needed to become my version of myself.

Free-falling from thousands of feet in the sky, Miles takes his “leap of faith” by throwing himself into the role of Spider-Man. My “leap of faith,” though not literal, felt just as real.

While Spider-Man saves people from villains like the Green Goblin, I intend to protect their health as a physician. To put me on track to becoming the best physician I could be, applying to the residential Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy (IMSA) in my freshman year was an obvious choice. I saw the rigorous STEM curriculum that IMSA offered as a launchpad. But after actually being accepted, deciding to go was more difficult. After all, I had close friends at school, I was performing well in my honors courses, and I ate home-cooked Nigerian meals daily. The decision was hard, but just like Miles, I knew what I had to do.

So, I committed to IMSA, diving from the tower and falling into a headfirst dive. It felt amazing. But as I fell faster and faster, I could feel myself beginning to flail. Like Spider-Man, I felt like a solo act. As if it were my secret identity, I kept my full personality guarded under a mask, and loneliness crept in. While my academic drive remained intact, I wasn’t as connected with others as I wanted to be. But with the lessons of perseverance and dedication I carried with me, I found strength. I stopped flailing and leaned into the descent, angling myself with purpose.

Picking up speed, I started opening up, and with time, I was leading discussions during Muslim Student Association (MSA) meetings, pitching ideas, providing solutions, and organizing event logistics. I got loud on the basketball court, hollering after smooth lays, celebrating splashed three-balls, and playfully taunting my teammates in scrimmage matches. On the track, I started chopping it up with people I previously wouldn’t have said a word to, giving and receiving encouragement during grueling workouts. I even got more comfortable with the residents at the nursing home where I volunteered, engaging in long conversations over card games.

Descending closer to the asphalt, however, I faltered. Am I doing this right? I asked myself. Is this too much?

I quickly relinquished these feelings, sending webs up to the top of the building. I eventually rose to leadership roles, becoming the president of MSA and captain of the Varsity basketball team. I stopped worrying about how others perceived me, and instead decided to be the fullest, most authentic version of myself. My webs attached, and I swung into full control.

Now, I’m Spider-Man, with my own unique style. Swinging through the streets of Chicago, brimming with freshness and confidence, and now with a web of “spider-peoples” supporting me. My leap of faith helped me embrace the man I wanted to become, and I’m looking forward to every leap yet to come.

Just like Miles.

650 words

I. Paper Plate

I walk into my freshman year, naive, unprepared, and unfocused, handing in a hastily handwritten English short story. My peers have all typed theirs. I feel embarrassed but determined to become the good student I know I can be, so I decide to focus on the challenging courses my magnet school offers me. I find that I excel in Sci Tech, getting the first opportunity in my life to design and build a machine. The first assignment entails moving a paper plate as far as possible by blowing a fan on it. I tape a manila folder to the plate, and set the record for the farthest distance in my school’s history. Although it’s not quite rocket science, I am proud of this accomplishment, and it motivates me even more to engage in other subjects from electronic design to Shakespeare plays. My education takes its rightful place, and I never come to class unprepared again.

II. A Rescued Cheeto

It is my sophomore year, and I discover a subject that will change the way I view the world: chemistry. I used to understand reality as made up of solid objects, everything being shaped by people or existing for them. Then Beth, a former chemistry professor at our local college, agrees to mentor me, and I begin to see the world through a fresh lens. It is no longer shaped by people but by chemistry, which is why water becomes hot, why magnets attract, why cakes rise. My favorite experiment in class is in thermodynamics. I heat up the cheeto that I manage to save from being devoured, and I monitor the temperature as it comes in contact with a block of ice. Seeing the two objects reach equilibrium and knowing that this can be explained by chemistry thrills me. This shift in my world view allows me to discover my passion for learning, which makes me feel more alive than ever. The world seems filled with opportunities.

III. 1776

Junior year, I opt to take the hardest class my school offers, organic chemistry, even though I know my visual-spatial disability will put me at a disadvantage. At first I am blinded by pride, and weeks pass before I meet with the teacher to talk about the challenge I am facing. Then, every Tuesday till the end of the school year, I wake up early to meet with him. I realize I had viewed asking for help as a sign of weakness, when it is in fact empowering. I feel as if I have unlocked one of the secrets to success. My next discovery happens the summer after junior year, when I intern at 1776, a startup incubator in Philadelphia. My first day standing in the office kitchen, I feel very young and very lost as I look out at the vast cityscape, coffee in hand. After I attend business presentations and create my own pitch deck based on research, I feel I belong. I walk past colleagues on my last day in the office with confidence and look out on the now seemingly smaller landscape that is the city. It’s clear: I want to go into business. Through the internship, I have drawn my own conclusions as to what makes a company successful, and now it is time to learn more from college professors.

