20 College Essay Examples That Got Students Into Top Universities

Reading college essay examples is one of the best ways to understand what a strong personal statement actually looks like. 

The 20 essays below were written by real students admitted to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, and other highly selective universities. Each one is different in topic, tone, and approach, but all of them work. As you read, look for six qualities that strong college essays have in common:

• A meaningful message

• Experiences that show the message in action

• Insights to character and values

• An opening that draws the reader in

• A satisfying ending

• Focused thinking and clear writing

For a full breakdown of what each quality means and how to build it into your own essay, see 6 College Essay Tips to Write a Good Essay.

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How to Use These Personal Statement Examples

Don't just read these essays — study them. 

Pay attention to how each essay opens, what experiences the student chooses to include, and what you learn about who they are. Think about what the essay doesn't say as much as what it does. The best college essays trust the reader to arrive at the meaning on their own. Learning to recognize that quality in someone else's writing will help you build it into yours.

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Example 1: Neighbor

Harvard College Essay Example: A student processes the suicide of a childhood friend and finds purpose in peer mental health support

As I stowed my bike, I heard the first siren. Rushing onto the driveway, I prayed this was just another "community disturbance." When I saw the ambulance stop outside the yellow house, I knew they were too late.

The next day, Mama told me Neighbor, 21-years-old and diagnosed with a mental disorder, died by suicide. I hadn't heard the gunshot or stood behind to watch the EMTs call the time of death. But the image of a father finding his son lying on the ground lifeless has been etched into my memory forever.

We grew up together, going to the same schools and biking the same roads. But as he started struggling, our paths split — Mama wanted to "protect" me from disorder and substance abuse. From my bedroom window, I watched as addiction turned into psychosis, and psychosis brought sirens.

Feeling helpless and confused, I found myself on the curb Neighbor and I used to share. In years of skidded bicycle marks and crushed cigarette butts, I searched for answers. What pushed him to the edge? Did he reach out for help? Was there anything that could've been done?

My speculations didn't lead to answers — or closure. But I couldn't just keep sitting there, again a helpless bystander listening as sirens from the fire station down the street went off all night. Compelled to make a difference, I submitted volunteer applications to every crisis line in a 50-mile radius.

"Must be 18" and "Diploma/GED required" flooded my inbox with rejection. Except for one email:

"OK…whats your number. Call me…bEST, John."

Hesitant but curious, I called John. We'd never met but spoke as old friends, discussing weekend plans, joining peer-support, and John's journey starting a warmline 25 years ago: an alternative to crisis hotlines for people needing a friend. And although this wasn't a warmline call, I knew I'd made a friend too.

Calls with John led to weekly meetings with peer-supporters, where I listened as they "let go" of their most emotionally difficult calls. Still too young to answer calls myself, these Wednesday conversations were my window into the world of peer support.

Each story took me back to the curb, wondering if Neighbor ever called, or if anyone shared his story. Someone must've been on the other side of his call, taking in his grueling last words while sounding out unconditional support. Someone who'd never know what happened but had to continue living their life hoping for the best.

That's when I first shared Neighbor's story — amongst Barbara, Claire, Mark, and all my peer-support "grandparents" 40+ years older than me. My initial hesitation — the dryness in my throat before letting the word "suicide" escape — was met with a wholesome compassion I'd never felt before. No one answered my questions for me, but everyone listened and everyone cared.

In the coming months, my "old" friends at the warmline taught me to recognize mental disorders not with the fear instilled in me, but with compassion — the same compassion I received when I shared my story, and the same compassion I now share through all my efforts in the mental health space.

I've kept going to Wednesday sessions — learning, sharing, and now giving back. The stories I hear continue to drive my impact. Calls cutting short due to funding issues led me to help write grant applications and file for non-profit status. Confidentiality complaints led to research on transparency practices. Most recently, concerns surrounding crisis hotlines are leading me to help create a nationally accredited peer-support organization, standardizing practices that prioritize compassionate care for anyone who's lonely, anywhere.

Through all of this, I still find myself on the curb. What would I say if I answered Neighbor's last call? How will I continue paying homage to him? I don't force myself to answer my questions. I listen, show myself a bit of compassion, and wait until my 18th birthday, when I'll start answering calls too.

Example 2: The Nobel Prize I Didn't Win 

Brown College Essay Example: A student uses her mother's cancer diagnosis to pursue research into alternative breast cancer treatments

I loaded the strip of wells containing my breast cancer cells into the spectrophotometer and watched eagerly as the white cuboid machine returned values. One well read at a time, one value returned at a time, one line in my notebook made at a time.

Initially, the values seemed perfect for my desired outcome: finding a way to replace a widely-used chemotherapeutic drug with a less toxic combination of anti-cancer plants. After processing and plotting my data, I hoped to see the yellow bar representing the plant combination to be lower than the other bars, which represented individual plants and a chemotherapeutic drug. Instead, the yellow bar skyrocketed. Stunned, I stared at my screen, hoping for the bar to drop magically. Yellow became a color of disappointment — not joy.

The project was personal. At the age of seven, I received the news that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The nearest cancer hospital was a two-hour drive away, so I only saw my mother once every two weeks. Each time I visited her ward I broke down in tears; my childlike image of my mother as impervious was shattered by the reality of a face drained of life by chemotherapy. Thankfully, she returned home cancer-free and, after a grueling recovery, regained her radiant smile.

Seven years later, determined to spare other families the physical and emotional suffering, I found a spot in a research lab focused on cancer treatment. I walked into the lab expecting miracles: have a project ready within the first hour; complete my research with no hassles; and publish my "groundbreaking" work. All that was left was to pick out my tuxedo for my Nobel Prize. This didn't happen. Although my mentor and I agreed on a general direction of breast cancer treatment, we had no idea how to progress.

It was during this time that my family discussed our experiences with herbal treatments. This sparked an idea — link a practice rooted in my culture, ayurveda, with breast cancer treatments. I discussed this for hours with my mentor and we landed on our "million dollar idea." We would help women like my mother by using a combination of plants to optimize breast cancer chemotherapy by mitigating its side effects.

Realizing my dream of helping women like my mother started with reducing the big yellow bar. To fix my experiment, I fired up my laptop and skimmed the internet for alternatives. For each option I found, I ran an imaginary trial in my mind. If I added a different plant to the combination would my results be better? If I used a different solvent would the results be better?

Weeks later, the mental trial and error produced an idea. How about I increase the concentration of my drug? Perhaps my experiment's weakness lay not in the constituents but its ratio. Increasing the plant combination's concentration increases the number of cells killed, but could also increase any side effects. Researching more, I found my initial concentration to be significantly lower relative to other herbal combinations. It was safe to increase the concentration. I transferred the cultured cells into the wells, added my combination, and waited anxiously.

The next day I loaded the wells into the machine. One well read at a time, one value returned at a time, one line in my notebook made at a time. Entering the data on Excel and plotting the graph, I clicked my trackpad and saw the yellow bar shoot down.

After two years of research, I jumped around in joy. Knowing that my research had potential, my mentor joined me.

There were still lots of questions to answer. Could I extrapolate my results to other types of cancer? Could I improve my findings? However, I took silent satisfaction in knowing that, in time, research could impact the lives of people like my mother.

Example 3: Click

Stanford College Essay Example: A student coordinates ten teams to design a hypothetical moon habitat at a NASA program

The space station had no docking port. The habitation module was larger than the rocket that was supposed to carry it. The rocket itself planned to launch three years after the mission was supposed to be complete. In sum, the first systems engineers' meeting was a hot mess.

The program took 100 high school students, divided into ten subteams, and gave us a week to design and plan a hypothetical, permanent human habitation on the moon. My dream was that all 100 of us would form a perfect team that came together from the get-go. Instead, I saw that every subsection was trapped in a bubble, isolated from the rest of the mission. Developing a viable project felt lightyears away.

