Sarika's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

I, Too, Can Dance

I was in love with the way the dainty pink mouse glided across the stage, her tutu twirling as she pirouetted and her rose-colored bow following the motion of her outstretched arms with every grand jeté.

I had always dreamed I would dance, and Angelina Ballerina made it seem so easy. There was something so freeing about the way she wove her body into the delicate threads of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s song each time she performed an arabesque. I longed for my whole being to melt into the magical melodies of music; I longed to enchant the world with my own stories; and I longed for the smile that glimmered on every dancer’s face.

At recess, my friends and I would improvise dances. But while they seemed well on their way to achieving ballerina status, my figure eights were more like zeroes and every attempt at spinning around left me feeling dizzy. Sometimes, I even ran over my friends’ toes. How could I share my stories with others if I managed to injure them with my wheelchair before the story even began?

I then tried piano, but my fingers stumbled across the keys in an uncoordinated staccato tap dance of sorts. I tried art, but the clumsiness of my brush left the canvas a colorful mess. I tried the recorder, but had Angelina existed in real life, my rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” would have frozen her in midair, with flute-like screeches tumbling through the air before ending in an awkward split and shattering the gossamer world the Sugar Plum Fairy had worked so hard to build.

For as long as I could remember, I’d also been fascinated by words, but I’d never explored writing until one day in fourth grade, the school librarian announced a poetry contest. That night, as I tried to sleep, ideas scampered through my head like Nutcracker mice awakening a sleeping Clara to a mystical new world. By morning, I had choreographed the mice to tell a winning story in verse about all the marvelous outer space factoids I knew.

Now, my pencil pirouettes perfect O’s on paper amidst sagas of doting mothers and evanescent lovers. The tip of my pen stipples the lines of my notebook with the tale of a father’s grief, like a ballerina tiptoeing en pointe; as the man finds solace in nature, the ink flows gracefully, and for a moment, it leaps off the page, as if reaching out to the heavens to embrace his daughter’s soul. Late at night, my fingers tap dance across the keys of my laptop, tap tap tapping an article about the latest breakthrough in cancer research—maybe LDCT scans or aneuploidy-targeted therapy could have saved the daughter’s life; a Spanish poem about the beauty of unspoken moments; and the story of a girl in a wheelchair who learned how to dance.

As the world sleeps, I lose myself in the cathartic cadences of fresh ink, bursting with stories to be told and melting into parched paper. I cobble together phrases until they spring off my tongue, as if the Sugar Plum Fairy herself has transformed the staccato rumblings of my brain into something legato and sweet. I weave my heart, my soul, my very being into my words as I read them out loud, until they become almost like a chant. With every rehearsal, I search for the perfect finale to complete my creation. When I finally find it, eyes dry with midnight-induced euphoria, I remember that night so many years ago when I discovered the magic of writing, and smile.

I may not dance across the stage like Angelina Ballerina, but I can dance across the page.

I, too, can dance.

Professional Review by Ivy Institute

⁤In this essay "I, Too, Can Dance," Sarika skillfully describes how she went from wanting to dance like the made-up character Angelina Ballerina to discovering deep fulfillment and a way to express herself via writing. ⁤⁤The essay opens with a detailed account of Sarika's early fascination in dance, which was sparked by the animated performances she saw on television. ⁤⁤However, we learn that her first attempts to mimic these dancing routines are hampered by her physical constraints in a wheelchair, which complicates and frustrates her young goals.

⁤Despite these difficulties, Sarika's story is full of tenacity and originality. ⁤⁤Her experiences with other artistic mediums, such as painting and piano, follow a similar pattern of initial enthusiasm followed by an awareness of her physical limitations. ⁤⁤However, these endeavors are presented as stepping stones, each one strengthening her drive and guiding her in the direction of a field in which she may genuinely succeed. ⁤

When Sarika discovers writing, her story takes a dramatic turn. ⁤⁤This realization is not just a solace but also a victorious discovery of her voice. ⁤⁤Writing takes on the role of her dance floor, where words enable her to move gracefully, telling tales and articulating concepts with the same grace and fluidity that performers display on stage. ⁤⁤Sarika describes her writing process using dance-related imagery, such as her pencil "pirouettes" and her narratives "leaping off the page," effectively drawing comparisons between dance and writing. ⁤

⁤

Sarika's profound reflection and her mature realization that artistic expression can take numerous forms are what make her essay so moving. ⁤⁤She conveys a strong message about accepting one's abilities and exploring many avenues for artistic expression. ⁤By the time the essay comes to an end, Sarika has come to terms with her destiny and even begun to like it. ⁤⁤She finds happiness in the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard late into the night, creating stories that have the grace and complexity of a dance that has been expertly choreographed.

Francisco's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

Three days before I got on a plane to go across the country for six weeks I quit milk cold-turkey. I had gone to the chiropractor to get a general check up. I knew I had scoliosis and other problems; however, I learned that because of my excessive, to say the least, intake of milk my body had developed a hormone imbalance. I decided it would be best for my health to completely stop drinking milk and avoid dairy when possible. Little did I know, this was only the start of a summer of change; three days later I got on a plane to attend the Minority Introduction To Engineering and Science (MITES) program in Massachusetts.