IV. To Be Determined

And what about my senior year? Throughout high school, I have learned to focus on what is most important to me, so the impact on my future will be positive. I have also discovered a passion for learning, that has strengthened me as a person and given me purpose. I have become more mature by realizing that being an adult doesn’t just mean having experience but also asking for help. As for this year’s theme, it is still to be determined.

Names have been changed for privacy.

629 words

They gently wrapped a hospital blanket around my grandfather’s legs, the same legs that used to race me across the yard and kick soccer balls with more power than I thought possible. I sat beside him, unsure of what to say, and ashamed that it had taken me so long to slow down and truly see him.

I had spent so much time trying to make him proud by juggling AP classes, late-night study sessions, and early morning varsity practices that I forgot to be present. I assumed that report cards and game day wins could stand in for conversations and that these achievements could somehow fill the silence I had allowed to settle between us.

My parents finally informed me about his heart condition at age 13. They said they didn’t want me to worry, that I was too young to carry something so heavy. However, I wasn’t too young to feel guilty. While his health quietly declined, I was sprinting toward goals he might never see me reach. I was preoccupied with my GPA and stat sheets, trying to prove myself to colleges and coaches without realizing the time I was losing. The worst part wasn’t that I was unaware of his illness; it was that I hadn’t asked. I had been close enough to see the tiredness in his eyes and the slowing of his steps, but I never paused long enough to notice. That realization hit harder than any loss I’d ever taken on the field. Maybe I didn’t ask because I was afraid of the answer, and chasing success was the only way I knew how to feel in control of something that was never mine to fix.

In response, I pushed myself harder. I made the honor roll every quarter. I trained despite bruises and fatigue. I refused to miss a single practice or exam. I told myself that if I could be perfect and give everything I had, I could make things better. Each milestone felt strangely distant, like I was impressing a crowd that wasn’t even watching. In hindsight, I wish I had understood sooner that what he needed wasn’t a list of accomplishments, but a connection. I would have engaged in more conversations over competitions, spent more time with him, and focused on trying to prove myself over time.

Then one afternoon, as I helped him out to the porch for some fresh air, he asked me a question that changed everything. “What do you love most about your team?” Not how well I played or how many scouts were watching, just what I loved. I paused, caught off guard, and then told him about the pre-practice music we always played, the way we all laughed when someone tripped during warmups, the silence right before kickoff when it felt like the whole world held its breath. He listened with his eyes closed and smiled like it was the most important thing I’d ever told him.

That was the moment I understood, he didn’t care about a perfect grandson. He cared about me, just the real me. He was the one who found joy in the little things, who had stories to tell, and who just wanted to sit next to me. Since then, I’ve made him part of everything. I still work hard and pursue my goals, but I now bring him along. I tell him about my classes, but also about the weird, seemingly insignificant events that define my day. I show him my stats, but also describe the sunset on the walk home from practice. I’ve learned that showing up doesn’t mean showing off; it means sharing the moments that matter. As I advance to college, I plan to contribute to a community where authenticity matters just as much as ambition, and where connection is built through stories. In all college involvement, I will bring my whole self and focus on what matters.

654 words

Picture a simple ball of yarn– seemingly formless at first, but once I tug at the tails, fiddle with each pull, the stitches translate into pattern—a basic code, a final project, an answer to a problem. Unformed material becomes three dimensional, functional. A single stitch dropped and the code is compromised—a tangled mess. Perfection in design, accuracy in execution. Only when you tie the last knot, when you snip the last yarn tail, have you finally succeeded. A seamless and aesthetic creation with the potential to change lives.

Over six years of crocheting, I have accumulated seemingly millions of yarn tails from hundreds of projects. Had I not seen the hefty nature of these piles, piles most people would mindlessly toss in the trash, I would not have realized that the final step in any creation isn’t the product, but instead carrying over the remainder—redefining utility. I soon started upcycling these yarn tails as stuffing inside my newer 3D crochet creations. It was this dual approach of creativity and upcycling that inspired me to found the Westlake Crochet Club (WCC) my freshmen year which has since grown to over 80 members. I use my skills and knowledge to teach my peers the language of crochet which in turn teaches the language of engineering and sustainability— an intersection of art and mathematics. I saw the joy and sense of accomplishment in their eyes when they learnt to successfully decode for the first time. What initially seemed to be a complex pattern of stitches on paper became a physical item. Seeing the power of this transformation motivated me to think about ways to broaden my impact and bring joy to people beyond the scope of my school.