To take on the problem, I started small and focused on my subteam's goal — design a rover that would touch down on the lunar surface. Selected to lead the group, I assigned roles, asking a talented engineer to join our build team while an excellent artist rendered designs. Satisfied with our progress, I turned back to the big picture.

Within a week, ten individual teams had to come up with an airtight plan. In the absence of an official leader, I stepped in to coordinate the project. I had my doubts. But I was also exhilarated by the challenge of doing what I love most: solving massive, multipart problems.

When solving an elaborate puzzle, I start with the rules. It is impossible to approach a problem without knowing the parameters. For example, when playing Dungeons & Dragons, the key to solving any puzzle is the surroundings, which dictate my options for action. When studying Japanese, I realized that the language encapsulated a society's maze of unspoken rules. From honorifics to respectful verbiage, each part of the language was another puzzle piece that revealed the intricacies of Japan's culture.

Coordinating the program also started with establishing a framework. I met with each team to ensure they understood where they fit into the big picture. For example, the space station team came to realize that our goal was human habitation on the moon, not orbit, so they needed to facilitate the transfer of materials to the moon's surface. The sense of common purpose that arose from these meetings was critical. However, the success of the project relied on more than ten teams connecting to a central idea.

I saw the project as a complex web made up of hundreds of intricate interconnections. Any small oversight — a forgotten fire extinguisher, a missing power tool — could lead to disaster. To ensure the integrity of the framework, I worked with each team to identify their relationship to other teams. One meeting dove into the habitation module team, which discovered that they needed food from the rocket team. Another meeting revealed that the lunar vehicle team needed a charging port from the habitation module. Dozens of meetings later, we finally had what seemed like a coherent plan. But would it actually work?

The test came on the last day of the program, when the systems engineers gathered to see if 100 teenagers could put humanity on the moon. As the architect of the plan, I felt responsible for success. Pressure? Absolutely.

I presented my team's rover design. Next, another team explained the specifications for the rocket. Each connection between the teams was an opportunity for my carefully-crafted solution to implode. But link-by-link, the plan unfolded perfectly. Even as the puzzle was coming together, I held my breath with anxious focus.

As the last group neared the end of their presentation, I could hardly sit still. They described the astronauts climbing a lunar mountain, reaching the summit, and overlooking the base camp we had "built." As they planted an American flag, I felt the final puzzle piece fall into place.

Click.

Example 4: Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, and One Real Name 

Yale College Essay Example: A student builds a debate scholarship for low-income students from the ground up

Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, and one real name.

Those were not the applicants I had expected when I launched an online form announcing a scholarship for low-income students to attend debate camp. Initially, I imagined that millions of applications would rain from the sky — after all, who wouldn't want $5,000 for an opportunity to work with the nation's best debate instructors? Instead, I was confronted by a harsh reality: only three responses, two of which were trolls busy re-enacting the Democratic primaries.

To say I was worried would be an understatement. I had spent the past few months meeting with the owners of debate camps to secure $40,000 in funding, but my efforts would be wasted if nobody applied. Among the hundreds of debaters who competed every weekend, a few had to be interested — it was just a matter of whether I could find them. I feared that if the scholarship was unsuccessful this year, there would be no scholarship next year.

I was determined to make it work. Debate was my first community — it was where I met my closest friends and mentors, where I was introduced to Kant's philosophy, and where I could listen to people gush about how hypersonic glide vehicles are made redundant by the existence of conventional D-4 missiles. But debate was also an exclusive bubble reserved for people who could afford it. Prep groups, established school institutions, and private coaching overdetermined competitive success, splitting competitors into two camps: those who had resources and those who did not. I loved the activity, but it needed to change.

As I explored avenues to address debate's inequities, I joined a free mentorship program for low-income students and gender minorities in debate. Expanding the organization to over 180 members, I worked on publishing lectures, writing blogs, and fostering a safe space for women and transgender debaters who didn't feel comfortable in debate's established communities. I made it my mission to provide more debaters with the quality coaching I never received, at first tutoring one student but mysteriously ending up with five. Yet, even as my efforts to improve debate yielded victories, I knew that major access barriers still existed. I wanted the scholarship to start to solve them.

Upon reexamining the form's flaws, I concluded that the scholarship suffered from the same problem debate did — it was only advertised to the mainstream. Low-income debaters from small schools didn't see our initiative. After all, to see them on our Facebook page or other debate forums required already belonging to the "in-group." Realizing my misstep, I redirected my efforts, contacting dozens of school coaches, debate leagues, and — for schools without coaches — even their team captains. I held my breath. If this did not work, I was unsure what would.

When I checked the form again, Joe and Bernie had company. I was elated. In the end, we were able to send seven people to camp — the exact amount of scholarships we had originally obtained.

Later, I stumbled upon an online post. It read, "Got a camp scholarship! Beyond excited!" The student, a recipient of our scholarship, was wondering how to prepare for debate camp. Coming from a school with a shoestring budget, she wanted to know how to make the most of the opportunity.

I think of this post often. To most, it's just one more anonymous post among the sea of content on debate forums. But to me, it's the result of my sleepless nights and countless meetings, proof that the six uncertain months I devoted to the scholarship had made a difference.

I will probably never know the identity of the poster. For all I know, she could be a distant friend or even my next opponent. But her words motivate me to create change wherever I can, no matter how big or small.

Example 5: Polaris 

Princeton College Essay Example: A student learns to ask for help while building a backyard observatory to photograph distant galaxies

The North Star eluded me. For weeks, I spent every clear night huddled in my newly assembled backyard observatory, twisting the knobs and bolts of my telescope mount, trying to capture an image of the galaxies M81 and M82. Galaxies and their millions of stars fascinated me, and these were some of the most magnificent examples of them in the universe. After hours of tinkering in the cold night air, I would grudgingly go to bed, frustrated that I had made no progress, but determined to unravel these mysterious objects from my own backyard.

I can trace my curiosity about space to a copy of George's Secret Key to the Universe by Stephen Hawking. Through writing about a computer that acted as a window to any time or place in the universe, the renowned cosmologist inspired me to find my own window to the universe. Years later, building my window led me to astrophotography and NASA's breathtaking images, which helped me discover that I could view space myself. With astrophotography, I would have the freedom to engineer a setup and explore the universe in whatever way I pleased. The combination of art and science fueled my curiosity, and I set out to image the cosmos.

Capturing images requires an observatory, so I started creating a list of essential equipment — a mount to counteract the motion of the night sky, a telescope to magnify objects at unimaginable distances, and a camera to capture images. Designating a small patch of my backyard my "astrophotography space," I was eager to start imaging, but I was met by a flurry of roadblocks.

Before observing the galaxies, I needed to align my observatory with Polaris, a star precisely aligned with Earth's axis of rotation. Without centering Polaris, I couldn't even begin, and my dream of observing the universe would be stopped in its tracks. I stubbornly faced my issues alone, unwilling to reach out to other astrophotographers. However, I soon realized that my telescope was also out of focus. Crouched outside until 3 AM, I was convinced I would eventually find the solution, but after repeating the same routine every night for weeks on end, I realized that it was practically impossible by myself.

When I hesitantly reached out to multiple astronomy forums, I was pleasantly surprised. I not only received a positive reception, but advice from experts who had once been in my position. With their input, I formed a plan: first, I would focus my telescope on the moon rather than the stars. After hours of fiddling with my telescope's focuser, the moon's craters and bumps slowly came into sight, giving me hope that I had been missing for weeks.

I continued to experiment with the guidance of fellow astrophotographers. One night, the culmination of months of carefully moving my mount left, right, up, and down landed Polaris inside my polar scope. From there, I could send a signal to point my telescope at the two galaxies and display the image. When the detailed spiral arms of M81 and the red hue of M82 showed up on my screen, I was elated. Observing these galaxies taught me the ropes of astrophotography, but that night, I also learned to be honest with myself: in times of disappointment, what I couldn't do alone was made possible by reaching out to peers.

