Hi, I would love some feedback! This is my common app essay.
I couldn't just step onto the field and just play. I needed 2 things. I needed to touch both goalposts, and I needed to double-tie my cleats. If I didn't, something terrible might happen. I didn't know what exactly, but the sinking feeling clung to me like a warning. Some people called me superstitious, others called me just plain insane. My parents had their theories. So did the doctors, and they called it "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder".
But my patterns didn't start on the field.
My life has always followed a pattern, a structure built long before I understood why. Every day began the same. Wake up. Make bed. Wash face. Brush teeth. Eat breakfast. Do hair. I became accustomed to patterns, routine, and familiarity. Not because I wanted to or that I liked it, but because I knew what was waiting for me if I didn't.
I was in 1st grade the first time my mother yelled at my face after I didn't make my bed. I stared at my slightly messy sheets like they were a personal insult. A sinking feeling of shame settled in my stomach as I promised myself I would never do it again. So, I made my bed perfectly. Every morning. At night, my dad took over. His version of perfection lived in handwriting. If mine didn't meet his standards, he'd rip up the page. Write. Rip. Restart.
As years passed and I grew older, the rules they taught me still followed me. If everything around me wasn't under my control, I'd panic. My best friend was the first to point out another quirk: "You do everything twice." Two clicks of a lock. Two knots in my laces. Two sips of water. If I accidentally took three, I'd take one more to make it four. Then the loops began. I didn't know why, but it just felt right.
So when the routines grew louder than my own thoughts, my parents brought me to a doctor. I sat stiffly between my parents as the doctor spoke, "....combination of OCD, anxiety and obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.... no cure...but treatable." But I wasn't really listening. I was too focused on the three mismatched Post-its on his desk, none of which lined up. It was hard to hear over my discomfort with their uneven edges.
Still, that word stuck: treatable. It haunted me, and still does.
Treatable is the challenge I face when I sit in the third chair of a row and feel the weight of imbalance. It means that something is "wrong" with me, but it also means I'm not broken. But I knew I had work to do, so I began treatment. It wasn't a miracle fix. There were therapy sessions where I said nothing and others where I said everything. There were exposure exercises that left me in tears and quiet moments of relief I didn't expect. There were rounds of different medications, each with terrible side effects. I practiced resisting my 'rituals'. I sat with discomfort and truly dealt with it. I started to understand that I didn't need to "complete" a feeling for the sinking feeling to go away.
Today, I still tie my bow twice before games and double-check my locks. But I no longer care for my messy handwriting, and I don't freeze on the field. I've learned that growth doesn't always mean changing everything. Sometimes it means learning what to keep, what to loosen, and what to simply accept. Treatment didn't erase who I was. It taught me how to live with who I am and be able to move forward. I move forward, even when it's uncomfortable. Especially when it's uncomfortable.
Because real growth doesn't mean avoiding fear or erasing the past. It means knowing yourself well enough to challenge what holds you back, and brave enough to keep going anyway.
And that's something I don't need to learn twice.
I couldn't just step onto the field and just play. I needed 2 things. I needed to touch both goalposts, and I needed to double-tie my cleats. If I didn't, something terrible might happen. I didn't know what exactly, but the sinking feeling clung to me like a warning. Some people called me superstitious, others called me just plain insane. My parents had their theories. So did the doctors, and they called it "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder".
But my patterns didn't start on the field.
My life has always followed a pattern, a structure built long before I understood why. Every day began the same. Wake up. Make bed. Wash face. Brush teeth. Eat breakfast. Do hair. I became accustomed to patterns, routine, and familiarity. Not because I wanted to or that I liked it, but because I knew what was waiting for me if I didn't.
I was in 1st grade the first time my mother yelled at my face after I didn't make my bed. I stared at my slightly messy sheets like they were a personal insult. A sinking feeling of shame settled in my stomach as I promised myself I would never do it again. So, I made my bed perfectly. Every morning. At night, my dad took over. His version of perfection lived in handwriting. If mine didn't meet his standards, he'd rip up the page. Write. Rip. Restart.
As years passed and I grew older, the rules they taught me still followed me. If everything around me wasn't under my control, I'd panic. My best friend was the first to point out another quirk: "You do everything twice." Two clicks of a lock. Two knots in my laces. Two sips of water. If I accidentally took three, I'd take one more to make it four. Then the loops began. I didn't know why, but it just felt right.
So when the routines grew louder than my own thoughts, my parents brought me to a doctor. I sat stiffly between my parents as the doctor spoke, "....combination of OCD, anxiety and obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.... no cure...but treatable." But I wasn't really listening. I was too focused on the three mismatched Post-its on his desk, none of which lined up. It was hard to hear over my discomfort with their uneven edges.
Still, that word stuck: treatable. It haunted me, and still does.
Treatable is the challenge I face when I sit in the third chair of a row and feel the weight of imbalance. It means that something is "wrong" with me, but it also means I'm not broken. But I knew I had work to do, so I began treatment. It wasn't a miracle fix. There were therapy sessions where I said nothing and others where I said everything. There were exposure exercises that left me in tears and quiet moments of relief I didn't expect. There were rounds of different medications, each with terrible side effects. I practiced resisting my 'rituals'. I sat with discomfort and truly dealt with it. I started to understand that I didn't need to "complete" a feeling for the sinking feeling to go away.
Today, I still tie my bow twice before games and double-check my locks. But I no longer care for my messy handwriting, and I don't freeze on the field. I've learned that growth doesn't always mean changing everything. Sometimes it means learning what to keep, what to loosen, and what to simply accept. Treatment didn't erase who I was. It taught me how to live with who I am and be able to move forward. I move forward, even when it's uncomfortable. Especially when it's uncomfortable.
Because real growth doesn't mean avoiding fear or erasing the past. It means knowing yourself well enough to challenge what holds you back, and brave enough to keep going anyway.
And that's something I don't need to learn twice.
