Here is my commonapp essay. The prompt is on someone who is influential to you. The minimum word limit is 250. This essay is around 538.
Heart to Heart
I never used to regard family as important. It was not until I nearly lost my father to heart failure did I realize how significant he was to me. He is a provider. He takes care of me and my mother with what little money he earns in this unfamiliar country.
Most importantly, he dictated my dreams and aspirations.
He chose my path for me: I was to become a doctor. Anything less would be unacceptable.
I did not understand his tenacity. Could this dream of his be tradition or culture or the idea that he could hold his collar up high and tell everyone his son is a doctor? Perhaps it would mean he no longer needed to work. Regardless, my life was decided for me and I chose to do nothing to understand it. Then the day came where I may never have had the chance to understand it ever again.
I was on my way home from my first varsity soccer practice on a brisk October day to find my father limping on the street with one hand clutching his chest so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin. The puzzled look on my face turned to horror when I saw him collapse in the middle of the street. I ran over to him but could not force myself to do anything, not even ask what was wrong. I stood there helpless as a local mailman and a neighbor rushed over. The next hour was a blur of loud ambulance sirens, speeding hospital beds, closed curtains and yelling that told me to get out of the room. I stood in the hospital corridor dumbfounded by my vulnerabilities. Perhaps this is who I really was: oblivious, compliant, and helpless.
Something about me changed that day. I remember very little about what was going on. I knew that my father had a heart attack, that an hour immediately after that he faced a stroke, that the cardiologists at the hospital told me they were going to take care of him, and that I could possibly lose him forever. I never attempted to hold a conversation with this man. I never thought of forming a close relationship with him like the ones you see in movies of the father playing catch with his son. I was merely a roommate, yet I still cared about him. I stood there with tears streaming down my face. I cried about being helpless. I cried about being weak. I cried for my dad.
To this day I carry a responsibility for my dad's life. I've studied extensively about the heart. I memorized every single book I could find about the circulatory system. I even talked to my dad's cardiologist. I got to know him very well and decided that I would work under him and become a great cardiologist like him. To this day, I continue my cardiovascular research with my mentor. I study to become a doctor just like my father told me to. But I don't do it because he told me to or because my culture and tradition dictates it. I do it because it is my passionïI do it because I want to.
Heart to Heart
I never used to regard family as important. It was not until I nearly lost my father to heart failure did I realize how significant he was to me. He is a provider. He takes care of me and my mother with what little money he earns in this unfamiliar country.
Most importantly, he dictated my dreams and aspirations.
He chose my path for me: I was to become a doctor. Anything less would be unacceptable.
I did not understand his tenacity. Could this dream of his be tradition or culture or the idea that he could hold his collar up high and tell everyone his son is a doctor? Perhaps it would mean he no longer needed to work. Regardless, my life was decided for me and I chose to do nothing to understand it. Then the day came where I may never have had the chance to understand it ever again.
I was on my way home from my first varsity soccer practice on a brisk October day to find my father limping on the street with one hand clutching his chest so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin. The puzzled look on my face turned to horror when I saw him collapse in the middle of the street. I ran over to him but could not force myself to do anything, not even ask what was wrong. I stood there helpless as a local mailman and a neighbor rushed over. The next hour was a blur of loud ambulance sirens, speeding hospital beds, closed curtains and yelling that told me to get out of the room. I stood in the hospital corridor dumbfounded by my vulnerabilities. Perhaps this is who I really was: oblivious, compliant, and helpless.
Something about me changed that day. I remember very little about what was going on. I knew that my father had a heart attack, that an hour immediately after that he faced a stroke, that the cardiologists at the hospital told me they were going to take care of him, and that I could possibly lose him forever. I never attempted to hold a conversation with this man. I never thought of forming a close relationship with him like the ones you see in movies of the father playing catch with his son. I was merely a roommate, yet I still cared about him. I stood there with tears streaming down my face. I cried about being helpless. I cried about being weak. I cried for my dad.
To this day I carry a responsibility for my dad's life. I've studied extensively about the heart. I memorized every single book I could find about the circulatory system. I even talked to my dad's cardiologist. I got to know him very well and decided that I would work under him and become a great cardiologist like him. To this day, I continue my cardiovascular research with my mentor. I study to become a doctor just like my father told me to. But I don't do it because he told me to or because my culture and tradition dictates it. I do it because it is my passionïI do it because I want to.