That's why my first image of M81 and M82 is also the one I'm most proud of: while it isn't my best work, it made me ready to be shaped by whatever lies ahead.

Example 6: Chasing Dragons 

Stanford College Essay Example: A student's childhood tornado obsession leads to real research on debris prediction and public safety

A single inch of steel separated me from the screaming tornado that had engulfed my armored truck. Surrounded by roaring winds and pitch-black darkness, I hadn't realized that my adventure in Tornado Alley was just a dream yet, but as a bolt of lightning struck the asphalt beside me, I jolted upright in my bed.

My childhood imagination whipped up these tornado-chasing fantasies nearly every night after binge-watching the show Storm Chasers. As a seven-year-old tornado fanatic, these scientists were my childhood heroes. To me, they were living the dream — I imagined them as crusaders chasing majestic dragons. To join their real-life quest, I improvised a tornado-chasing vehicle using cardboard and duct tape and begged my parents to move to Kansas.

Kansas never happened. But eight years later, I stumbled upon footage of the Joplin tornado from 2011.

Decimating everything in its path, Joplin carved through Missouri with a funnel of baseball-sized hail and splintered lumber. The tornado didn't just uproot trees and wreck homes — it killed 161 people and left an entire city in ruins. I suddenly understood the reality of these storms: they were destructive freaks of nature.

The moment was pivotal. Seeing people's lives in tatters replaced my childish excitement with heartbreak and sparked an immediate desire to protect vulnerable communities. To get involved, I dove into articles and textbooks about severe weather and wrote to professors around the country asking if they'd mentor me on tornado research.

Though I suffered an initial streak of being ghosted, my barrage of cold emails eventually prevailed when a radar scientist replied with a proposal to study tornado debris.

I was all in.

My restless weeks searching for an opportunity were suddenly worth it. The offer gave the perfect opportunity to pair my burning desire to contribute with a practical application that could improve lives.

Our work centered on the problem of unexpected debris fallout from dangerous tornadoes blowing dangerous debris onto unsuspecting civilians in cities many miles away. To tackle the issue, we connected with another radar scientist and developed a tool to analyze public Doppler radar data.

Our endeavor to reduce tornado-induced risk wasn't always straightforward — in its earliest stages, my coding skills were closer to printing "Hello World" than implementing elaborate algorithms.

Fortunately, my countless hours spent wrestling with non-uniform beam propagation and other convoluted radar issues, spewing insults at my buggy code, and searching for ways to process millions of rows of complex data paid off. In just over a year, we managed to reveal crucial features of the debris, from its 3D structure to transport velocity.

In January, we took our findings to the American Meteorological Society's annual conference — the Super Bowl for weather nerds like me. As a newbie meteorologist surrounded by distinguished scholars, I spent most of my presentation drenched in nervous sweat.

But near the end of the session, a pioneering researcher and my childhood hero entered the room, quickly turning my jitters to awe.

Instead of asking technical questions, he focused on the bigger picture.

"Could systematic prediction of debris movement improve airport safety?" he asked.

Suddenly, I found myself lost in thought. Could we partner with weather agencies to apply our work to existing detection frameworks and improve public safety measures?

Energized with fresh direction, I left the convention center ready to dive into a new phase — applying our work to help protect communities in Tornado Alley from storms like Joplin.

Example 7: The Bill Is Dead 

Columbia College Essay Example: A student fights to revive state legislation recognizing mental health days as excused absences

"The bill is dead."

The ominous words on my computer screen filled me with disappointment. After months of colliding with obstacles, I saw the truth in black and white. The bill to consider mental health days as excused absences was no longer under consideration by the legislature. To me and my partners, it looked like a dead end.

Mental health had been on my mind since freshman year, when I strode into high school, ready to conquer a new stage in my life. But as the year went on, conversations with my peers began to circle late nights, all-encompassing stress, and a deepening sense of being lost. Some of my peers coped by calling in sick. Still others persevered quietly, spiraling downward — sometimes into drug use, sometimes out of school altogether.

Anyone who looked to the school staff for guidance found none. An overburdened counseling staff struggled to manage the needs of more than a thousand students. I wanted better for my community and my friends.

Research showed me a better way. After being elected as a student representative to the district Board of Education in my junior year, I delved into how other districts tackled a national problem of stress in schools. I eventually stumbled across an intriguing bill in Oregon that established mental health days as excused absences. Searching deeper, I saw this solution being implemented across the United States.

Excited by this discovery, I raised the possibility of mental health days with my principal, who supported the idea but said that he was powerless to make the change. He directed me to the Board of Education, which also liked the idea but was unable to help. They pointed me to the state legislature, where I learned the bill was dead.

But I refused to take "dead" for an answer. Instead, I imagined the impact this legislation could have on students' lives. So, with three equally determined classmates, I reached out to our state senator, who had been one of the bill's co-sponsors, and arranged a meeting. She explained that the bill had gone the way of many pieces of legislation — forgotten in a pile of paperwork amidst what seemed to be more pressing issues. But, she added, there was a way to revive it.

Throughout this process, I summoned skills from other endeavors. As a representative to the Board of Education, I had worked to tackle issues varying from sexual harassment policy to building maintenance. As an editor of my school newspaper, I wrote articles that uncovered failing quarantine systems during the pandemic and investigated poor teacher pay and retention. These editorials didn't guarantee change. But they did spotlight murky, complex problems.

Using my research and the information I had collected, I filed a request to revive the legislation. Even if it wouldn't lead to results, I had done something.

Waiting for news, I pressed the issue of mental health. My peers had voiced problems with the convoluted system for scheduling meetings with counselors. After all, you couldn't exactly plan when a crisis would occur. Working with the counselors, I helped implement hours during the day when students could walk in and get mental health support. I also worked to create an orientation for incoming freshmen that would introduce them to sexual harassment procedure, mental health supports, information on bullying, drug use, and suicide — all things I had been working on to improve my school.

Today, the state legislature's website states that the bill to enshrine mental health days as excused absences is "in committee." There is no guarantee that it will reach the legislature. Still, for the sake of all students in my state, I hope that lawmakers will pass the legislation and serve as an example. Whether the bill passes or fails, I will continue to advocate on behalf of students in my school, state, and country.

Example 8: Playing With a Purpose 

Harvard College Essay Example: A student designs a STEM curriculum to bring robotics and coding to underserved middle schoolers

Scorching plastic. Roaring fans. Scintillating laser beams. These are the signs that a young boy in the museum makerspace is sharing in my all-consuming passion for making. As I help the aspiring toy designer to laser cut trucks and trains, animals and action figures, I am awed by his ambition and creativity. Watching his radiant smile, his complete immersion with the technology, I am reminded of myself.

My obsession with making began at an early age, as I was captivated by the process of transforming visions into reality. At age eleven, I assembled my first 3D printer and began printing trinkets for friends and family. As my interests matured, these creations shifted to more meaningful projects — 3D printed headbands for those with macular degeneration, custom face shields for medical workers, and laser cut devices to screen for COVID-19. Yet, as much as I relished these creations, I was always aware that not everyone had the opportunity to share my experiences.

A desire to create opportunities led me to a local science museum, where I volunteered to design an all-new makerspace to ignite the imaginations of visitors. As co-director of the space, I helped fundraise, write grants, and purchase equipment. I led walk-in classes for visitors of all ages, covering everything from 3D printing to laser cutting. However, something was always missing. Adults and kids alike were making toys to take home, but it frustrated me that they lacked meaningful engagement with the technology. We needed a program that would enable in-depth learning and long-term inspiration.