I founded Build a Beanie (BAB)—a service project that provides hand crocheted warm beanies to communities in need throughout the Austin area. One of the first things I teach my students in WCC to crochet is a beanie. The elegant design prioritizes functionality while limiting complexity. Consisting of a simple rectangle folded into a cylinder which then gets cinched at the top. Beanies can be a fashion statement, a heartfelt gift, and a life saver during a harsh winter, which is why I built an entire program around them. As the founder and Lead Service Project Coordinator of BAB, I had the privilege to create a ripple effect: inspiring almost a quarter of my grade to crochet over 120 beanies that we donated to the Community First! Village—a 51 acre village created by the nonprofit Mobile Loaves and Fishes to provide permanent housing for over 400 residents who recently overcame chronic homelessness.

Crochet is a medium, a tool to forge something new. When I was little, my grandmother crocheted dresses for me. I would watch her, mesmerized by how she could transform a ball of yarn into an ornate outfit. It looked like magic to me. I wanted to learn how to be a magician too. It wasn't until later, when I founded BAB, that I realized that the magic I had longed for was actually engineering. I wasn't learning magic tricks, I was learning how to engineer.

What started as an ancestral tradition, perceived as sorcery by my youthful eyes, grew into a passion for engineering and innovation–a passion allowing me to combine my commitment to social responsibility and sustainability with the creation of meaningful solutions within my community. Each of these endeavors transformed me, acting as yarn tails would—becoming an extra layer defining my identity and fueling my vision of contributing to one of the most exciting technological eras of human kind—engineering novel solutions to today’s pressing problems, and conceptualizing accessible, compassionate, and inclusive technologies for the future. I believe that creativity plus compassion leads to innovation, and I cannot wait to engage with an academic community of curious individuals interested in changing the world in this way.

645 words

I've been debating since before I understood the meaning of the word. The usual opponent was my brother, Jonathan, who was more than happy to argue with me from sunup to sundown. But this was aimless, theoretical conversation. It was only when we joined a forensic speech league that I learned the difference between bickering and debating and in turn the difference between compassion and competition. Through my debate league and the community around it, I realized I could use my voice to fight for both ideas and people.

Before I could use my voice, however, I had to find it. Hours of arguing with Jonathan on the way we protect the rights of humans, how policy and action align when it comes to political change, and the way protest works in various contexts, showed me the empathetic approach my brother took to forming his worldview. Jonathan taught me to place people first. He taught me to look at any given scenario and identify what the people involved might be feeling and thinking, to put myself in their place and feel their pain, their oppression, or their need.

However, Jonathan’s empathy and compassion weren't enough to prepare me for the grueling schedule of competitive debate. Learning about various topics, competing in team policy preliminaries, and extemporaneous speeches, exposed me to a rigorous structure. Trying to maintain empathy while simultaneously trying to learn form and theory started to seem counterproductive. But, before I could give up, Jonathan reminded me that letting humanity lead was worth the work. My family and mentors pushed me to continue finding my voice in this changing environment.

At the beginning of the next season, although I knew the how was important, I focused on the why. I learned why each debate round mattered and prioritized the core points—which, almost always, was the humanity of those affected. This shift allowed me to brainstorm simple solutions to complex political problems because putting people's lives before actual policy removes confusion. Solitary confinement, doctor shortages, prison labor laws, and refugee pushbacks began to make sense when I focused on humanity.

Over the summer, my people-first practice became relevant outside of the debate club. I volunteered at a non-profit daycare serving a low-income community in Jackson, Mississippi. What this organization was actually doing was protecting human rights by ensuring equitable access to education. When I had a chance to speak with the leader of the organization, to discuss her “why” I saw that her determination to lessen educational and economic disparities started with people, not policy. Rather than focusing on whether the government should or shouldn’t pay for the program she focused on what the community needed and what must be done to meet that need. This experience broadened my perspective and highlighted the human suffering behind the abstract cases that, for some, might seem easier to debate in theory.

It was my brother, my family, my debate team, and my experiences with grassroots organizations like the one in Jackson, Mississippi that taught me about the responsibility that comes with having a voice. I used my voice to strengthen my community when working with a local congressperson to recruit a diverse voter base and promote civic engagement. I used my voice during hours and days of calling voters in order to strengthen the democratic process at the local level. I used my voice as a team member on a local campaign that sought to strengthen community ties through civic engagement. Now, I hope to continue using my voice in my college community as I aspire to engage in a lifelong commitment to standing up for others through a career in law. As I continue my journey, supporting underserved populations and ensuring that they receive the representation they deserve, I look towards college to empower my voice and humanity in order to safeguard others' rights.