I assumed that most of the people were going to be unhealthily competitive because of my past experiences. I thought I would keep to myself, do my work, and come back no different. Living in a building with 80 people I’ve never met in a place I’ve never been while making a significant life style change was not easy. The first few days were not kind: I got mild stomach ulcers, it was awkward, and I felt out of place. That first Thursday night however, all of that started to change. On Thursday evenings we had “Family Meetings” and on this particular Thursday part of our Machine Learning class was working together when the time came to go to the dining hall for whatever this “Family Meeting” was. Honestly we dreaded it at first, “I have work to do” was the most common phrase. We learned that “Family Meeting” was a safe space for us to talk about anything and everything. Today’s theme was, “what’s something important about your identity that makes you unique?” but the conversation quickly evolved into so much more. People spoke about losing family members, being shunned at home, not feeling comfortable in their own skin, and more. So many people opened up about incredibly personal things, I felt honored to be given that trust. The room was somber and warm with empathy as the meeting concluded. Out of my peripheral vision I saw Izzy, one of my Machine Learning classmates, rushing back to the conference room. I realized something was not right. Instinctively, I followed her back to where we were working. Izzy sat down and immediately broke down, the rest of us filed in as she started to talk about what was wrong. It felt as though an ambulance was sitting on my chest, my breaths were short and stingy. I was afraid; afraid my support wouldn’t be good enough, afraid to show that I cared, afraid they didn’t care for me. In this one moment all my insecurities, some I didn’t even know I had, came to the surface. The heavy silence of hushed sobbing was broken by an outpouring of support and a hug. We all started sharing what we’re going through and even some of our past trauma. Slowly that weight is lifted off my chest. I feel comfortable, I feel wanted, I feel safe.

This is the first time I truly felt confident, empowered, and loved. I am surrounded by people smarter than me and I don’t feel any lesser because of it. I have become the true Francisco, or Cisco as they call me. I now, at all times, am unapologetically myself. The difference is night and day. As the program progressed I only felt more comfortable and safe, enough so to even go up and speak at a family meeting. These people, this family, treated me right. I gained priceless confidence, social skills, self-worth, empathetic ability, and mental fortitude to take with me and grow on for the rest of my life. Through all of this somehow cutting out the biggest part of my diet became the least impactful part of my summer.

Professional Review by Ivy Institute

Francisco's essay, "Three Days Before I Got on a Plane," describes his involvement in the Minority Introduction to Engineering and Science (MITES) program at M.I.T., which serves as the backdrop for his introspective voyage. The story starts with a seemingly minor decision—giving up milk for health reasons—but it soon turns into a metaphor for the life-changing events that transpire. The essay skillfully makes use of this internal transformation to set up a summer that would fundamentally alter Francisco's perception of himself and his interactions with others. He is first nervous about the MITES program because he anticipates a very competitive setting that would make him feel even more alone. The physical and psychological difficulties he encounters early in the program—such as minor stomach ulcers and a strong sense of alienation—reinforce this worry.

But at the program's weekly "Family Meetings," which are meant to encourage candid conversation and support among members, the story takes a dramatic turn. Here is when Francisco undergoes a significant transformation. One meeting's theme, "what's something important about your identity that makes you unique?" expands into increasingly detailed, intimate revelations, turning the gathering into an environment of empathy and vulnerability. Francisco is extremely touched by the candor with which his peers have shared their personal issues, and this prompts him to reconsider how he approaches the program and his peers in general.

Francisco's essay does a fantastic job of illustrating how community and candid conversation can have a significant impact on personal development. His experience serves as a testament to both the value of safe spaces in learning environments and the transformational potential of empathy. By the time the essay comes to an end, Francisco has grown as a person and acknowledges that he is now "the true Francisco," or "Cisco" as his friends call him. He highlights how this experience has given him the confidence to be authentically himself and has given him priceless social skills, self-worth, and emotional fortitude that he will use throughout his life.

Although Francisco's essay effectively recounts a transformative summer experience, it could be enhanced by the inclusion of additional personal details and background information to provide a more comprehensive understanding of his life and experiences. Valuable context could be provided by including specifications about his initial interest in engineering and science or his prior experiences with competitiveness. Expanding on how the MITES program influenced his long-term goals would further enhance the essay. Additionally, elaborating on his relationships with peers both before and after the program would offer a clearer picture of his social growth. These additional details would create a more complete and compelling narrative—presenting Francisco as a multifaceted individual.

Billy's Essay

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As an admission essay specialist, Dan Lichterman has been empowering students to find their voice since 2004. He helps students stand out on paper, eliminating the unnecessary so the necessary may speak. Drawing upon his storytelling background, Dan guides applicants to craft authentic essays that leap off the page. He is available for online writing support within the US and internationally. To learn more and schedule a brief complimentary consultation visit danlichterman.com.

Successful Harvard Essay:

As I rode up and down the gentle slopes of the Peabody skatepark, I watched my younger brother race down from the highest point on the halfpipe and fly past me at the speed of light. I wish I could do that, I thought, eyeing the enormous curve that towered over me. But I didn’t dare make my way up to the top. Instead, I stuck with the routine I was comfortable with, avoiding the steep inclines at all costs.

Each week during the summer before my fourth grade year, my brother and I would visit that same skatepark, and I would take my mini-BMX bike to the bottom of that monstrous ramp, ready to attack the giant. I started off low reaching only a quarter of the way up at first, too scared to go any higher. But each week, I gained more confidence and kept reaching greater heights. Halfway there, two-thirds, three quarters. Until finally, I mustered up enough courage to complete my final challenge.

With my brother’s shouts of joy ringing in my ears, it seemed as though the concrete mass was calling my name, drawing me closer and closer, until I couldn’t resist its pleading any further. I walked my bike up the stairs and approached the steep drop off. My hands started to sweat and my legs began to shake as I inched toward the edge, staring in the face of doom. Finally at the lip of the ramp, I paused briefly, took a deep breath, and moved forward just enough to send myself speeding downwards. I couldn’t contain my excitement as my, “Woooo!” echoed around the park. I had finally ridden down the tallest ramp!