After two years, I persuaded my manager to let me create a formal STEM curriculum. I knew that I wanted to teach all of my nerdy passions — laser cutting, 3D printing, and robotics — while simultaneously creating the opportunities for meaningful learning which the museum had lacked. However, it was not until I connected with a nonprofit serving underserved youth that I was able to find the right students. The kids I met were passionate about learning, but they lacked exposure to many of the technologies which I was so excited about. With them, I knew that I could make a difference.

In the coming six months, I planned a month-long program covering everything from 3D printing to programming. At the core was "playing with a purpose" — students discovering coding while racing robots, learning about light waves while laser cutting ornaments. Leading up to the event, I had successfully piloted the curriculum with a global community of educators and students. As I walk into the makerspace, robots in one arm and acrylic in the other, I am ready. Yet, an intrinsic shyness and eagerness for success fills me with anxiety.

"Hola a todos!" I exclaim as I start class.

Silence. Is it "todas?" Could it be my pronunciation? Nervously, I proceed in English.

"Today we're going to be making toys!"

Nada. Surrounded by a sea of bored middle schoolers, I can feel my worst fears coming to life. This is not how they want to be spending their summer vacation! Yet, I am determined to persevere. The students may not have had the exposure, but I am confident that I can open new doors.

It is not until I begin pulling robots out of my backpack, as the laser cutter whirs to life, that I sense the energy in the room shift. Slowly but surely, the students sit up in their chairs, their eyes beginning to follow the presentation. Though they have never had exposure to these technologies, by the end of the class they are expertly sculpting 3D creations.

As robots race around the room, I can imagine the students becoming industrial designers and mechanical engineers, professions which many had never even considered. Surrounded by scorching plastic, roaring fans, and lasers, I had never felt more inspired by the opportunities.

Example 9: The Perfect Word 

Princeton College Essay Example: A student's obsession with language and wordplay reveals a lifelong love of how words shape meaning

Ethereal.

"Not quite right," I thought.

Ephemeral.

"Nope."

My search for the "perfect" word began during second-period English class. More than 12 hours later, seated at my bedroom desk, I traced my finger over the doodles and nail polish smudges that littered the surface. The one word that fit the third paragraph of my essay still eluded me. Decked out in my writing uniform (a tasteful combination of my dad's faded red sweatshirt and my favorite avocado socks) with a steaming mug of tea, I refocused my efforts on finding the "perfect" word.

I couldn't help thinking of "ethereal" without "ephemeral" waltzing across my mind. The two words, though entirely different in meaning, floated harmoniously alongside each other, creating a short-lasting, other-worldly feeling. But neither was right, and the nagging feeling wouldn't ease until I figured it out. This wasn't the first time I had felt such intense fixation.

Words play a big part in my everyday life. Walking through the halls at school, I overhear fragments of conversation and my mind begins to churn. The bombardment of vocabulary feels both stimulating and overwhelming. At home, my family spends 30 minutes debating the difference between "postulate" and "posit," or plays "Sarah Palin Scrabble," where made-up words count if the definition is creative. Even by myself, I am fascinated by how words evolve — "irregardless" was so widely misused that Webster's had to clarify the correct definition — or how something as subtle as a connotation completely changes the meaning of a sentence.

When I hear a new word, whose edges shimmer and catch my eye, I add it to my list of favorites. I don't actively seek these words. Instead, they find me. I write them down not only to remember, but to savor them, like a secret stash of dark chocolate. Anxious that I will forget new words I hear in class, I jot them down in the corner of my notebook. Only at home do they get typed into my "official" list.

Semantics was my first entry. Behoove was scribbled down as it rolled off my English teacher's tongue. Supercilious came from a post-it note stuck in The Great Gatsby.

My infinite affinity for words helped me to understand Joseph Grand, a character in The Plague. Albert Camus portrays a man who is anguished by word choice as he writes a novel. He spends hours searching for the right word to describe something as simple as a horse. "Handsome" does not accurately convey the animal's magnificence. "Plump" carries a derogatory connotation. "Beautifully groomed" disrupts the tempo of the sentence's trot. His torturously thorough process prevents him from ever making it past the first sentence. My heart ached for a writer trapped by his obsession.

Rather than obsess over words, I have fun with them. My family teases me endlessly for my fondness for bad puns and wordplay. Whether the context is psychology (Sigmund Freud: the man of your dreams) or chemistry (I make jokes periodically), I love nothing more than a pun — the lamer the better. I have always found the word "sycamore" inexplicably hilarious; my seven year-old self ran around the house, shouting it between gulps of air and bellyaching laughter.

I was less enthused as I struggled to escape my ethereal-ephemeral sinkhole. I exhaled as I opened a new tab and clicked on thesaurus, my most-visited bookmark. I scrolled down the page, my eyes flitting over the screen.

Exquisite. Best saved for describing antique rugs.

Ghostly. Too Twilight Zone.

Empyrean. What does that even mean?

Then I paused, lingering, letting the letters wash over me. My mouth twitched as I whispered the sound to myself. I rolled it around in my mouth, finally stringing it into the sentence.

I sat back and read it over once more.

This one was going on my list.

Celestial.

Example 10: The Bylaws Girl 

Yale College Essay Example: A student writes her school's first student council bylaws to unlock funding for real change

The tattered nets on my school's outdoor basketball court rarely crossed my mind. Although I passed them every day from my locker to class, I was usually too focused on exams, volleyball practice, and gossiping with friends to give them much thought.

My perspective changed junior year, when I was elected to the student council. In a meeting with previous members, I became aware of a fundamental problem. The government requires schools to grant their student council a budget for projects such as service campaigns, fans in classrooms, and even basketball nets. My school complied with the directive; we had the money. However, the lack of a policy for the student council's handling of these funds hindered access to them. Without money, change was impossible.

My desire for change was the reason I ran for student council. Like other new members, I had ideas, including creating an online website with academic resources. Learning that a bureaucratic process was undermining progress, I felt disheartened.

Determined to make the student council matter, I made a decision. It was not thrilling, like skydiving. Nor would my actions attract the kind of attention earned by the star of the school play. Frankly, the challenge I chose was intricate, lengthy, and tedious. Nevertheless, in order to have a lasting influence in my community, I decided to write my school's first student council bylaws.

To people who know me, the choice was predictable. I'm not one to have grandiose visions. Nor am I fueled by a desire for recognition. Instead, I gravitate towards small-scale tasks where I believe my work can leave an enduring impact. Regardless of the size of the group affected by my efforts, I have a profound desire to create foundations for the future.

My aspiration to establish the bases for success also explains my enthusiasm towards tutoring. Twice a week, I meet with a nine-year-old girl from an underserved neighborhood to work on her reading and writing skills. I also meet regularly with a girl my age to help her prepare for her country's college entrance exam. Working with both girls on core abilities, I know that my actions are contributing to their futures.

My contribution to the student council's future began with extensive research into bylaws. This meant countless hours online analyzing other student councils' bylaws and detailed conversations with a lawyer on the PTA, whose help enabled my comprehensive understanding of the relevant laws. Most of my time, however, was devoted to determining the precise rules that would be best for my school.

How should the student council be elected? Can a member of the student council lose their position? Whose approval releases student council funds?

The answers to these questions required frequent collaboration with fellow students and teachers. After three months of editing and re-editing, I called for a vote. A week later, the bylaws were approved. Three weeks after that, I received an email declaring the administration's formal acceptance of my document. Despite the immense gratification — and relief! — I wondered whether the bylaws would truly allow the student council to fulfill its purpose.

The first good sign came when a teacher, who was also an advisor to the student council, told me that the new bylaws helped define roles and responsibilities. Thanks to better productivity, the council was able to initiate projects, including service campaigns and new clubs. Hearing how my contribution had made the student council a functional organization, I felt a silent satisfaction.

