Jacob applied to eleven schools and was accepted by all of them. Two schools offered him scholarships awarded in part to the quality of his essay. His first draft, which he wrote on his own, was pretty dull. His second draft, taking his English teacher’s advice to show a more sophisticated vocabulary and give more evidence of his thesis, made him sound like a pompous jerk.

I lost it when Darius peed in the girls’ cabin. It was the end, the twisted climax of a week I will always associate with pure, unbridled pain.

Darius had been building to this all week. This eleven year old had become my sole responsibility for the week he was at YMCA Camp Orkila, and he was systematically breaking me down. My directors had told me to focus my efforts on him for the week he was here, because as a first year counselor I could use the experience of dealing with a child like Darius. Yet in the seven years I’d been a camper here, I’d never encountered anything like him. Here was a child naturally skilled at wreaking havoc; harassing people and wildlife was an art form for Darius.

Before this week, all I’d wanted was to be a counselor. I wanted to support children and teach them to trust themselves, just as this camp supported me as a camper. I was ecstatic, and spent hours learning the best methods of managing children. But what about when your camper is fifty feet up a climbing tower and unstraps himself to taunt you? I realized that nothing I learned in the workshops had prepared me for Darius.

My drive to help others succeed was gone. After days of being positive with Darius, negative reinforcement became my best friend. It was all I could do to keep him in line.

Then, the finale. I’d been setting up for dinner when another camper told me that Darius had peed inside the girls’ cabin, and ran away to the forest. I led a four hour search party tracking him down, and spent an hour cleaning the desecrated cabin. I was broken. The hours of mental depravity had gotten to me. For those last two days, I paid as little attention to Darius as possible. We only spoke when he created problems.

When Darius got on the bus to leave, I started breathing for the first time all week. But as he boarded the bus, he said something I never expected: “Jacob, thank you for this week. I had so much fun.” That moment still feels as raw today as it did two years ago, and I still can’t put what I’m feeling into words .

No one was waiting for Darius back in Seattle. His foster parents had abandoned him while he was at camp; CPS picked him up a few hours later. I still question myself about how I acted that week. Was I justified in how I treated him? Or was I simply too frustrated to dig deeper and help him, to support him? I tell myself I was only fifteen, it was how anybody that age would handle it. Maybe that’s true. But the idea that Darius is still out there, living a life in which everyone treats him the same way, still haunts me. It will for a long time to come.

The author wrote the lyrical first and last paragraphs of her essay in no time at all; she didn’t change a word. It took months of exploration and writing to craft everything that comes between. The best college essays are unique in how they talk about everyday experiences.  

When I was younger, I flew. I stretched out my feather-light wings against the wisps of crisp, October air, and soared up, up, up; above the buildings, over the mountains, amidst the clouds and into the galaxy. It was beautiful in every single imaginable way. It was liberating because I was above it all: the water and ozone, the tiny, rocky and breakable pieces. There was absolutely nothing but the strange subliminal drifting of stars inside my lungs. Then I would open my eyes and was always surprised to be greeted by the dry yellow and brown Australian landscape. The stars were gone, and I was brought back each time into my seven year old body, arms extended, and standing on the peak of a grassy mound. I guess I’ve always wanted to be something larger than myself. I’ve always wanted to feel larger than life.

Years have passed since I was that little girl who threw open the screen door on windy days, sprinting outside to the field behind her house. I grew older imagining myself in an office setting, clad in a newly ironed Brooks’ Brother’s oxford button up shirt tucked into a black pleated skirt. Having family members rooted in the financial world, I was engineered to believe that corporate life was the adult life. A flawless, carefully sketched path had been laid out for me to follow, but for the longest time I couldn’t figure out why my footsteps kept slipping outside the lines.

I still remember my first step inside a hospital for a volunteer interview and suddenly it was like all the pieces fit together. After letting go of business classes because of the lack of passion, I was exploring new opportunities. I remember drinking in my surroundings and thinking that it would be okay if I were to stay here for a long, long time. Because for the first time in what had been a while, I felt like I was home.

“Hey, can you go transport umbilical cord blood from 7-South to Main Lab?”

“We’ve got a guy with a 150 pound tumor in room 4320.”

“CODE BLUE – Surgery Pavilion!”

There’s never a dull moment in the on-call dispatch room. I find myself sprinting once again, not across the grassy Australian fields, but the white marble steps of the University of Washington Medical Center. Empty wheelchair gliding in front, I am unstoppable. The service elevator lifts up, taking me to see the joy of a finally homebound oncology patient’s face and to the “preemies” in the NICU whose monitors beep steadily, reassuringly. It takes me to the hallways outside Operating Rooms where lack of sound is enveloped by deafening importance. The ceiling lights seem to be sublime and twinkling.

