I wrote this essay (just a rough draft) for University of Oregon, and I'd love for it to work for my Common App essay as well. Unfortunately, it doesn't really fit into any of the categories (do you think it does?) so I think it'd have to be under Topic of Choice. I'd love if I could get some feedback on the essay in general. Thanks!
I was shoved down the steep slope before I even had time to gather my thoughts and prepare myself. The next thing I felt was cold, freezing numbness enveloped in a white fury as I tumbled downward, unable to keep myself upright. Finally coming to a standstill, covered in a suit of wintry powder, I shivered violently as two strong arms pulled my aching body up and carried me back up the hill. I tried to protest, tried to scream out, I needed to feel warmth, and yet I was pushed back down the slippery slope again before the words could make their way past my chattering teeth. This cycle, which I thought was my own personal torture as a child, somehow molded me into a person that would gladly experience numbing cold and painful crashes in exchange for the most exhilarating sport in my world: skiing.
Controlled recklessness. To me, that's exactly how to describe throwing oneself down a daunting, icy slope at high speeds and knowing exactly how to do it. It's freedom, gliding down a silvery white slide, feeling bitter wind and cold biting at every inch of your body, feeling like nothing can touch you. You're unstoppable, every thought in your head vanishing as you keep moving forward, leaving them all behind.
It's these feelings that wake me up in the early hours of the morning and push me up to the mountain, no matter how dreary the weather and no matter how bad the conditions. I crave winter all through the year, anxiously awaiting the first snow. I crave the rush of adrenaline that comes just from strapping on my skis, knowing what I get to experience next. I was driven to join my mountain's ski team when I was in fourth grade, competing in many races every weekend for years to come. I was also invited to a national competition called the Dew Tour later on in my skiing career, and though I was unable to go, I was honored that I was even considered to race nationally. Eventually, I also made my high school team, and continued to ski every weekend for fun on top of that.
No one will ever be able to keep me away from the mountain. It's my passion. I thought it was torture, what my parents used to do to me, trying to teach me to ski. I never believed that repeatedly tumbling down a hill and suffering at the bottom, ice cold and shaking, could ever lead up to become one of the most important aspects of my life. As soon as I learned how to keep my feet underneath me, the slippery and torturous slope transformed into a comforting place, a soft white home away from home, and that feeling hasn't changed for fifteen years.
I was shoved down the steep slope before I even had time to gather my thoughts and prepare myself. The next thing I felt was cold, freezing numbness enveloped in a white fury as I tumbled downward, unable to keep myself upright. Finally coming to a standstill, covered in a suit of wintry powder, I shivered violently as two strong arms pulled my aching body up and carried me back up the hill. I tried to protest, tried to scream out, I needed to feel warmth, and yet I was pushed back down the slippery slope again before the words could make their way past my chattering teeth. This cycle, which I thought was my own personal torture as a child, somehow molded me into a person that would gladly experience numbing cold and painful crashes in exchange for the most exhilarating sport in my world: skiing.
Controlled recklessness. To me, that's exactly how to describe throwing oneself down a daunting, icy slope at high speeds and knowing exactly how to do it. It's freedom, gliding down a silvery white slide, feeling bitter wind and cold biting at every inch of your body, feeling like nothing can touch you. You're unstoppable, every thought in your head vanishing as you keep moving forward, leaving them all behind.
It's these feelings that wake me up in the early hours of the morning and push me up to the mountain, no matter how dreary the weather and no matter how bad the conditions. I crave winter all through the year, anxiously awaiting the first snow. I crave the rush of adrenaline that comes just from strapping on my skis, knowing what I get to experience next. I was driven to join my mountain's ski team when I was in fourth grade, competing in many races every weekend for years to come. I was also invited to a national competition called the Dew Tour later on in my skiing career, and though I was unable to go, I was honored that I was even considered to race nationally. Eventually, I also made my high school team, and continued to ski every weekend for fun on top of that.
No one will ever be able to keep me away from the mountain. It's my passion. I thought it was torture, what my parents used to do to me, trying to teach me to ski. I never believed that repeatedly tumbling down a hill and suffering at the bottom, ice cold and shaking, could ever lead up to become one of the most important aspects of my life. As soon as I learned how to keep my feet underneath me, the slippery and torturous slope transformed into a comforting place, a soft white home away from home, and that feeling hasn't changed for fifteen years.
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