I'm doing a last minute check of my common app submission. Any and all feedback is warmly welcomed. I am using the personal story topic. Any suggestions for reduction are also appreciated, as it needs to come down by about 30 words.
Misty wraiths, the vestiges of an early-morning marine layer, waft across a sparse dirt field generously described as a dressage arena on account of its henge-like enclosure of hand-lettered marker cones. Shying from a fluttering dark bag entangled in the sinuous mass of foliage abutting our path, Mickey tugs against my lead rope, jarring our rider in her saddle. Quietly steadying the horse's head, I turn to observe the instructor as she stabilizes Amelia's back. Peace restored. I raise Mickey's gait, and making the corner, we ease into a walking trot on the final straightaway. We pull in at a dismounting ramp. As her mother and an occupational therapist help her from Mickey into a waiting wheelchair, Amelia turns her head to say, "I love you, Mickey." Then she turns to me and says, "I love you, too, Zach."
Amelia is nine years old. Most children begin to form simple sentences around two. But these are still some of her first. In fact, when I met her, she was virtually inarticulate and had minimal motor coordination, requiring assistance for even rudimentary tasks. Diagnosed with a series of mutually compounding conditions, she has been in intensive therapy programs since preschool.
REINS, a non-profit equestrian facility aiding victims of diverse diseases, is staffed with riding experts, medical professionals, and numerous volunteers seeking to improve the lives of impaired or injured students. Volunteering at REINS for nearly three years, I saw-even helped catalyze-breakthroughs, which, both small and large, brought vitality, joy, and hope to families. These were changes that changed me.
Amelia's breakthrough was wrought over years, and my realization of it came without acclamation or sudden revelation. Seeing her week by week, I might have even missed it. But, when I remembered our first lessons together, I was amazed by the alacrity and confidence she had since gained. As I walked Mickey back to his stall under the pepper tree that day, I thought about my own development.
When I was six I wanted to be an inventor. A bit older, I learned this meant studying science and engineering. Voraciously consuming literature on biology, computing, and myriad disciplines, I dreamt of when I would work to design advanced machines and revolutionize technology. Energy enthralled me. Even now, my hard drive collects CAD files and design notes, having progressed from MS Paint in fifth grade. Likewise, my parents have long bemoaned the ineradicable workspace of nascent ideas that always seems to find a home, be it in an eight-hundred square foot apartment or a four-car garage.
I want to learn, then do. However, as the import of what Amelia shared with me grew, I realized I could never do my best without having an immediate impact on people's lives.
Persons with disabilities are America's third largest minority, numbering nearly forty million-about the population of California (2005 Census). Of these, several million have some form of neuromuscular or developmental disorder causing some degree of loss of motor function (CDC). In addition are twelve thousand annual spinal cord injuries (fscip). Impacts from loss of mobility extend beyond the obvious. Disabled persons still experience severe social isolation, sometimes suffering ridicule and abuse. Depending on the disorder, catheterization, bed sores, and increased incidence of infection can also result. Imagine requiring a full time assistant, a four-dollar catheter, and a painful, embarrassing process every time you needed to relieve yourself: this is the reality many individuals experience.
When Amelia told me about her great, big Dalmatian doggy that licked her every day when she went home, I laughed. She may never walk unaided, but, when she timidly left the wheelchair for a pair of crutches, I was as excited as if Usain Bolt had run a lap for me personally. And when finally told us that she was moving to Colorado and couldn't come anymore, I nearly wept as she leaned off the horse to give her therapist, then me, a hug. People like Amelia deserve a chance at life unfettered by debilitating illness. I can help. I can invent. And I am not resigned. That is why I will do medical research.
Misty wraiths, the vestiges of an early-morning marine layer, waft across a sparse dirt field generously described as a dressage arena on account of its henge-like enclosure of hand-lettered marker cones. Shying from a fluttering dark bag entangled in the sinuous mass of foliage abutting our path, Mickey tugs against my lead rope, jarring our rider in her saddle. Quietly steadying the horse's head, I turn to observe the instructor as she stabilizes Amelia's back. Peace restored. I raise Mickey's gait, and making the corner, we ease into a walking trot on the final straightaway. We pull in at a dismounting ramp. As her mother and an occupational therapist help her from Mickey into a waiting wheelchair, Amelia turns her head to say, "I love you, Mickey." Then she turns to me and says, "I love you, too, Zach."
Amelia is nine years old. Most children begin to form simple sentences around two. But these are still some of her first. In fact, when I met her, she was virtually inarticulate and had minimal motor coordination, requiring assistance for even rudimentary tasks. Diagnosed with a series of mutually compounding conditions, she has been in intensive therapy programs since preschool.
REINS, a non-profit equestrian facility aiding victims of diverse diseases, is staffed with riding experts, medical professionals, and numerous volunteers seeking to improve the lives of impaired or injured students. Volunteering at REINS for nearly three years, I saw-even helped catalyze-breakthroughs, which, both small and large, brought vitality, joy, and hope to families. These were changes that changed me.
Amelia's breakthrough was wrought over years, and my realization of it came without acclamation or sudden revelation. Seeing her week by week, I might have even missed it. But, when I remembered our first lessons together, I was amazed by the alacrity and confidence she had since gained. As I walked Mickey back to his stall under the pepper tree that day, I thought about my own development.
When I was six I wanted to be an inventor. A bit older, I learned this meant studying science and engineering. Voraciously consuming literature on biology, computing, and myriad disciplines, I dreamt of when I would work to design advanced machines and revolutionize technology. Energy enthralled me. Even now, my hard drive collects CAD files and design notes, having progressed from MS Paint in fifth grade. Likewise, my parents have long bemoaned the ineradicable workspace of nascent ideas that always seems to find a home, be it in an eight-hundred square foot apartment or a four-car garage.
I want to learn, then do. However, as the import of what Amelia shared with me grew, I realized I could never do my best without having an immediate impact on people's lives.
Persons with disabilities are America's third largest minority, numbering nearly forty million-about the population of California (2005 Census). Of these, several million have some form of neuromuscular or developmental disorder causing some degree of loss of motor function (CDC). In addition are twelve thousand annual spinal cord injuries (fscip). Impacts from loss of mobility extend beyond the obvious. Disabled persons still experience severe social isolation, sometimes suffering ridicule and abuse. Depending on the disorder, catheterization, bed sores, and increased incidence of infection can also result. Imagine requiring a full time assistant, a four-dollar catheter, and a painful, embarrassing process every time you needed to relieve yourself: this is the reality many individuals experience.
When Amelia told me about her great, big Dalmatian doggy that licked her every day when she went home, I laughed. She may never walk unaided, but, when she timidly left the wheelchair for a pair of crutches, I was as excited as if Usain Bolt had run a lap for me personally. And when finally told us that she was moving to Colorado and couldn't come anymore, I nearly wept as she leaned off the horse to give her therapist, then me, a hug. People like Amelia deserve a chance at life unfettered by debilitating illness. I can help. I can invent. And I am not resigned. That is why I will do medical research.