My personal indicator of the bylaws' success, however, arrived the morning I noticed the tattered basketball nets had been replaced by the student council. Now, whenever I walk by the new nets, I cannot help but wonder what other changes might come by virtue of something that seemed dull but truly matters: bylaws.

Example 11: Exactly Where They Were Meant to Be 

Dartmouth College Essay Example: A student rescues a failing tomato garden and delivers the harvest to families of critically ill children

The tomato leaves were sparse and yellowed, waving like feathers in the June breeze.

All of the plants were alive, yet eroded by weeks of malady. Not a single fruit had emerged in the six-by-eight-foot garden bed, a disaster in which I had undoubtedly played a part.

I started working on the bed two months before, trekking through the spring snow to the garden store to ask for advice on soil amendment. After the thaw, I used a long shovel to fold fresh compost into every square inch of my garden. This was always my favorite day of the season; I loved the feeling of dirt running through my fingers.

When the weather permitted, I bought my tomato plants — a few each of Mountain Spring, Early Girl, and the yellow-and-orange Pineapple Heirloom — with a grant from a national nonprofit focused on youth gardening. Planting cheerfully from breakfast through mid-afternoon, I left feeling certain of a successful season.

Returning a few weeks later, I didn't understand what had happened. Had I missed some pest under the plants' leaves? Had the watering system broken?

I fought back tears through ripples of guilt. I lived 20 miles from my garden and hadn't been able to visit often. This was certainly my fault, and a small part of me felt that I should pack up and head home rather than try and fail again.

Luckily, it only took a few seconds for my instincts to kick into gear. I have dedicated much of my life to understanding and optimizing plant growth, and, right then and there, I had an opportunity to do exactly what I strove for. If I got them through to the harvest, my tomatoes would help a nonprofit supporting families of critically ill children. With this in mind, I devised a rescue plan.

I quickly noticed that there were no glaring symptoms of disease, such as the small dark specks of Septoria leaf spot. The consistent wilting in the bed was a clear sign of underwatering, while the yellow leaves across the plants led me to believe that they weren't properly fertilized and suffered from a detrimental nitrogen deficiency.

I adjusted the irrigation schedule, then turned my attention to the nutrient imbalance. I dug downwards a foot from the base of the weakest plant, gingerly working inwards until I noticed the edge of its main root ball. Delving deeper, without disrupting the roots, I hollowed a space and thoroughly stirred compost into the soil. Once the dirt was mixed, I replaced it around the root ball, filling the hole with the new mixture. I repeated the process and watered them deeply, waiting with cautious optimism.

One month later, I was knocking on the door of a family served by the nonprofit, holding bags full of milk jugs, toothpaste, and the tomatoes I had resurrected. In that time, I saw the plants point towards the sun and produce their first fruit. With other volunteers in a church basement, I chopped my tomatoes into pico de gallo and folded them into fresh burritos for families grappling with critical illness.

Standing at the door of the family I had delivered to for six months, I stopped to consider the impact of the items I carried. I knew that not only did two children in the household have cancer, but their immigrant mother was struggling to make ends meet. The groceries would almost eliminate the family's need to shop between visits to the children's hospital.

The mother started to cry before the door had fully opened. As I loaded the burritos into the fridge, I realized that this was the ultimate purpose of the care I had invested throughout the summer: the tomatoes I had grown were now exactly where they were meant to be, providing a family with fresh food.

Example 12: Play With Soul 

Princeton College Essay Example: A student helps a struggling drummer overcome performance anxiety by teaching him to play from the heart

F8 Version F wasn't easy.

In drumline lingo, it's a 16th-note-based accent-tap exercise with one hand offsetting the other. In practice, it meant not only focusing on pressure and height changes, but consistent sound quality between both hands. Playing in a line of 14 drummers at band camp, I sensed the instructors' disappointment.

The issue became clearer when the instructors had us play one-by-one. I nailed my rep; others were a mixed bag. However, none of us stopped playing during our turn except for Marcus. I saw him beginning his rep and quickly losing control of his sticks until he had to stop, reset, and start over. During his last few attempts, Marcus started the exercise from the middle until the instructors cut him off. I saw Marcus losing hope.

Seeing my friend looking defeated broke my heart. The contrast between my triumphant joy of succeeding in something I worked toward and Marcus's struggle increased my desire to help. I wanted to give him a piece of my happiness.

What can I do?

That question is one I ask often. As much as I pursue my own goals, I feel twice as accomplished when I share the simple gesture, the personal touch. The stuff that doesn't earn trophies — improving the life of someone else — is my favorite reward.

Serving is a value I trace to family and faith. My mother does behind-the-scenes work for marching band and my family, teaching me that the work no one sees is honorable. My father leaves every person he interacts with feeling a little bit better. Even my brother and sister, with their beaming happiness, have shown me how a smile can turn someone's day around.

Learning from my family, I try to serve the people I meet. One of my favorite moments was when the mother of a rookie altar server at my church thanked me for leading her autistic son as a crucifer. Not even a month later, a smile spread across my face as I proudly watched him be the crucifer of his own group.

Helping Marcus began at lunch. Feeling his frustration, I asked, "What can I do?" He said he didn't know what was happening on that stage and wanted me to watch him play after we ate. As I watched, I made small suggestions. He squeezed too much after the accents and didn't rotate far enough with his left hand to get a consistent sound. I also sensed a different issue.

I asked Marcus how he felt onstage. He explained that the directors' stares made him afraid of mistakes. His hands would just stop working, as if he had forgotten everything he knew. Seeing that the real issue was anxiety, I knew he needed to think differently to play differently.

I suggested that he think about performing instead of mistakes. I reminded him of our previous football games, when each time we stepped onto that field we felt like Olympians. I told him to play with soul, which is less controlled at first but allows you to play your heart out.

A few months later, Marcus was unrecognizable. Whenever the directors paused, Marcus begged to play that exercise he struggled with at band camp. It became his favorite, almost competing with playing show music. In the drum room after a rehearsal, I found Marcus bragging about his skill in that exercise.

Smiling to myself, I recalled the day I helped my friend transform his snare career. I was truly pleased to see him playing F8 Version F with confidence.

Example 13: Patent Pending 

Penn College Essay Example: A student designs an improved wound treatment device and files two patent applications after watching an Instagram video

A syringe plunged deep into the puncture wound, emitting tiny circular sponges that expanded and absorbed the blood. The swelling sponges increased pressure inside the wound. The bleeding stopped.

Focused on the animated Instagram video, I stopped scrolling through my feed. Watching medical technology is not everyone's idea of a good time, but I cannot help myself. As a medical Instagram junkie, I love being able to view surgeries from my bedroom, hear the perspectives of real-life doctors, and follow medical discoveries. Following the videos lets me be a part of the medical community while still in high school.

Curious about the syringe technology called Xstat which, unlike an ordinary bandage, could stop bleeding from inside the wound, I went on a research frenzy. Watching lab trials, I learned how the syringe mechanism interacted with the wound. Broader internet searches showed me other puncture wound technologies in development.

Exhilarated by the possibilities of the Xstat technology, I also recognized a number of flaws. The main problem was that the syringe only fit one size of puncture wounds, making it too large to fit any wounds with a smaller diameter. The syringe was also too bulky to store in compact first-aid kits and expensive to manufacture. There was room for improvement. I just needed to figure out how.

Figuring it out started with drawing rough sketches to visualize possible designs. While my sketches resembled stick figures, I was still able to get my thoughts onto paper. I even attempted to fold paper, origami style, to replicate 3D objects. With each subsequent drawing, I could feel myself inching closer and closer to a better design. The more I thought about new designs, the more I drew, and the more I became immersed in finding a better solution.

After several weeks, dozens of designs, and intense stare-offs with my drawings, it came to me. I hurriedly drew an elongated strand of connected sponges that could be separated from one another. My new design involved tearing off a desired portion of a long strand of sponges, which allowed the amount of sponges to be sized to each wound. I later got the idea to infuse the sponges with thermochromic material, which would change color the longer a sponge was in the wound. I loved the prospect that my invention could stop bleeding and one day help people.