Throughout my life I have enjoyed having a plan and being in control. When working in a group, I make sure that everyone knows exactly which aspect of the project they will complete. I organize all my homework in a planner so that I never miss a due date. Each night, I outline my schedule for the following day so that I know what meetings, sports events, and other activities I have to attend. When I visited New York City over the summer, I prepared a detailed itinerary to follow. Rarely is there a day when I don’t have a general idea of what I’m going to do, but sometimes my plan doesn’t correlate with how the day truly plays out.

Over the years, I have learned to adapt when situations take an unexpected turn, and, similar to that time at the skatepark, I have been able to step out of my comfort zone more often. It isn’t the end of the world when things don’t go exactly as planned; often times, sudden changes and new experiences make for a more enjoyable and interesting time. As much as I enjoy a strict itinerary, some of my best nights have begun by hopping in the car with my friends, picking a direction, and going wherever the wind takes us. As hard as I try to plan out my day, an unforeseen event is almost inevitable. Although this can bring about some stress, scrambling around to figure things out is not only an essential skill, but can be a fun challenge, too.

I can’t imagine a completely organized life without a little uncertainty. Unexpected circumstances are bound to occur, and making the most of them is one of my favorite parts of life. Regardless of how much I love having a plan, my flexibility and willingness to step out of my comfort zone is something I have and will always take pride in.

Professional Review by Dan Lichterman

Billy’s story of conquering Peabody skatepark’s monstrous ramp is about more than simply broadening his comfort zone through incremental risk exposure. To truly appreciate how this vignette enhances his candidacy, one must consider its larger context. Billy admits to being a hyper-organized itinerary maker who has always loved being in control. The image of a fourth grade Billy dropping in on his BMX bike is the exact opposite of the one portrayed by his extensive extracurricular leadership and ambitious environmental engineering aspirations. Without explicitly saying so, Billy’s essay shows us just how much his free-range childhood summer now diverges from his rigidly hyper-scheduled high school years. While it may feel like a lifetime ago, Billy hasn’t forgotten what it's like to inch towards the edge, stare into the face of doom, and willingly let go. In fact, the memory is just as vivid now, eight years later, whenever Billy presses the pause button on his goal-directed pursuits to take a beat, throw caution to the wind, and embark on an impromptu road-trip adventure with friends. Billy’s half-pipe story balances out a candidacy that could risk appearing guarded or inflexible in its absence, demonstrating self-awareness about the opportunity cost of becoming overly wedded to a game plan.

Lauren's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay:

Lunch and recess were opportunities to ‘play’ Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd, so we murdered our friends. We’d bake the dead into meat pies and scream cacophonously, “WE ALL DESERVE TO DIE!” Nine-year-old me even teased my hair, donned my Mrs. Lovett costume for Halloween, and rambled on about Australian penal colonies and how dead fiddle players make for “stringy” meat. You cannot imagine my disappointment when everybody thought I was Frankenstein’s Bride.

Like Gypsy Rose Lee, my siblings and I spent our formative years at rehearsals and performances, where I was indoctrinated into the cult that worships Sondheim. In our household, Sondheimian theatre was a religion (I’m not sure how I feel about God, but I do believe in Sondheim.) My brother and I read Sondheim’s autobiography, Finishing the Hat, like the bible, reading the book cover to cover and returning to page one the moment we finished. At six, he introduced me to Sondheim’s West Side Story, which illustrates the harms of poverty and systematic racism. Initially, I only appreciated Jerome Robbins’ choreography (Sorry, Mr. Shakespeare). When I revisited the musical years later, I had a visceral reaction as I witnessed young adults engaging in deadly gang rivalries. Experiencing Tony’s gruesome death forced me, a middle-class suburbanite, to feel the devastating effects of inner-city violence, and my belief in the need for early intervention programs to prevent urban gun violence was born.

I began to discover political and historical undertones in all of Sondheim’s work. For example, Assassins whirlwinds from the Lincoln era up to Reagan’s Presidency. Originally, I simply thought it was hysterical to belt Lynette Fromme’s love ballad to Charles Manson. Later, I realized how much history I had unknowingly retained from this musical. The song “November 22, 1963” reflects on America’s most notorious assassination attempts, and alludes to each assassin being motivated by a desperate attempt to connect to a specific individual or culture to gain control over their life. Assassins awakened me to the flaws in some of our quintessential American ideals because the song “Everybody’s Got the Right” illustrates how the American individualism enshrined in our Constitution can be twisted to support hate, harm, and entitlement. I internalized Sondheim’s political commentary, and I see its relevance in America's most pressing issues. The misconstrued idea of limitless freedom can be detrimental to public health, worsening issues such as the climate crisis, gun violence, and the coronavirus pandemic. These existential threats largely stem from antiquated ideas that the rights of the few outweigh the rights of the majority. Ironically, a musical about individuals who tried to dismantle our American political system sparked my political interests, but this speaks to the power of Sondheim’s music and my ability to make connections and draw inspiration from unlikely sources.

Absorbing historical and political commentary set to music allows my statistical and logical brain to better empathize with the characters, giving me a deeper understanding of the conflicts portrayed on stage, almost like reading a diary. Theatremakers are influenced by both history and their life experiences. I internalize their underlying themes and values, and my mindset shifts to reflect the art that I adore. I’m an aspiring political changemaker, and Sondheim’s musicals influence my political opinions by enabling me to empathize with communities living drastically different lives from my own.

