PROMPT: Share an essay on any topic of your choice. It can be one you've already written, one that responds to a different prompt, or one of your own design.
I'm planning for this to be the essay I submit to the Common App. Please give me your feedback. Also, this version is currently 662 words - which parts do you think I should trim to bring it under 650?
In a house where silence meant discipline, I learned early to lower my voice. When my dad left, however, the house suddenly felt louder - books scattered under the table, beneath the bed. We played games and laughed, as if joy itself might get us into trouble. Over time, I developed a habit - I could tell when he was on his way back. Even blocks away, I'd know the growl of his motorcycle finding its way home. At that moment, every sense in my body seemed to sharpen at once. Maybe because fear had trained them well. I wasn't afraid because of a simple noise. I was afraid of the person behind that door, afraid of the way he unlocked it with such force. This pattern didn't develop overnight, however. I was in first grade when I knew what it felt like to receive a bad grade. Unlike others, my first reaction was fear. I was afraid that this sheet of paper full of corrections and red ink would be shown to my dad.
From then on, fear became my teacher. It became an invisible motivation that always encouraged me to continue learning until I reached a point where every math problem became a piece of cake. Every time I received my grades back, I immediately went home and put them on his desk, patiently waiting for him to come home after his work. I could tell whether he was satisfied with the results or not just by hearing his footsteps before opening my door. There wasn't that much of a difference between them, but somehow my instinct about whether he was happy or not was always right. Maybe because the repetitiveness of this created a line of connection between me and him. I learned which noise meant safety, which ones meant danger. They all carried meanings too old for a child to understand.
But even fear has its own limits. Many might say that grades don't define you. But to my father, grades meant everything. Low grades equaled joblessness. High grades meant that I should put more effort into it the next time so the grades would be even higher. One evening, I stayed up waiting for him to get home and see the report card that I put on his desk. The grades weren't that terrible, but one number stood out: 7. A single red mark could mean nothing for others, but to me, it meant another storm. As I was waiting for my dad's return, the clock ticked louder than usual, my heartbeat racing faster than ever. I had braced myself for a scolding and a lecture on how my poor learning strategies had a detrimental effect on my results. But this time was different. Even though the footsteps I heard outside the door were clearly not a good sign, somehow, when my dad walked in, he didn't yell. He just looked at the paper, let out a sigh, and a face full of disappointment. For the first time, I noticed the gray strands in his hair, the wrinkles on his face, the exhaustion from working a nine-to-five job. And suddenly, the fear that I'd been carrying for years began to blur into something else. Pity. Confusion. But mostly understanding. The same footsteps that once froze me in place now felt slower, heavier, almost human.
Something changed in me that night. I no longer feared his steps - I listened to them instead.
His footsteps I still hear each evening. It no longer makes my heart race. It reminds me that he's home - that despite everything, he always came home. The sound that once begged fear now demands familiarity. It demands presence. It's love, in the form of silence and exhaustion. And I've learned to hear that same quiet language in others too - in their pauses, their sighs, their ways of caring without words. Fear taught me how to listen; love taught me what to hear.
I'm planning for this to be the essay I submit to the Common App. Please give me your feedback. Also, this version is currently 662 words - which parts do you think I should trim to bring it under 650?
In a house where silence meant discipline, I learned early to lower my voice. When my dad left, however, the house suddenly felt louder - books scattered under the table, beneath the bed. We played games and laughed, as if joy itself might get us into trouble. Over time, I developed a habit - I could tell when he was on his way back. Even blocks away, I'd know the growl of his motorcycle finding its way home. At that moment, every sense in my body seemed to sharpen at once. Maybe because fear had trained them well. I wasn't afraid because of a simple noise. I was afraid of the person behind that door, afraid of the way he unlocked it with such force. This pattern didn't develop overnight, however. I was in first grade when I knew what it felt like to receive a bad grade. Unlike others, my first reaction was fear. I was afraid that this sheet of paper full of corrections and red ink would be shown to my dad.
From then on, fear became my teacher. It became an invisible motivation that always encouraged me to continue learning until I reached a point where every math problem became a piece of cake. Every time I received my grades back, I immediately went home and put them on his desk, patiently waiting for him to come home after his work. I could tell whether he was satisfied with the results or not just by hearing his footsteps before opening my door. There wasn't that much of a difference between them, but somehow my instinct about whether he was happy or not was always right. Maybe because the repetitiveness of this created a line of connection between me and him. I learned which noise meant safety, which ones meant danger. They all carried meanings too old for a child to understand.
But even fear has its own limits. Many might say that grades don't define you. But to my father, grades meant everything. Low grades equaled joblessness. High grades meant that I should put more effort into it the next time so the grades would be even higher. One evening, I stayed up waiting for him to get home and see the report card that I put on his desk. The grades weren't that terrible, but one number stood out: 7. A single red mark could mean nothing for others, but to me, it meant another storm. As I was waiting for my dad's return, the clock ticked louder than usual, my heartbeat racing faster than ever. I had braced myself for a scolding and a lecture on how my poor learning strategies had a detrimental effect on my results. But this time was different. Even though the footsteps I heard outside the door were clearly not a good sign, somehow, when my dad walked in, he didn't yell. He just looked at the paper, let out a sigh, and a face full of disappointment. For the first time, I noticed the gray strands in his hair, the wrinkles on his face, the exhaustion from working a nine-to-five job. And suddenly, the fear that I'd been carrying for years began to blur into something else. Pity. Confusion. But mostly understanding. The same footsteps that once froze me in place now felt slower, heavier, almost human.
Something changed in me that night. I no longer feared his steps - I listened to them instead.
His footsteps I still hear each evening. It no longer makes my heart race. It reminds me that he's home - that despite everything, he always came home. The sound that once begged fear now demands familiarity. It demands presence. It's love, in the form of silence and exhaustion. And I've learned to hear that same quiet language in others too - in their pauses, their sighs, their ways of caring without words. Fear taught me how to listen; love taught me what to hear.