Amidst it all, Carol, a suicidal schizophrenic woman, hands me a beautiful handmade bracelet after I had sat with her and listened to her tear-filled, frantic tales.

“Thank y-y-you so much” she splutters. “You’ve been k-kinder to me than anybody h-has this entire year and it means so so m-much to m-me”.

In moments like these, the world stops for a little bit. I’m reminded of how fragile life is. I’m reminded of why I am human, of why I am here.

Like Neil deGrasse Tyson said, some people look at the sky, at the stars and feel small: because we are such a miniscule portion of the bigger picture. But he looks at the stars and feels big: because the universe is in us, our atoms came from those stars. Living life as a sixteen year old girl in a suburban town, attending a public high school, I used to feel small and irrelevant. But then I walked across the halls of a hospital, I talked to people and patients with endless stories of their own and I feel big. I feel inspired. I feel infinite.

You may be surprised that this could be a college essay. There’s no obvious structure, it jumps around, it’s not even clear what it’s about. Yet, it does exactly what it should do. Why? Because you see the author’s mind at play, and see fascinating slivers of his life. It’s engaging, entertaining and unlike anything written before. This is a great example of a college essay (which should really be called a personal story); it gives the admissions office a picture of the student’s personality and intellect.

“No you’re wrong, Aristotle did not think that” Mark yelled.

“Aristotle said man’s goal is to achieve happiness by learning.” I said. “Getting hit in the boxing ring doesn’t make me happy, hanging out and debating with you in the gym does.”

My mom’s side of the family is all philosophers and my dad’s side is all engineers. I have always felt very much in the middle.

Boxing and philosophy: one pushes you physically to the limit, one pushes you intellectually. You learn both ways. You can’t have engineering without philosophy, boxing without science, or music without math.

I learn by talking.

I walked into the coffeehouse and looked for him. He was sitting in a booth surrounded by papers.

“Nick, philosopher in training, how is everything?”

“Great, Grandpa, I just finished reading Nietzsche.”

He picked up my book. Flipped through every page. Looked at my notes.

“You think too modern; everything we know came from the Greeks. They are your key to philosophy, science, boxing and medicine. Read Pythagoras.”

“The guy with the geometric theorem?”

“He was a polymath, a true thinker, just like you. He could see in between subjects and truly understand their inner workings.”

I thought my grandpa was crazy but then it made sense, I think differently.

My favorite toy as a kid was my chemistry set. During a full moon I would pull out my telescope. On the walls of my room there is a copy of Douglas MacArthur on the cover of Life, congressman John Lewis in jail, a signed picture of Manny Pacquiao boxing and Neil DeGrasse Tyson in front of the Milky Way Galaxy. In the corners I have a giant stuffed beaver wearing a Viking hat and a plastic sword, pictures of me shooting my friends with nerf guns and a karaoke machine with four microphones. On the back of my car I have a painting of a bunch of ancient Greek philosophers, quotes from Immanuel Kant and Carl Sagan and a picture of the Milky Way Galaxy. Inside I have an Iron Man mask.

I asked my boxing trainer Mark a question.

Mark says “I see you like to ask questions, don’t let anyone ever beat, harass or belittle that out of you.”

He then asks, “What’s the worst thing that can happen to you in the ring?”

“I get hit, sir.”

“WRONG, you’re going to get hit a lot in your life, you better get used to it.”

“I get knocked down?”

“That’s going to happen to you at least once! Life gets hard, you’re going to get hit, get knocked down, get told you’re wrong, dumb and that you can’t do it; the only person who has control whether you fail or succeed is you.”

“I stop trying, that’s the worst thing that can happen.”

“Right!” yelled Mark.

During the Renaissance, if you wanted to be a painter you would become an apprentice to one. That painter wouldn’t be just a teacher, but a mentor; Mark’s that painter to me. When I work for him he makes me think.

“Why do you think that? How do you know they are right?” He asks.

He pushes me to think outside of the box, and see what’s really there.

Maybe that’s why I ask so many questions?

Maybe happiness is debating Aristotle in the boxing ring?

Audrey struggled for a couple of weeks to find her topic. Sometimes the little things you do can reveal the most about who you are. Andrea started in the early summer, and spent countless hours over five months perfecting this essay.

I hit a boy with a bat in the second grade after he said “short girls can’t play baseball.” I saw red, and as my mom says, “When Audrey is seeing red, let her be.” Overcome with emotion and not thinking about consequences, I was too young to find a constructive way to deal with things that upset me. It would not be until my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years ago that I found a balance.

Alzheimer’s ran in the family, and knowing that it may only be a matter of years deeply rattled my mom. She read that jigsaw puzzles could delay the presence of the disease, so we began to puzzle together.

She puzzled because she had to. I puzzled because I wanted to.