However, I did not want my idea to be stuck on paper. I wanted my invention to be used in the real world, which meant getting a patent. I was able to find a patent agent who was willing to help an individual inventor like me. He told me that for my invention to be patentable, I had to make a few changes. We went back and forth on ways to make my product distinct from others, and ultimately reached an agreement on the final design.

After months of working on the patent, we finally ended up with two 20-page patent applications. I checked for typos one last time and, five months after watching the animated video, went to the website of the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office to file my applications. I clicked "Submit" and felt a wave of relief.

I also felt accomplishment: my curiosity had led me to two patent applications. Even though my inventions were not yet approved, I felt a great sense of possibility. My first experience as an inventor made me want to find other ways to improve medical technology.

A few weeks after filing, I received a letter from the U.S. Patent Office. My applications had been received and would be published in the months ahead. Satisfied that my invention could one day save lives, I smiled at the words "Patent Pending."

Example 14: Words, Words, Words 

Brown College Essay Example: A student immerses herself in Latin at an academy near Rome and discovers the joy of inhabiting ancient minds

"Cur tibi placet Pushkin?" said the Slovenian student seated across the dinner table. "Why do you like Pushkin?"

I wanted to reply, either in English or my native Russian, but that was against the rules of the Latin immersion academy near Rome where I had been coming annually for the past six years. In addition to daily lessons in ancient studies, students were required to speak to their classmates and professors in Latin at all times. My brain struggled to find the right Latin words, which I had not used for a year. After a prolonged pause, I finally found a response.

"Nescio," I said. "I don't know."

Unsatisfied with my answer, I blushed. It was too simple, too short. And it took me far too long to say such a meaningless sentence. This situation got me worried. Having just arrived, I had only two short weeks to advance my conversational skills in Latin. I wondered whether I would be able to make progress with the ancient language.

My love of language was the reason I was at the academy. To me, loving words means seeing the same roots in different languages, reading poetry aloud, or even having favorite words: mine is "kalokagathia," a term that comes from Ancient Greek and means "beautiful and virtuous." As a child, I entertained myself by forming as many words as possible using letters from a complicated word. When I got older, I began reciting monologues from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. Silently reciting Rilke's poems while riding to school gave me such a rush of satisfaction.

English and Russian were my first two languages, but I never felt like they were enough. I started taking French lessons in primary school, then German classes in middle school. At 12, I decided to join friends on a trip to the academy, where students come from around the world.

My most recent visit started with catching up on my Latin skills. After a few days, I got back to being comfortable participating in small talk during meals or shouting while playing a game similar to capture the flag — "custodes et latrones," guards and thieves — in the infinite gardens surrounding the academy. "Cavete omnes!" I would shout. "Watch out!"

At the end of the first week, I began to notice my progress. I found myself doing mental conjugations: orno, ornas, ornat, ornamus, ornatis, ornant. But studying at the academy was more than learning words and memorizing declensions. Being there also meant spending time in the library and chatting in Latin about the newest Star Wars. During a Greek lesson, I was able to translate a sentence from Ancient Greek into Latin and explain the meaning of every word.

Near the end of the session, I found myself in a philosophy class taught by the academy's founder. The topic was Socrates. He talked about Socrates's statement that every person was born with "ingenium," a talent, and that it is our job to cultivate our ingenium. The class discussed which philosophies inherited Socrates's ideas and devolved into different philosophies, such as Stoicism and Skepticism. The whole lesson was in Latin, so I was taking notes in a combination of Latin and English, trying not to miss the subtleties.

After the class, I was walking to the dormitory, thinking about Socrates and repeating the main aspects of his teachings. Suddenly, I realized that just ten minutes ago I was sitting in a lecture entirely conducted in Latin, reading texts that are more than 2,000 years old and able to discuss them using the same words and terms used by those brilliant minds. 

In the next instant a quote, this one from Shakespeare, popped into my mind: "Words, words, words."

Example 15: The Comatose Newspaper 

Cornell College Essay Example: A student revives a dying school newspaper by studying what readers actually want

The latest edition of our school newspaper, mangled and torn, littered the hallways. Nearby, more newspapers were crumpled among half-eaten sandwiches, chewed pencils, and empty soda cans. Handed a copy as he trudged through the front doors, a groggy student tossed it toward the garbage can. In the school's crowded library, students ignored the stack of newspapers, which included an article headlined "The Nationwide Kneel."

The article, my first for the paper, explored student opinions on NFL players kneeling during the national anthem. I looked forward to my classmates' reactions. Instead? Apathy. The newspaper couldn't compete with games on phones and hacky sack in the halls. I wondered what, if anything, could be done to get my classmates engaged.

My urge to share opinions and spark discussion can be traced back to second grade, when I would inform my bus driver of the latest sports scores and stats. Eight years later, when my National History Day documentary was shown at a regional film festival, I was thrilled by the thought of my film being discussed. By then, I was already getting my fix of reader engagement from a personal finance blog I wrote for, as well as my own sports blog.

My sports blog was my way to turn thoughts about sports into topics of conversation. One week, it was "proving" why the Denver Broncos would win the Super Bowl. Another week, it was why the Chicago Cubs were overrated. I loved coming home, logging onto my computer, and reading my website's stats page. Ten views seemed cool, at first.

Motivated to increase my viewership — my New Year's Resolution included getting 100 page views per article — I tweaked my content. Contrarian articles such as "Why LeBron Does Not Deserve To Win MVP" helped my blog explode to over 80,000 views for the year.

Increasing interaction between the newspaper and the community was my goal when I was selected as Co-Editor-in-Chief. I would do whatever it took to get students to keep newspapers in their hands instead of tossing them in the trash. Step one was a survey that asked students what they wanted to read. The top responses were more sports and humor; we added comics, a crossword puzzle, and a Team-of-the-Month feature. We also changed the order of the stories — the front of the issue was devoted to articles most likely to get attention — and promoted the newspaper on social media. Holding a copy of the first newspaper I produced, I was proud of our efforts.

However, the ultimate test would be our community's reaction. On a sunny May morning, the staff and I handed copies to students and teachers as they streamed into school. I went to first period unsure of the response and waited for the peak time of high school judgement: lunchtime.

Emerging from Math, I saw four students huddled around a table, laughing at the comics section. Walking down the hall, I overheard two guys discussing the feature about the baseball team. Was I imagining things? Or was there fresh energy in the halls? Friends and teachers stopped me to praise the paper. A classmate who used to mock typos and other flaws declared it "The best issue ever."

Hyperbole?

Probably.

But it was undeniable that the latest issue had, in fact, energized the school. The idea that the once comatose newspaper was now creating a buzz was my personal Super Bowl victory.

Would the next issue do the same?

Experience told me that you never know what would spark a discussion. But that day, I simply enjoyed the sight of students reading the paper.

Example 16: The Green Notebook 

Chicago College Essay Example: A student channels a lifetime of ideas from a childhood notebook into a neural network that predicts accident-prone roads

"Totaled," said Dad gravely.

Our beloved minivan was now a crumpled mess of metal.

"It was a weird road," said Mom. "An accident waiting to happen."

As I zoomed into Mom's accident location on Google Maps, I wondered: Was there something about that stretch of road that made it accident prone? Maybe the curvature and narrow width? The strip malls on either side? A combination of those factors?

An idea forming, I dashed upstairs to my room, whipped out my little green notebook and wrote: Google Maps. Accidents. ConvNeuralNetwork.

The green notebook and I go way back. In fifth grade, after sticking my hand outside our car and feeling the drag force, I imagined a vehicle partially powered by wind turbines. I grabbed my sister's pink notebook — it was the first paper I could find — and found a clean page. I wrote: Wind Turbines. Car. Reduce CO2.