643 words

When I was little, my mom used to bring me to her construction sites. She worked as a project manager remodeling public schools in Washington, D.C. Back then, I didn’t know what lead paint, asbestos, or ceramic pipes were but my mom’s words had an impact on my worldview. She spoke to me as if I shared her experience, using the language of her industry.“We have to fix the water damage in the auditorium because there’s a tear in the roof membrane,” she would point out, “but it’s historical, so we are preserving the facade.” I inadvertently learned about energy-efficient HVAC systems, structural integrity, and site boundaries. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my mom was teaching me how to observe the physical world.

I first learned what rebar was when my mother pointed out the rusty steel bars on the underside of an overpass while we were stuck in traffic. She told me that patching exposed rebar is important because rust compromises the structural integrity of the concrete. As I got older her language became more familiar to me, and the wondering about words turned to curiosity—questions about the way infrastructure affects our daily lives. My mom’s observations became comforting to me, and in a way, her habits became mine.

I took these habits with me when I traveled to the countries my parents grew up in. Going to France to visit my father’s family was filled with abundant roundabouts, narrow streets, walkable cities, and high-speed rail systems. In Colombia, my mother guided me through the streets, pointing out the structural components of villages, towns, and cities. I learned how dependent the United States is on cars by observing the pedestrian bridges, the metro-cable that links hillside communities with the city center, and the extensive “ciclovias”— bike lane networks. These systems expanded my definition of how urban space could look, and made me wonder why each geographical location approached infrastructure from such a different angle.

I realized that each country has its own set of values, and those values guide how they solve problems. I also realized that while the infrastructures they choose in the physical world demonstrate those unique values and priorities, they also demonstrate something else: the separation of socioeconomic classes. Colombia was the first place I saw a pedestrian bridge over a major highway, but it was also the first place I saw a gated community with armed security, reflecting the vast financial inequality and struggles with violence the country has faced. These observations led me to start looking at infrastructure from an angle of imbalance.

It was a harsh reality check to notice how my favorite blocks, with their Sweetgreen, Lululemon, and farmer’s market, use hostile architecture meant to discourage access to the nearby strip mall, with the Chinese supermarket and the Goodwill. I’ve now noticed that the same rusting rebar my mother used to point out is usually an indication of a less wealthy area, rarely visible in the more well-off parts of town. Seeing inequality in the built world inspires me to create the change required for a more equitable approach, one that provides safety, opportunity, and connection, the way I once imagined it did.

I have had the privilege of seeing the infrastructure around me from all angles—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and I have been able to see what works and what doesn’t. The first step to change is observation and identification of problems: already in the works. The second step, understanding causes and correlations, looking outwards to past solutions, testing out ideas, financing construction, implementing effective changes: getting there. I don’t yet know everything there is to know about traffic, infrastructure, society, or concrete, but the more I learn, the more determined I am to study civil engineering and design systems that serve people equitably—following in my mother’s footsteps, with her tools and my own.

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Isolated in Aytos, a ghost town located in the mountains of Bulgaria, I grew up with four neighbors, five chickens, and one shop. At just six years old I was expected to work at my father’s corn stand to make ends meet. And Bulgarian, the language I spoke, encapsulated the limiting and traditional, ethno-centric values I was raised with and confined by.

Cut to seven years ago when I began a new life in the heart of London, a fast paced metropolis brimming with abundance. Life all at once meant so much more than I ever could have imagined and allowed me to break out of the gendered expectations I was born into. Instead of centering my life around them, I was given the opportunity to focus on my academic interests. Only later would I recognise the streak of resilience I inherited from my lineage.

Experiencing this dichotomy of rural and modern, impoverished and privileged, traditional and pluralist as well as the stark differences between Bulgarian and English made me wonder about the extent to which culture and, especially language, predetermines our lives. Through extensive personal research, philosophy class, and the study of languages like Japanese I began to investigate the Whorfian hypothesis of linguistic relativity and discovered a passion for the subject.

For example, regarding sentence structure, the English language’s rigidity is useful for temporal preciseness and providing a clear framework for ideas. However, in Bulgarian, which is independent of Latin origin, the absence of sentence structure forces one to rely heavily on tone or expression as an indicator. I discovered that Turkish and Bulgarian dialects focus on the source of information while Russian underscores whether the event was completed or not. It’s amazing to me how this impacts our perception of justice and the assignment of blame, whether it’s viewed deontologically by cause or teleologically by outcome.

