I am submitting this as the main essay for the common app, under an experience that made an impact on you. I also may turn it in as a personal statement for UNC-Asheville.
Tomorrow will be better. Somewhat of a blindly optimistic phrase, but it's proved its worth to me in a tough situation. As I stood in the back right-hand corner of a huge dance studio, I fidgeted with the number 126 pinned to the front of my leotard. "And tendu, plie, pirouette!" instructed the teacher giving the combination to fifty girls standing in staggered lines across the marley. Four women sat at a table at the front of the room, scribbling on papers that held our names. I'm going to get put with the six-year-olds, for sure, I thought nervously. Look, that girl's probably been dancing since she was three... in fact, they probably all have! Walking into the placement audition for the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet Summer Program had been a lesson in intimidation: next to these dedicated dancers, my single year of serious dancing seemed like a whim. I knew when I applied that I'd probably be the oldest and least experienced, but knowing that cognitively was much different than living it.
Back in the dorms, my roommate Melissa and I professed our excitement for the next day, when we would receive our placements and classes would start in earnest. Little did I know that it was the start of the longest five weeks of my life.
I woke up Monday morning, my stomach tingling with excitement, to two folded papers slipped under our door. C5! Yes! I had been preparing myself to get placed into a B level, or even worse, an A. At least I won't be with complete beginners, I reassured myself. It could be worse. Still, as I discovered upon entering the first class that morning, I was one of only two sixteen-year-olds in the level.
To my great surprise, that early morning class was utterly boring. The next, at ten-o-clock, was more engaging, but the third and fourth classes left me cold. Physically exhausted, I collapsed into bed that night questioning myself, while my roommate pattered on about how much she loved her teachers and classes. What is wrong with me? I asked. I LIKE ballet. And Melissa obviously enjoys it. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure.
It became my mantra: tomorrow will be better. Each night I repeated it to myself. And each morning I dreaded the first class just as much as the day before. I came to the harsh realization that all my work had been in vain: I hated the program. The eleven-page application, the hours spent poring over audition pictures, the months of selling chocolate to raise money, even the stress of the placement audition... it all seemed pointless. This art that I had loved so much had somehow lost its charm.
I kept a countdown in my head to the end of the program, mentally checking off each day after the last class. I could not quit, or more precisely, would not allow myself to. Pigheaded as it may seem in hindsight, at the time I felt that to justify the effort I had put into attending, I had to fully experience the program. Though I didn't realize it then, sticking it out actually instilled in me some confidence: confidence that I could handle the consequences of my errors. I would never want to repeat the ordeal, but I did manage to extract something of value from it. Though my well-laid plan didn't turn out the way I expected, fear of failure is never an excuse not to try.
I know that even if my college experience doesn't start off the way I anticipate, tomorrow will be better.
I'm not sure about the last 3 sentences of the 2nd to last paragraph, it seems cliche, perhaps? Or just unclear.
Thanks!
Tomorrow will be better. Somewhat of a blindly optimistic phrase, but it's proved its worth to me in a tough situation. As I stood in the back right-hand corner of a huge dance studio, I fidgeted with the number 126 pinned to the front of my leotard. "And tendu, plie, pirouette!" instructed the teacher giving the combination to fifty girls standing in staggered lines across the marley. Four women sat at a table at the front of the room, scribbling on papers that held our names. I'm going to get put with the six-year-olds, for sure, I thought nervously. Look, that girl's probably been dancing since she was three... in fact, they probably all have! Walking into the placement audition for the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet Summer Program had been a lesson in intimidation: next to these dedicated dancers, my single year of serious dancing seemed like a whim. I knew when I applied that I'd probably be the oldest and least experienced, but knowing that cognitively was much different than living it.
Back in the dorms, my roommate Melissa and I professed our excitement for the next day, when we would receive our placements and classes would start in earnest. Little did I know that it was the start of the longest five weeks of my life.
I woke up Monday morning, my stomach tingling with excitement, to two folded papers slipped under our door. C5! Yes! I had been preparing myself to get placed into a B level, or even worse, an A. At least I won't be with complete beginners, I reassured myself. It could be worse. Still, as I discovered upon entering the first class that morning, I was one of only two sixteen-year-olds in the level.
To my great surprise, that early morning class was utterly boring. The next, at ten-o-clock, was more engaging, but the third and fourth classes left me cold. Physically exhausted, I collapsed into bed that night questioning myself, while my roommate pattered on about how much she loved her teachers and classes. What is wrong with me? I asked. I LIKE ballet. And Melissa obviously enjoys it. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure.
It became my mantra: tomorrow will be better. Each night I repeated it to myself. And each morning I dreaded the first class just as much as the day before. I came to the harsh realization that all my work had been in vain: I hated the program. The eleven-page application, the hours spent poring over audition pictures, the months of selling chocolate to raise money, even the stress of the placement audition... it all seemed pointless. This art that I had loved so much had somehow lost its charm.
I kept a countdown in my head to the end of the program, mentally checking off each day after the last class. I could not quit, or more precisely, would not allow myself to. Pigheaded as it may seem in hindsight, at the time I felt that to justify the effort I had put into attending, I had to fully experience the program. Though I didn't realize it then, sticking it out actually instilled in me some confidence: confidence that I could handle the consequences of my errors. I would never want to repeat the ordeal, but I did manage to extract something of value from it. Though my well-laid plan didn't turn out the way I expected, fear of failure is never an excuse not to try.
I know that even if my college experience doesn't start off the way I anticipate, tomorrow will be better.
I'm not sure about the last 3 sentences of the 2nd to last paragraph, it seems cliche, perhaps? Or just unclear.
Thanks!