I sang Sondheim melodies before I could talk. As I grew intellectually and emotionally, Sondheim’s musicals began to carry more weight. With each viewing, I retained new historical and political information. This ritual drives me to continue studying Sondheim and enables me to confidently walk my own path because Sondheim’s work passively strengthens my ethics as I continue to extrapolate relevant life lessons from his melodies. Sondheim’s stories, with their complex, morally ambiguous characters, have solidified my ironclad set of morals which, together with my love of history, have blossomed into a passion for human rights and politics.

Professional Review by Admission Science

Lauren's essay has punch. From the first line, where she's gleefully "murdering" friends in a Sweeney Todd-themed recess game, you're hooked. This isn't your average personal essay; it's a wild ride through a Sondheim-obsessed childhood. One where "theatre was a religion" and Finishing the Hat was the bible.

What makes this essay stand out is Lauren's unabashed passion. She doesn't just like musicals. West Side Story actually gave her visceral reactions that shaped her intellectual growth. Lauren describes how the political context of those musicals ignited her passion for social justice. She also reveals a mind that's both analytical and creative, connecting historical anthems to modern-day issues like gun violence and the pandemic.

This is something we always encourage students to do—let your passion shine. Your college essay is the best place to let your authentic voice through. So be sure to pick a topic you're truly invested in. That passion will be contagious, and it will leave a lasting impression on the reader.

Lauren also did an excellent job of maintaining a relatable and endearing tone ("I’m not sure how I feel about God, but I do believe in Sondheim"). She successfully tied her passion for Sondheim's work to her aspiration to become a political changemaker. This alignment of passion and purpose is compelling and is ultimately what makes her a strong candidate for Harvard.

Daniella's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

Each time I bake cookies, they come out differently. Butter, sugar, eggs, flour — I measure with precision, stir with vigor, then set the oven to 375°F. The recipe is routine, yet hardly redundant.

After a blizzard left me stranded indoors with nothing but a whisk and a pantry full of the fundamentals, I made my first batch: a tray of piping hot chocolate chunkers whose melt-in-the-mouth morsels comforted my snowed-in soul. Such a flawless description, however, belies my messy process. In reality, my method was haphazard and carefree, the cookies a delicious fortuity that has since been impossible to replicate.

Each subsequent batch I make is a gamble. Will the cookies flatten and come out crispy? Stay bulbous and gooey? Am I a bad baker, or are they inherently capricious? Even with a recipe book full of suggestions, I can never place a finger on my mistake. The cookies are fickle and short-tempered. Baking them is like walking on eggshells — and I have an empty egg carton to prove it. Perhaps beginner’s luck had been the secret ingredient all along.

Yet, curiosity keeps me flipping to the same page in my recipe book. I became engrossed in perfecting the cookies not by the mechanical satisfaction of watching ingredients combine into batter, but by the chance to wonder at simplicity. The inconsistency is captivating. It is, after all, a strict recipe, identical ingredients combined in the same permutation. How can such orthodox steps yield such radical, unpredictable results? Even with the most formulaic tasks, I am questioning the universe.

Chemistry explains some of the anomaly. For instance, just a half-pinch extra of baking soda can have astounding ramifications on how the dough bubbles. The kitchen became my laboratory: I diaried each trial like a scientist; I bought a scale for more accurate measurements; I borrowed “On Food and Cooking: the Science and Lore of the Kitchen” from the library. But all to no avail — the variables refused to come together in any sort of equilibrium.

I then approached the problem like a pianist, taking the advice my teacher wrote in the margins of my sheet music and pouring it into the mixing bowl. There are 88 pitches on a keyboard, and there are a dozen ingredients in the recipe. To create a rhapsodic dessert, I needed to understand all of the melodic and harmonic lines and how they complemented one another. I imagined the recipe in Italian script, the chocolate chips as quick staccatos suspended in a thick adagio medium. But my fingers always stumbled at the coda of each performance, the details of the cookies turning to a hodgepodge of sound.

I whisk, I sift, I stir, I pre-heat the oven again, but each batch has its flaws, either too sweet, burnt edges, grainy, or underdone. Though the cookies were born of boredom, their erratic nature continues to fascinate me. Each time my efforts yield an imperfect result, I develop resilience to return the following week with a fresh apron, ready to try again. I am mesmerized by the quirks of each trial. It isn’t enough to just mix and eat — I must understand.

My creative outlook has kept the task engaging. Despite the repetition in my process, I find new angles that liven the recipe. In college and beyond, there will be things like baking cookies, endeavors that seem so unvaried they risk spoiling themselves to a housewife’s drudgery. But from my time in the kitchen, I have learned how to probe deeper into the mechanics of my tasks, to bring music into monotony, and to turn work into play. However the cookie crumbles in my future, I will approach my work with curiosity, creativity, and earnestness.

Professional Review by EssayEdge

Daniella’s essay is lovely, fun and effective. It genuinely and naturally showcases different sides of her, how she approaches problems, what she values. The mundaneness of the topic fits her conclusion and insights beautifully. She employs humor, shows resilience, creativity, intellectual curiosity and an authentic propensity for philosophical thought. Her “voice” is confident, the word choice creative, and the vocabulary in each paragraph poignantly reflects different sides of her (the scientist “diared each trial”; the musician tries to create a “rhapsodic dessert”).