Through these explorations, I realized that originality, autonomy, personality, and preferences--these quintessential aspects of life which we believe to be intrinsic--are in fact predetermined by thousands of years of history. As Etienne de Codillac said “each language expresses the character of the people.” Language is in fact more than a reporting device. It’s a unique cognitive universe where perspective, morality, and even what’s physically possible changes. As a bilingual person, this has invigorated me to challenge my own thinking and begin exploring alternative belief systems and world views I don't necessarily agree with whether in politics, religion, or my ethics A Level class.

As a result of my research so far, I believe that language directs our focus and is built on implicit cultural assumptions. The impact of language is far reaching: in Bulgarian, gender tags can even impact career choices, with occupations like “leader,” “teacher” and “athlete” that all have masculine connotations. Despite these cultural biases, the women in my lineage never submitted to society’s ideals, but became teachers, worked in factories, and promoted the suffragette protests in Bulgaria.

Ultimately, what makes language so meaningful to me is the story it recalls of the “еманципирани жени (emancipirani jeni),” the self-liberated women within my family. An uplifting memory of how they escaped a history of poverty and tribulations, the inner strength that they developed to resist the limitations Bulgarian society placed on them. Generations of empowered women who fought for their daughters’ futures and the selfless drive to give them more than they had; from my great grandmother who was shunned for divorcing her abusive husband, to my grandmother’s fervor for education and my mother who risked her life fleeing Communist Bulgaria. The deep rooted sense of resilience and belonging within the Bulgarian language reminds me that I have a family to represent and an obsolete mentality to prove wrong. The world of opportunity now open to me is my chance to make their sacrifices count and pave the way for other Eastern European women.

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I. Hell’s Kitchen

Every summer morning in my mother’s homeland of Peru, I awaken to the smell of chicha morada, a drink made from purple corn and fruits, and freshly made panettone cake. My mouth begins to water. I hear the milkman’s sirens and the roosters crowing on the roof, announcing a brand new day of adventures.

On our way to the open markets to collect the spices for my grandma’s big dinner for our extended family, friends, and friends of friends--everyone is welcome--my grandpa and I pick up some queso helado, a heavenly cinnamon-spiced ice cream, and play some chess, which is our tradition. Back home, we quickly prepare the chiri uchu, a cold chili made with a variety of meats, including guinea pig, and chuno, a potato native to Peru, as appetizers. These are family recipes passed down for generations that represent the duality and union of masculine and feminine in the Inca empire, that our Quechua ancestors descended from. The dishes are especially important for the nine day Inti Raymi festival I attend in Cuzco every year, honoring the sun god Inti through huayno songs, dances, and plays reenacting Inca history.

It is time to start the serious cooking. We have 3 hours to prepare the food for over 50 people, half of whom I have never met. I feel like a chef in Hell's Kitchen, and my grandma is the Gordan Ramsey of it all. How can such a frail, elderly woman be such a beast in the kitchen? Eventually, our hard work pays off as I see the broad smiles that greet each bite.

From cooking with and observing my grandparents, I learn to be open-minded, respectful of others’ opinions and perspectives to create social harmony. Even though it is especially frowned upon, my grandmother models this behavior for me when she invites a man to live at her home after he is kicked out of his family for being gay. I learn to be inclusive to others, which helps me navigate my own bisexuality, and I can empathize with those who are marginalized by mainstream society. In turn, I try to model the equal regard for all people that my grandma demonstrates.

II. Balloon Animals on the Amazon

My father organizes his work to be able to take our family to learn new languages and experience new cultures in over 40 countries including, Brazil, Turkey, and China, where I live for over 8 months and learned Mandarin. This causes me to be much more experimental and adaptable, enjoying the challenge of adventure.

Over 12th grade summer, I join a medical mission team to the Amazon. I work as a translator and doctor's assistant and am in charge of entertaining the children as they wait for treatment. Airline baggage limitations lead me to identify lightweight games: I learn balloon making, drilling to make animal shapes quickly. However, planning is only the beginning. On site, I realize that single-handedly creating hundreds of balloon toys is tough! But I adapt and become very coordinated, efficient and organized in order to serve the community better. Every day, I arrive two hours early to make swords, hats, and butterflies, and the children are entertained for hours, distracted from the treatments that await them.

III. “Ayllu” (Quechua for “Community”)

I’m fortunate to live a life so full of wonder and so steeped not only in my Quechua heritage but also the cultures of countries on four continents. As a result, I enjoy experimenting, I quickly adapt to new environments, and I have strong planning skills that I can use to be of service. By being open-minded, inclusive, and compassionate to others I can help build a community in college where diversity is respected and welcomed, so everyone can experience the excitement of cultural discovery.

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