Since then, I have jotted hundreds of ideas in the notebook. Most never go anywhere. Sometimes a Google search reveals that somebody else got there first. Other times, my handwriting was illegible, and I could only wonder what marvelous invention I deprived the world of in my haste. But as often as possible I test my ideas.

Some tests are simple: Demand for mechanical pencil lead increases just before tests. Buy in bulk. Sell at markup. Other tests are complex: Attach security camera to home water meter. Extract readings from photos using AI. Algorithmically detect leaks and track water usage.

The knowledge to test my Google Maps accident idea could be traced to a tech magazine issue on artificial intelligence, which inspired me to learn all I could through forums, books, and videos. All the time I had spent meticulously mapping in my Human Geography class made me realize that everything about a road was captured on Google Maps — curvature, width, intersections, strip malls, gas stations, schools, and most importantly, how they were all related spatially.

With this information, could I create a model to identify high risk roads?

To develop the model, I decided to collect accident data from my city and associate it with the Google Maps images of those roads. I would then pass the combined data through a convolutional neural network.

After six weeks of programming, I clicked "run" and watched in excitement as the network started training itself. But the results were useless: accident risk was predicted with less than 50% accuracy. A person flipping coins could do better. I took this philosophically; no engineer is successful in their first attempt.

I experimented with image zooming, scale, and resolution. I tweaked model parameters like learning rate, dropout, and batch size. The accuracy still plateaued at 50%. Weeks passed. I started renting computing power and switched from a single network to multiple. Still 50%.

Perhaps it could not be done. After all, I was in uncharted territory. Using Google Maps images to predict accidents was something that no one had tried. I told myself this is what innovation is about. Failure. Taking risks. But I was disheartened that my project would produce nothing after months of effort.

For the dozenth time, I tried a new structure for my neural network and clicked "run." This time the accuracy kept on climbing.

In a state of disbelief, I checked the metrics of the neural network. They were fine.

But there was one more test left. I specified the site of Mom's accident as the input to the network. A number flashed on the screen. 0.95. The road had one of the highest risk scores possible.

I was satisfied that my neural network could prevent future accidents. Later that day, I grabbed my green notebook and jotted my next idea: Combine accident model with weather data. Use for real time accident prediction.

Example 17: What Grade Are You In? 

Northwestern College Essay Example: A student's volunteer work at a dementia center sparks a two-year neuroscience research project

I hunched over the workbench, sighed, and stared at the maze for testing mice. The software was debugged. The hardware was set up. So why were the infrared sensors, which were supposed to form a break-beam that activated components of the apparatus, not working? So close to finally testing the apparatus with live mice, I was baffled by the final hurdle.

I was in a university neurobiology lab. All around me, researchers were captivated by complicated machinery and meticulously examining neural diagrams. My mentor was sharing his recent surgical discovery with lab members. As a team, we all had a common goal: to map the rodent brain. My role was to conduct an experiment on mouse whiskers' ability to discriminate between textures. But I was stumped on how to get the maze's beams to register a mouse reaching an area in my hand-crafted apparatus. Answering that question would allow me to advance my interest in how brains work.

This passion for understanding brains was sparked at a local dementia center, where I volunteered every Sunday. Aware that social intervention, classical music, and light exercise was therapeutic for the residents, I performed Beethoven on my violin, led wheelchair yoga, and created Christmas ornaments. The seniors' reactions were mainly slow claps or muted nods. Sometimes, I detected hints of smiles.

One Sunday, I finished a rendition of Sonatina by Breval and sat down. A usually reserved senior thanked me for my performance. "What grade are you in?" she asked. "What school do you attend?" The exchange ended suddenly when her smile faltered and her eyes shifted. She beamed at me and said, "What grade are you in?"

Her words reverberated in my mind. I had noticed the usual dementia symptoms — inattentiveness, difficulty communicating — during my interactions with residents, but experiencing it up close and firsthand stunned me. The fact that there were no drugs that could prevent, cure, or even slow the disease saddened me. It crystallized my curiosity.

What causes dementia? How could I help?

I scavenged the web to learn more about dementia, learning about amyloid plaque buildup and neural degeneration, and effects such as cognitive decline. To go beyond the physiological intricacies and understand the lives of dementia patients, I devoted my National History Day research to the social stigma around Alzheimer's. Eager to join the search for a cure, I emailed numerous professors whose research piqued my interest, eventually finding one willing to take on an intern.

In the lab, my conundrum with the sensors led to countless hours of browsing Google and scouring forums. I consulted my lab members to improve my code for controlling the sensors. After a month, I debugged the microcontroller program and demystified the code.

The hardware proved to be more difficult for a novice in electrical wiring. Faced with numerous soldering malfunctions, I continued to link pins and wires with molten metal. Countless blown-out LEDs lay lifeless on the countertop. Being so close to the finished maze but hindered by a seemingly minor issue, I felt frustrated. Knowing that the success would be even more gratifying after this hardship kept me going.

After months of runs, reruns, and countless modifications of electrical wiring, something unusual happened. With the stars aligned and the infrared break-beam sensors functional, my hand broke the invisible beam and the doors swung open. I momentarily froze in surprise. As my hand eagerly yet cautiously circled around activating the beams, the room was suddenly filled with mechanical whirs as the maze came to life.

A week later, watching the first mouse navigate the maze, I thought about the uphill climb to create it. A myriad of late nights and help seeking tested my determination. But my patience also unlocked a step in my mission to understand the brain. I felt content in my efforts, eager to pursue my exploration of ways to help dementia patients like her.

Example 18: Learning to Play Less 

Duke College Essay Example: A student transitions from classical piano to jazz and discovers the power of improvisation and uncertainty

"Do you know Cantaloupe Island?" asked a man in the audience of the jazz club where I was playing my first gig as a jazz pianist.

The alto sax player chuckled and made eye contact with the drum and bass players, who all seemed to know the Herbie Hancock tune. New to the band and the least experienced at gigs, I wanted to fit in. So when he looked at me, I said, "I could probably figure it out."

Inside, however, I was less certain. Cantaloupe Island had a different feel from the standard bossa nova or swing groove of standards such as Take the A Train or Blue Bossa. My discomfort increased when I pulled up the chord chart and saw a handful of simple chords that kept cycling. They were so sparse that I wasn't really sure what to play on top of them.

With little direction, I started to feel a mix of nerves and excitement.

The uneasy feeling was part of my transition from classical piano, where I methodically mastered a song before performances and received specific scores based on my technique, articulation, dynamics, and countless other measurements. I judged the impressiveness of a piece by the amount of black ink on the page — the more notes, the closer together they were crammed, and the faster the metronome, the better. 

By contrast, jazz took me into a realm where the notes weren't written, and where playing faster wasn't always better. In fact, my jazz teacher often told me to play less. He compared jazz improvisation to singing, saying that you shouldn't play a phrase so long that you can't sing it without taking a breath. Still new to a world where my work ethic wasn't sufficient, I was uncomfortable.

But the unpredictability was also alluring. When listening to jazz, I found myself captivated by the in-the-moment translation of an idea from someone's mind to their instrument. I felt as if I was hearing someone telling a story — and telling it on-the-go — without knowing where it would go next. I was witnessing the exploration process.

Learning improvisation required a new mindset. My teacher always told me to really go for it, even if I stumbled. As embarrassing as it sometimes felt as I learned to take risks and often stumbled more than I would like, once in a while I got into a zone where my mind and my fingers worked together to come up with musical ideas and execute them on the keys. Those moments were thrilling.

Still, I was tentative when the alto sax player took a solo — not one with a lot of notes, but rather short, rhythmic, bluesy phrases. I pressed on the keys to match the notes he was playing, trying to gather together information. My turn to lead came when the alto sax player glanced at me while holding up a cue to trade fours, or alternate improvising every four measures. He started, confidently playing a phrase.