The several paragraphs detailing Daniella’s cookie making process are also very strong. She lingers with sensual details that resonate (you can smell, taste and feel those chocolate chunkers) rather than overstuffing the essay with mentions of her various credentials or experiences. This structure is bold, and humble. It allows Daniella to show rather than tell the reader how she thinks, how she solves problems, how she perseveres. This is very powerful.

This essay measures 618 words (standard limit is 650). Daniella could have used the additional words to add to paragraph 3: when else did she experienced that similar processes lead to different results – perhaps in music performance? And/or in the next paragraph(s) she might have added a sentence to consider the potential impact of atmospheric conditions on baking, as well as more broadly/metaphorically.

Clara's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

My nightstand is home to a small menagerie of critters, each glass-eyed specimen lovingly stuffed with cotton. Don’t get the wrong idea, now – I’m not a taxidermist or anything. I crochet.

Crochet is a family tradition. My grandmother used to wield her menacing steel hook like a mage’s staff and tout it as such: an instrument that bestowed patience, decorum, and poise on its owner. During her youth in Vietnam, she spent her evenings designing patterns for ornate doilies and handkerchiefs. Then the Vietnam War turned our family into refugees. The Viet Cong imprisoned my grandfather, a colonel in the South Vietnam Air Force, in a grueling labor camp for thirteen years. Many wives would have lost hope, but my grandmother was no average woman. A literature professor in a time when women’s access to education was limited, she assumed the role of matriarch with wisdom and confidence, providing financial and emotional security. As luxuries like yarn grew scarce, she conjured up all sorts of useful household items – durable pillowcases, blankets, and winter coats – and taught my mother to do the same. Because of these bitter wartime memories, she wanted my handiwork to be of a decidedly less practical bent; among the first objects she taught me to crochet were chrysanthemums and roses. However, making flowers bloom from yarn was no easy task.

Even with its soft plastic grip and friendly rounded edges, my first crochet hook had a mind of its own, like the enchanted broom in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” It stubbornly disobeyed my orders as I impatiently wrenched it through the yarn. My grandmother’s stern appraisal of my efforts often interrupted this perpetual tug-of-war: My stitches were uneven. The edges curled inward. I would unravel my work and start anew.

I convinced myself that cobbling together a lopsided rectangle would be the pinnacle of my crochet prowess but refused to give up. Just as a diligent wizard casts more advanced spells over time, I learned to channel the magic of the crochet hook. The animal kingdom is my main source of inspiration; the diversity and vivid pigmentation of life on Earth lend themselves perfectly to the vibrant and versatile art of crochet. Many of the animals I make embark on migratory journeys, like their real-life counterparts. Take Agnes, for example, a cornflower-blue elephant named after mathematician Maria Gaetana Agnesi who lives in my calculus teacher’s classroom, happily grazing on old pencil shavings and worksheets. As I fasten off the final stitches on every creature, I hope to weave a little whimsy and color into someone’s life.

Each piece I finish reminds me of the network of stitches that connects mother and daughter, past and present, tradition and innovation. In this vast cultural web, I am proud to be my family’s link between East and West. As I prepare for adulthood, I am eager to weave my own mark into the great patchwork quilt that is America.

Professional Review by PrepMaven

Clara’s essay seamlessly integrates her voice, family history, and current character into a moving and effective narrative. Here’s how:

She starts with a perfect opening. Through vivid, specific word choice (a nightstand of “glass-eyed specimens”), the essay showcases Clara’s voice and humor (“not a taxidermist”). At the same time, this essay quickly introduces the subject: crocheting.

The essay then “zooms out” to raise the stakes. Crocheting isn’t just a hobby: it’s a tradition that sustained Clara’s family through the Vietnam War. While Clara mentions the brutal reality of her family’s experiences, she quickly returns the focus to herself. It’s something many students forget: whatever your past struggles, your essay must be about you now.

The essay then gives us insight into her character. Clara won’t be deterred by failure, won’t quit because something’s tough. By focusing on her attempts to improve her crocheting skills, Clara displays the maturity, perseverance, and self-awareness often missing from application essays.

And Clara’s essay sticks the landing. We teach students to bridge past, present, and future in their essays. Clara does that: writing about crocheting allows Clara to end with a sophisticated discussion of how her family’s history informs not just her current life, but her future college goals.

Orlee's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

I’m hiding behind the swing door of the dressing room when I text my mom just one word: “Traumatizing!” I’m on a bra-shopping expedition with my grandmother, and just in case it’s not abundantly clear, this trip was Not. My. Idea. Bra shopping has always been shrouded in mystery for me, and growing up in a household with two moms and two younger sisters hasn’t helped one bit: One of my moms doesn’t wear bras; the other proudly proclaims that her bras are older than me. A two-mom family without the faintest idea what a teenage girl needs—par for the course around here.

So when my 78-year-old grandmother volunteered to take me bra shopping, my moms jumped at the chance. Here I was with my frugal grandmother, outlet-shopping among the racks of intimates that aren’t sized quite right, that have too much padding or too little…You can see my predicament, and it’s no surprise that my younger self was confused by the words “wire-free,” “concealing petals,” “balconette.”

The saleswoman called to my grandmother from across the store, “What cup size is she?”

“I don’t know,” my grandmother screamed back. “Can you measure her?”

Measure me? They have got to be kidding.

***

“I just don’t want her to feel different,” I heard my grandmother say later that day. “Kids this age can be so mean.”

I love my grandmother, but she believes the world is harsh and unforgiving, and she thinks that the only path to happiness is fitting in. My grandmother had taken me bra shopping in a last-ditch attempt to make me “normal” because I was entering 9th grade at Deerfield in a few weeks, and she worried that I would stick out worse than the underwire of a bargain basement bra.

