This is for the Common App short answer. Please give any advice you might have on how to improve it! (also, the dashed line is my last name, but I didn't want to actually post it)
I grew up running. I am a -------; it's what we do. My childhood was spent cheering older siblings from the sidelines, dreaming of the day when I too would be the shining star. I remember when I was six, challenging my cousin to a race. She accepted giggling, at which I was slightly annoyed. This was, after all, a race-a very serious business. Count of three and we were off! I surged ahead, pigtails blowing in the wind, stubby legs stretched as far as they could, confident I was a match for any of my siblings. That is, until I glanced back to see my cousin collapsed in a puddle of tears at the thought of losing. Visions of imaginary medals forgotten, I picked her up, cheering her to a first-place finish.
Not much has changed. I am still the little girl who delights in a race, though I am not the record-breaking runner I had so long envisioned. Medals are rare, but what matters is not always measured in gold. The teammates I run with count as much as my place at the finish line. When I asked my coach why he chose me to be a captain, since I am neither the fastest nor the loudest, he confided, "When someone is crying or hurt, I know you'll be there." No ribbons around my neck or plaques on the wall could mean more.
I grew up running. I am a -------; it's what we do. My childhood was spent cheering older siblings from the sidelines, dreaming of the day when I too would be the shining star. I remember when I was six, challenging my cousin to a race. She accepted giggling, at which I was slightly annoyed. This was, after all, a race-a very serious business. Count of three and we were off! I surged ahead, pigtails blowing in the wind, stubby legs stretched as far as they could, confident I was a match for any of my siblings. That is, until I glanced back to see my cousin collapsed in a puddle of tears at the thought of losing. Visions of imaginary medals forgotten, I picked her up, cheering her to a first-place finish.
Not much has changed. I am still the little girl who delights in a race, though I am not the record-breaking runner I had so long envisioned. Medals are rare, but what matters is not always measured in gold. The teammates I run with count as much as my place at the finish line. When I asked my coach why he chose me to be a captain, since I am neither the fastest nor the loudest, he confided, "When someone is crying or hurt, I know you'll be there." No ribbons around my neck or plaques on the wall could mean more.
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