Hi! This is my main CommonApp essay. The prompt is: "Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you." What I specifically would like to know, other than the overall quality of the writing, is whether or not it is too vague. Some constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Thank you!
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My hands are trembling. I tilt my head in amusement, idly studying the physical manifestation of my anxiety. A knot forms in my throat, preparing to strangle my well-rehearsed words, and it's a struggle not to panic. Two slow breaths let me relax a little, but I still feel five-cups-of-coffee jittery. What can I say? I've never had to wait outside the principal's office before.
At least I have company.
Four years wait with me - years of turmoil and introspection and enlightenment. They're a casual bunch, leaning against the hallway wall and sprawling on the nearby benches, but I couldn't ask for better teachers. Direct involvement is their method of instruction; they believe in learning by experience, in being flooded by the world and learning to adapt. I used to despise them for it. Now that I understand, I'm grateful. They introduced me to my passion - neuroscience - and changed the way I look at myself and other people. I wouldn't be the person I am but for their influence. My nerves begin to unwind as I assess them fondly, remembering why I'm here.
Year One is muddled by confusion. She sits on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, eyes void of sentiment. The world has bled its colors, dried to a weightless husk, and she has no idea why. I'd empathize, but Year Two is busy doing just that. He tends to her, calm and deliberate, and re-dyes the tapestry of her being in scarlet and fuchsia. No answers are offered, only distractions, but they are accepted with gratitude.
Year Three bears solitude like Atlas's celestial globe. Her knees quiver as she searches for ways to ease the burden - never for reasons, solely for remedies. Time plays perilous tricks, stretching seconds into eternity and binding her ankles with heavy moments. Yet she stumbles into Year Four, who curls the gravity onto her shoulder and continues on with newfound purpose. Uncertainty plagues each step, and every now and then she falters, but her solemn eyes are newly-lit with perspective and comprehension.
Their summation sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair. The muscles in her arms spasm, and she laces her fingers together to quell the tremors. She waits with a proposal inspired by Years, and as she sits and reminisces her resolve grows stronger. Her Years are a story that would have stayed hidden but for the realization of the power of words and empathy. The power moments have to override logic. The power of stories, of relation, of shared experience. This is what she knows, what her Years have instructed, and she knows that the lessons were imparted for a reason.
"Hey! Sorry I'm late."
My head snaps up. The principal waves to me from down the hall. My nerves spike for a moment, but then I feel calm and thoroughly prepared for my presentation. This is my purpose - one of them, at least: the purpose for my Years. When we shake hands, I am no longer trembling. I am comfortable in my knowledge, and passionate about this opportunity to utilize it for others' benefit.
"The program is called the To Write Love on Her Arms Storytellers..."
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My hands are trembling. I tilt my head in amusement, idly studying the physical manifestation of my anxiety. A knot forms in my throat, preparing to strangle my well-rehearsed words, and it's a struggle not to panic. Two slow breaths let me relax a little, but I still feel five-cups-of-coffee jittery. What can I say? I've never had to wait outside the principal's office before.
At least I have company.
Four years wait with me - years of turmoil and introspection and enlightenment. They're a casual bunch, leaning against the hallway wall and sprawling on the nearby benches, but I couldn't ask for better teachers. Direct involvement is their method of instruction; they believe in learning by experience, in being flooded by the world and learning to adapt. I used to despise them for it. Now that I understand, I'm grateful. They introduced me to my passion - neuroscience - and changed the way I look at myself and other people. I wouldn't be the person I am but for their influence. My nerves begin to unwind as I assess them fondly, remembering why I'm here.
Year One is muddled by confusion. She sits on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, eyes void of sentiment. The world has bled its colors, dried to a weightless husk, and she has no idea why. I'd empathize, but Year Two is busy doing just that. He tends to her, calm and deliberate, and re-dyes the tapestry of her being in scarlet and fuchsia. No answers are offered, only distractions, but they are accepted with gratitude.
Year Three bears solitude like Atlas's celestial globe. Her knees quiver as she searches for ways to ease the burden - never for reasons, solely for remedies. Time plays perilous tricks, stretching seconds into eternity and binding her ankles with heavy moments. Yet she stumbles into Year Four, who curls the gravity onto her shoulder and continues on with newfound purpose. Uncertainty plagues each step, and every now and then she falters, but her solemn eyes are newly-lit with perspective and comprehension.
Their summation sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair. The muscles in her arms spasm, and she laces her fingers together to quell the tremors. She waits with a proposal inspired by Years, and as she sits and reminisces her resolve grows stronger. Her Years are a story that would have stayed hidden but for the realization of the power of words and empathy. The power moments have to override logic. The power of stories, of relation, of shared experience. This is what she knows, what her Years have instructed, and she knows that the lessons were imparted for a reason.
"Hey! Sorry I'm late."
My head snaps up. The principal waves to me from down the hall. My nerves spike for a moment, but then I feel calm and thoroughly prepared for my presentation. This is my purpose - one of them, at least: the purpose for my Years. When we shake hands, I am no longer trembling. I am comfortable in my knowledge, and passionate about this opportunity to utilize it for others' benefit.
"The program is called the To Write Love on Her Arms Storytellers..."