It’s true—I’m not your typical Deerfield student. I’m a day student with lesbian moms who have several fewer zeros on their bank account balance than typical Deerfield parents. I’m the kid with a congenital foot deformity, which means I literally can’t run, who will never be able to sprint across campus from classroom to classroom. I’m the kid with life-threatening food allergies to milk and tree nuts who can’t indulge in the pizza at swim team celebrations or the festive cake and ice cream during advisory meetings.

But fitting in was my grandmother’s worry, not mine. What my grandmother didn’t consider is that there’s no single way to fit in. I might be two minutes later to class than the sprinters, but I always arrive. I might have to explain to my friends what “having two moms” means, but I’ll never stop being thankful that Deerfield students are eager to lean in and understand. I may not be able to eat the food, but you can count on me to show up and celebrate.

While I can’t run, I can swim and play water polo, and I can walk the campus giving Admissions tours. My family might not look like everyone else’s, but I can embrace those differences and write articles for the school newspaper or give a talk at “School Meeting,” sharing my family and my journey. Some of my closest friendships at Deerfield have grown from a willingness on both sides to embrace difference.

On one of the first days of 9th grade, I sat down to write a “Deerfield Bucket List”—a list of experiences that I wanted to have during my four years in high school, including taking a Deerfield international trip and making the Varsity swim team. That list included thirteen items, and I’m eleven-thirteenths of the way there, not because I have the right bra, but because I’ve embraced the very thing that my grandmother was afraid of. Bra shopping is still shrouded in mystery for me, but I know that I am where I should be, I’m doing work that matters to me, and fitting in rarely crosses my mind.

Professional Review by The College Guru

The Common App essay allows you to speak directly to Admissions, in your own voice, sharing important personal attributes and insights into who you are at your core, and demonstrating how you will enrich the college’s community. In choosing your topic, it is vitally important to remember that up until now, Admissions will have heard about you from everyone except you. Now, it’s your opportunity to shine, bringing your true personality to the forefront and showing how well you will fit in with the incoming class they are building.

Here, we meet Orlee as she is shopping for a bra, accompanied by her doting grandmother. Orlee dives right in, unexpectedly dropping us into an embarrassing, “traumatizing” moment she bravely chose to share. Within a few seconds, we are also introduced to her two self-described fashion-agnostic moms. This is just the first paragraph and I like her already. With an average of only a few minutes to read each essay, Admissions readers will want to find out where this is headed.

Early on, we learn that Orlee’s grandmother’s view of the world—“harsh and unforgiving”—makes her protective of Orlee and that her proposed solution is to help Orlee fit in so she will be perceived as “normal.” Initially, we think this essay is about teen angst, but in a surprise twist, Orlee quickly lets us know her grandmother’s fears about her fitting in are neither unreasonable nor unfounded.

Orlee reveals she has a congenital foot deformity limiting her ability to run and a severe, life-threatening food allergy. Now that she has our attention, she masterfully weaves in additional snapshots of her daily life, demonstrating how she bravely chooses to show up in difficult moments. Her straightforward descriptions are not manipulative, but instead, her outlook is upbeat. We learn about her perseverance and that she is always up for a challenge. She demonstrates how she finds ways to create space for herself so she will be included, and she rightfully doesn’t ask for permission or apologize for her physical challenges.

Mindful that others may be quick to put her in a box because of her apparent physical challenges, Orlee immediately focuses us on the many strengths she can contribute on campus, providing several clear illustrations of how she dives right in and overcomes others’ negative perceptions. She regales us with the countless ways she has found to enrich her school as a team player, lest we are tempted to fall into the unfortunate trap of underestimating her abilities.

⁤

Orlee has set inspiring life goals, and her endearing high school bucket list is nearly complete. This student isn’t afraid to go for it and get it. She is simply living her best life, and I find myself cheering for her!

This essay succeeds because it tells us who Orlee is and how she thrives, that she values friends and teammates, and will bring that same energy to her college community. She is intelligent, curious, confident, and kind. She sets her goals and charts her vision to support her worldview. “Fitting in rarely crosses [her] mind.” This is her Brand Story and I am here for it!

Marcus' Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay: ‘Identity’ & ‘Overcoming An Obstacle'

The Zoo

As late afternoon sunlight danced on my shoulders, I squished my eight-year-old face against the glass of the outdoor tank, eyes wide and searching for any signs of life. There! I scrambled from where I was seated, chasing the flickering sight of my prize. The otter darted away from me, his lithe body disappearing into a crack in the stones. I slumped against the wall, disappointed. Ever the HR representative, my mother saw my face and asked me what was wrong. I explained my frustration with the otters -- they’re so fun to watch, but they refuse to be seen. My mother leaned down, brushing a long lock of hair out of my face, and told me, “Sometimes, the animals get tired of being watched. They just want to be left alone.”

I didn’t think much of the otters after that. Until I became one.

In October of my sophomore year, I was four months into my transition from female to male. I wasn’t out to my extended family, my wardrobe was a haphazard mess of cargo shorts and skirts, and my voice was still, to my distress, annoyingly high. Being transgender at Middleton High School was no small feat -- I stuck out in a sea of over 2,000 cisgender peers, and most of my teachers did not know how to deal with people “in my situation,” as one put it.

One day, as I walked to my bus after school, I heard snickers from behind me. I turned around and saw a rowdy group of boys. One had his phone up, recording me. Everyone was laughing, and in an instant I knew they were laughing at me. I turned and walked away, doing my best to conceal myself from their view. The laughter continued.