I took my turn, starting with a random note that I thought he had played, and emulating part of his pattern. He then responded and the phrase became more complicated as we created variations of each other's improv. Sharing and creating music on-the-fly, I lost track of time until the alto sax player signaled to wrap up the improvisation.

In jazz, unlike classical performances, there was no set beginning and end, no trophy or destination. It was a journey, a constant exchange of ideas, and spontaneous creation of music. I loved it when someone shouted in the middle of a solo after hearing a phrase that they liked, and how the club patrons stood in front of the band and a few even danced. Jazz provided a place where I felt most closely connected to the music, to the people around me, and to living in the present moment.

Example 19: The Coach I Never Had 

Dartmouth College Essay Example: A student steps up to mentor his gymnastics team after their coach moves abroad

My teammate's back tuck dismount off the horizontal bar was perfect. Only 12, he was on his way to becoming a stellar gymnast. "What should I work on now?" he asked.

I scanned the gym. Halfway through the four-hour session, one of our newer members hadn't shown up. Half of the boys bounced on the trampoline while the other half were aimlessly working on the pommel horse, vault, and rings. Our gymnastics team was in disarray.

Our coach of five years, once a national team member, had just moved abroad. I started gymnastics at 11 — late for the sport. He listened to my goals and committed to helping me realize my potential. His honest communication made me feel limitless. After five years of grueling work, I won silver at the national championships. With his departure, I felt a deep void.

How could any future coach be as good? Who would help me develop? Who would guide my teammates' progress?

Because the school hadn’t yet hired a new coach, I realized that as the team captain, it was up to me to become the mentor he had been to me. On a gymnastics level, that meant planning skill progressions and helping my teammates create important mind-muscle connections. On a character-building level, that meant teaching them how to set goals and push themselves. I wouldn't let his departure keep kids from reaching their potential.

My urge to nurture others went beyond the gym. At a care center for adults with intellectual disabilities, I spent afternoons in the pool coaxing reluctant swimmers into the water, celebrating small victories the way my coach once celebrated mine. 

In my school's Chinese classroom, I tutored a sixth grader who struggled to focus and saw the language as a chore. To help him decipher complex characters, I taught in five-minute intervals. Eventually, five minutes of work turned into ten, then 20. When he finally memorized his entire vocabulary list without losing focus, I recognized the feeling — the same quiet satisfaction I got when a gymnast nailed a skill he'd been chasing for months.

To inspire similar growth on the gymnastics team, I started by talking to the group. "What can I do to make training better? What needs to be changed?" During warmups, I spoke to each boy individually. I wanted to know each gymnast's goals and convey that I cared. To connect with each one, I shared my experience and a motivation method that had worked for me: I told each gymnast to write out his target skills for the next six months and tape them on their door.

After the one-on-one conversations, I helped every boy develop new skills. I knew that one of my younger teammates was targeting a double twist. So after fixing his full twist together, I convinced him to try it. The execution wasn't great, but it was progress. After some tips and a couple more tries — and falls — he showed improvement.

Was I doing this right? Were my corrections good enough? Was my effort actually making them better people and gymnasts?

I got my answer when he said, "Today I'll try a 2.5 twist, and then move onto the bar and work on my double back."

The next day another teammate came in with his plan: "I'll start with handstand basics then strengthen my rings crucifix."

The boy who used to arrive late no longer did. Each gymnast planned his session with less hand-holding from me. They were learning to take responsibility for themselves. Our team was finally showing the habits and mindset of success.

Fighting my own battle for motivation, I still missed my old coach. But I knew that the connection I had created with the younger gymnasts would help them blossom the same way I had. Seeing my teammates moving toward their potential gave me that quiet satisfaction that I get whenever I nurture someone's growth.

Example 20: Bacon-Wrapped Scallion Pancakes 

Stanford College Essay Example: A student takes over family responsibilities when her mother is diagnosed with cancer and discovers unexpected joy in cooking

Chicken stir-fry. Seemed easy enough to make. The smoke detector above chirping away happily proved me wrong.

My first time cooking for my family didn't go too well. After adding broth to a chicken-filled skillet, I returned to my room, where I was a hostage to my math homework. Moments later, the mechanical screaming began. Leaping from my chair, I raced to the kitchen where I splashed the flaming pan with water.

Burnt chicken was the result of my situation at the beginning of sophomore year when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Thankfully, she underwent successful surgery and is now healthy. Lacking strength, she stayed in bed most of the time, making it impossible to support my grandma and me. With no father at home and my brother at college, I suddenly had to fill the void and care for the family.

For a while, I resisted reality. It was hard enough worrying about my mom's health. Now I was stuck doing endless chores? I wanted to play volleyball and spend time with my friends, not cook dinner or wheel my grandma to the park. Even homework seemed better. In hindsight, I realize that I should have been more thoughtful. But at the time, my new obligations seemed unfair.

My lessons in responsibility came from an unlikely mentor. In ninth grade, I started volunteering as an aide for a man whose genetic condition had caused his vision to fade to near blindness. I began talking with him about my situation and my struggles with the sudden increase of obligations. In our impromptu therapy sessions, he helped guide me toward a better perspective, urging me to welcome my new position rather than reject it.

Stronger than words, however, were his actions. After being diagnosed in college, he still

managed to complete his master's degree in engineering and even started his own company. No matter the hardships posed by his disability, he simply laughs it off. He stays positive in any situation — his lively spirit never seems to waver. After these talks and hours of admiring his attitude, I decided to adopt his mindset for myself.

With my newfound outlook, things began to feel easier and I started to see the value of providing for others. I accepted my responsibilities, treating it almost like a game where I completed missions to further improve my character. Every tick off my grocery list increased my points; trips to Trader Joe's became a speedrun in Mario 64. Cooking videos provide me with free perks, leading to YouTube ads endlessly demanding me to buy their Instant Pot. After many weeks, I was rewarded with the biggest prize: my mom got better and returned to her normal self.

Although she is much stronger, I've permanently embraced my role in the household. My cooking skills have vastly improved, and I happily cook dinner for everyone when my mom works late so that she doesn't worry all day. Doing so has made me more independent while simultaneously helping me master my renowned bacon-wrapped scallion pancakes. I look forward to the weekend when I take my grandma out on our relaxing strolls: it's the perfect time to get much-needed practice with my Mandarin and learn more about Chinese culture.

Now, every time I look at the scorch mark on the pan, I'm reminded of how much I've transformed. With my spatula in hand, I confidently face life's challenges.

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These essays worked because each student had a clear message and the courage to tell a story only they could tell. If you want to understand exactly what makes each one work — and how to apply the same principles to your own essay — see How to Choose a College Essay Topic

Ready to work on your essay? Contact Chris today!

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Frequently Asked Questions

What makes a good college essay?

A strong college essay does one thing above all else: it gives the admissions officer a clear, specific sense of who you are. That means a meaningful message — not a topic, but a point — supported by experiences only you could have written about.

How long should a college essay be? 

The Common App personal statement has a 650-word limit. Most strong essays use between 550 and 650 words. Shorter is fine if the essay is complete; going under 500 words usually signals something is missing.

Can I use "I" in a college essay?

Yes. The college essay is a first-person form. Avoiding "I" produces awkward, distanced writing. Use it naturally.

What topics should I avoid in a college essay? 

The topic matters less than what you do with it. That said, mission trips, sports injuries, and immigrant grandparent tributes are so common that they require exceptional execution to stand out. The real question isn't what to avoid. It's whether your essay reveals something specific and true about you.

Do college essays really matter? 

At highly selective universities, yes. When grades and test scores are similar across thousands of applicants, the essay is often what differentiates one candidate from another. It's the one part of the application where your voice comes through directly.