I was the star of a humiliating show that I never asked to be a part of. I had become the otter. Their laughs kept ringing in my ears as I sat alone on the bus. I wanted to crawl inside myself and implode rather than think about going back to face them again the next day. My phone kept buzzing, but I refused to check it. It was only when I arrived home and checked those messages that I found that the video had been posted across social media for hundreds of my peers to see. It seemed like nothing, just a video of me walking, turning, and looking away. But their laughs were clear in the background, and I still understood the point of the video -- look at the freak. Look at the new zoo exhibit.

Seeing that video, I realized that I couldn’t allow myself to turn into what they saw me as. They wanted an otter, a punching bag that wouldn’t fight back. I was not going to be their otter. The next day, I went to my first Sexuality and Gender Equality club meeting. I spoke to the administration about what had happened. I saved the video and showed people. I took control.

Those boys wanted me to believe that I was merely an exhibit to be laughed at, but now I know I live for greater things. I live for lattes, for courtroom closing arguments, for the pesto I make at work. I live for Black Lives Matter and #enough and Pride. I live for kayaking and summer camp, for the kids in SAGE and my younger sister. My classmates tried to dehumanize me, trample me, and mold me into their image of transgender people. Maybe they’ll never see me as an equal, but that is their blindness, not mine. I do not live on display. I do not live in a zoo.

Professional Review by MR. MBA®, Val Misra

Marcus does an excellent job of creating a deeply heartfelt, introspective, and triumphant personal development story in this thought-provoking essay focusing on ‘identity’ and ‘overcoming an obstacle’. It can be risky to discuss two major themes, but he interweaves them flawlessly. Each paragraph stands alone as wonderful insight, written in beautiful creative prose, into Marcus’ journey- from childhood confusion (encounter with the otter) to future self-discovery and isolation (he becomes the otter), to self-acceptance and determination (he will not be bullied), and ultimately to victory (his passion and love for his life).

In Paragraphs 1-2, Marcus’ individual anecdote on the zoo otter is highly effective to frame the larger discussion of his challenging transition from cisgender to transgender. His mother’s wisdom about an otter’s reasoning for self-isolation shines brightly, setting the foundation for what is to come. Marcus’ self-comparison to the otter he once saw in the zoo intrigues me to read on.

Para 3 effectively highlights the difficulties he endured during his transition in high school- his coming out, his clothing, his high-pitched voice, and academic faculty challenges. These examples help the reader understand his plight.

Para 4-5 depict Marcus’ self-realization that he has now become the zoo otter- a show piece, a “freak”, something he never asked to be. He weaves a sad, rather troubling encounter in high school of bullying and public humiliation that causes him sorrow, isolation and questioning his self-worth. Marcus’ honesty invokes true emotions and I really feel for him.

The ‘A-ha’ moment arrives in Para 6, where Marcus crafts delightful, deep introspection and realization that he will not be the butt of jokes but an agent of change. He takes “control” by attending club meetings and speaking with school faculty.

Para 7 embodies the victory lap, as Marcus details his joys, self-acceptance and who he is now. He loves coffee, the law, his work, kayaking, his sister, Black Lives Matter and sex-gender associations. Wisdom is shared through his understanding that he cannot change the ignorance of others but live a purposeful, passion-filled life as his new self- a sincere message to the reader and, likely, others like him.

Overall, this winning essay takes the reader on a vivid, emotional and well-structured journey, sharing the author’s unique experiences and why these experiences are significant for his growth and maturity.

Michelle's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

Fish Out of Water:
idiom. a person who is in an unnatural environment; completely out of place.

When I was ten, my dad told me we were moving to somewhere called "Eely-noise." The screen flashed blue as he scrolled through 6000 miles of water on Google Earth to find our new home. Swipe, swipe, swipe, and there it was: Illinois, as I later learned.

Moving to America was like going from freshwater into saltwater. Not only did my mom complain that American food was too salty, but I was helplessly caught in an estuary of languages, swept by daunting tides of tenses, articles, and homonyms. It’s not a surprise that I developed an intense, breathless kind of thirst for what I now realize is my voice and self-expression.

This made sense because the only background I had in English was “Konglish”--an unhealthy hybrid of Korean and English--and broken phrases I picked up from SpongeBob. As soon as I stepped into my first class in America, I realized the gravity of the situation: I had to resort to clumsy pantomimes, or what I euphemistically called body language, to convey the simplest messages. School became an unending game of pictionary.

Amid the dizzying pool of vowels and phonemes and idioms (why does spilling beans end friendships?), the only thing that made sense was pictures and diagrams. Necessarily, I soon became interested in biology as its textbook had the highest picture-to-text ratio. Although I didn’t understand all the ant-like captions, the colorful diagrams were enough to catch my illiterate attention: a green ball of chyme rolling down the digestive tract, the rotor of the ATP synthase spinning like a waterwheel. Biology drew me with its ELL-friendliness and never let go.

I later learned in biology that when a freshwater fish goes in saltwater, it osmoregulates--it drinks a lot of water and urinates less. This used to hold true for my school day, when I constantly chugged water to fill awkward silences and lubricate my tongue to form better vowels. This habit in turn became a test of English-speaking and bladder control: I constantly missed the timing to go to the bathroom by worrying about how to ask. The only times I could express myself were through my fingers, between the pages of Debussy and under my pencil tip. To fulfill my need for self-expression and communication, I took up classical music, visual art, and later, creative writing. To this day, I will never forget the ineffable excitement when I delivered a concerto, finished a sculpture, and found beautiful words that I could not pronounce. If biology helped me understand, art helped me be understood.

There’s something human, empathetic, even redemptive about both art and biology. While they helped me reconcile with English and my new home, their power to connect and heal people is much bigger than my example alone. In college and beyond, I want to pay them forward, whether by dedicating myself to scientific research, performing in benefit concerts, or simply sharing the beauty of the arts. Sometimes, language feels slippery like fish on my tongue. But knowing that there are things that transcend language grounds and inspires me. English seeped into my tongue eventually, but I still pursue biology and arts with the same, perhaps universal, exigency and sincerity: to understand and to be understood.

Over the years, I have come to acknowledge and adore my inner fish, that confused, tongue-twisted and home-sick ELL kid from the other side of the world, which will forever coexist within me. And I’ve forgiven English, although I still can’t pronounce words like “rural,” because it gifted me with new passions to look forward to every day. Now, when I see kids with the same breathless look that I used to have gasping for home water, Don’t worry, I want to tell them.

You’ll find your water.

Professional Review by HS2 Academy

Michelle’s essay offers the reader a picturesque and witty journey through their immigrant experience of adapting to their new life in Illinois (Eely-noise!). While some immigrant experience essays can come across as predictable, Michelle deftly crafts an extended metaphor using the idiom of a “fish out of water” to connect their passions for both biology and art with their evolving struggle to master English. The uniqueness comes in the candid and often humorous depictions of Michelle’s everyday struggles with language, from initially resorting to “clumsy pantomimes” to signal an intent to go to the bathroom to their “ineffable excitement” at finding beautiful new words to express themselves, showcasing Michelle’s eventual growth into an articulate writer in full command of the English language.

Michelle’s diverse passions, ranging from music, to art, to biology, are on full display in this essay, but what’s most impressive is Michelle’s nuanced and introspective journaling of adapting to American life and culture. It’s evident that Michelle genuinely loves writing and relishes finding the right words to convey their thoughts, showcasing their tenacity and love of learning. Michelle’s sincere exuberance for growing as a writer and artist shines throughout this essay, with a warmth and humor that’s infectious.

Michael's Essay

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Successful Harvard Essay

I’ve been alone for three years now.

My freshman year, my mother had to take a job as a live-in caregiver to make enough money to pay rent and other bills after my uncle got married and moved out. I was ecstatic. I could finally have the entire house to myself. I had imagined the countless hours on the PS4, nobody telling me to go to sleep or to go do my homework. I felt free. Unexpectedly, though, this freedom came at the expense of my childhood.

To compensate for never being home, my mother called me three times a day. The first call would always be at 6:00 a.m, like clockwork. That was the call to wake me up so that I wouldn’t miss the bus and be late for school. Then there was the 4:00 p.m call where we went over anything and everything that happened in school that day. Lastly, there was the 7:00 p.m call which always seemed to last over an hour. This was the call that made me miss my mother the most. We labeled this call the “multi-purpose” call. Sometimes we would just talk about how we were both doing. Other times she would teach me things I needed to know, like how to do laundry, how to go grocery shopping, or how to cook. But one thing that she always seemed to bring up was how she wished things were different and how much she ached with the desire to be home with her son.

That last call always weighed heavily on my heart. When around friends and their families, I would often put my head down and smile because their interactions would remind me so much of when my mother was with me every day. It made me miss her insurmountably, to the point where I began to despise every aspect of this “independence.” To me, it was loneliness, isolation, and nights laying in bed wishing I had a loved one in the house that I could talk to or hug. I was forced to become a man instead of living out my days as a kid. What hurt me the most, though, was knowing that my mother hated our situation even more than I did. She hated knowing her only child was growing up without her and it hurt her more than words could explain. She would always say how I was her pride and joy, but I’ve always thought of myself to be her hope, her hope for a better life.

That is why I have worked so hard in school. My mother has dedicated and sacrificed years of her life to make sure that her son could live a great one, and all she has ever asked from me in return was to do well in school. There were numerous times when I felt discouraged and unmotivated, but the thought of letting down the woman that has broken her back for me was far stronger than any fatigue I may have felt.

For three long years now, I have entered my house after school expecting nothing but silence and darkness. I lay in bed at night yearning to hear any sound at all that would signal that there was life in the house beside me. Then I wake up the next morning, get ready for school, and start the cycle all over again. I have almost gotten used to being alone. But I won’t let my story end here. The reason why I have worked myself so hard is so that things can be different for me and my mother. She always says that everything she’s doing now is for me and that when she gets old it’ll be my turn. Except when my turn comes, she will never have to be alone.

Professional Review by Quad Education

Michael’s essay begins with a gripping hook, leaving the reader wondering why he is alone. He reveals his mother's sacrifices and his initial excitement at newfound freedom, which quickly turns into the burden of a lost childhood. The essay effectively uses the routine of their daily phone calls to highlight his deep connection with his mother and the pain of their separation.

Michael’s forced independence, unlike the typical chosen independence of college freshmen, emphasizes his resilience and maturity. Despite the emotional toll, he channels his determination into academic excellence, driven by his mother’s sacrifices and his desire to ensure a better future for both of them.

This essay excels in presenting a clear and compelling narrative of personal growth under challenging circumstances beyond one’s control. Michael’s story demonstrates his maturity, resilience, and commitment, qualities that suggest he would thrive in a rigorous academic environment. His motivation and determination show he is not only ready for college but also has the potential to effect positive change in society. These are hallmarks of what Harvard seeks in potential students.