For every puzzle, there is a strategy. First, find the edge pieces. This gives it a structure, a way to begin, a way to work from the outside in. From there, find a dominant color scheme or a section that appears easiest to tackle. Pull out all the pieces that fit this microcosm and complete a puzzle within the puzzle. Continue doing this—section by section—until you see a completed picture tied together by all the challenges you just tackled. Then, start over.

Within a year of casual puzzling, puzzles took on a new meaning. I went from doing them for fun to using them to reset. I saw red less and less.

My biggest puzzle, one that took over two years to tackle, is that of my sexuality. For the year before I came out to my parents, I was jumpy, testy. Obviously not at peace, I needed something to do to keep from bursting, so I did jigsaw puzzles once, twice, three times; I finished a puzzle, gave it a look, then ripped it apart to start over. I did it faster each time. Unaware of it then, every time I finished a puzzle, I got closer to putting together the pieces of how to deal with the component of myself that did not seem to fit—the gay part.

Life is full of situations that require some movement of the pieces to achieve something workable. Every day in Calculus, I stare at the page until I can find some way to begin the problem. I will try anything until I find the right edge pieces to work towards to the answers. In soccer, I play in the center of the field and my job is to be the brain. I see the second pass before the first is made and find a way to manipulate the players and the ball to get the outcome we want. My job is mentally exhausting, but every game it’s a new puzzle—and that’s why it’s fun.

I’m tiny, I’m gay, Calculus drives me insane, but puzzles reset me. They alleviate stress and bring understanding of my world and the world around me. Audrey is doing her puzzles, let her be.

The topic doesn’t matter. What you do with it, does. This is a simple story that captures the writer’s personality, intellect and voice. It’s a thoughtful meditation on values, culture, learning and community written as simply as can be. It was one of only three essays read to the 650 students at Middlebury College’s freshmen orientation—that’s 0.5% of essays at a highly selective college.   

With a cup and a spoon you can do it all.

I was rafting on Idaho’s Snake River with my Boy Scout troop. I packed lightly. There was a saying I had on trips like this: the more experience I have, the less stuff I need. I would find a way to make do with what I had or didn’t have.

I thought that I had enough experience to pare my mess kit down to two items: a big plastic mug, and a cheap plastic spoon.

I didn’t bring a spoon.

I tried to bargain my way into a spoon, but it was futile. No one wants to give up their spoon. When you’re a hungry teenager a spoon is the most valuable thing you’ve got.

Boy Scouts is about learning through struggle. If you don’t have something, you suffer the consequences. You won’t forget it the next time.

I therefore did the only thing I could: I made a spoon out of duct tape. It was a terrible spoon, but it got food into my mouth all week. It was dirty and floppy, and crumbs would stick to the spots where the adhesive side of the tape was still showing. I was really proud of it.

Each time I used the spoon it got dirtier and dirtier. It couldn’t really be cleaned. It was so lacking in structure that it was more effective to drag food up the side of the mug than to use the bowl part of the spoon. Everyone was jealous. Not that I had to eat with the spoon, but just the idea of it.

In a way we were both jealous. I wanted their spoons and they wanted mine. Of course they only wanted the good parts. No one wants to sacrifice their reliable spoon, but everyone wants to be that guy who made his out of duct tape. Everyone could see the silver outside, only I could see the food particles still stuck in the crevices from breakfast.

The next summer my pursuit of adventure would take me to Chajul, Guatemala, where I would be far removed from my trivial spoon issues of the year before.

The first night at dinner my host family and I had stew as we crowded around a table clearly built for kindergarteners.

There weren’t enough spoons.

We were hungry and needed food. Everything that I knew told me that the spoons should be even more valuable here. But we didn’t argue over them, we just took turns. Was it unsanitary? Maybe, but it was life.

Whenever I look back at these two situations, I find myself considering the same question: which way was right? And to be honest, I still don’t have an answer. I never forgot my spoon again. But I don’t think that’s the point.

In scouts I was left to my own means, to make do and learn. In Guatemala they would never imagine this.

They just shared their spoons.

How to capture a love of adventure, the vibrant mind of being an avid reader, a risk-taker, and a planner? It’s not easy! The stories for this writer came fairly quickly, but finding the flow took time. And refining her 1800-word draft down to 647 words without losing any of her meaning and message was just another challenge she nailed beautifully.

I could hear the melodious tune in the background as I saw them trudging in single-file. With overstuffed packs and walking sticks in hand they climbed up the mountain. They were small in stature with big hairy feet; they were in fact hobbits.

I’m going on an adventure!

This past summer my friends and I got this crazy idea to go backpacking in the middle of nowhere for a few days. Of the four of us, I was the only one who had backpacked before and that had been four years ago.

I did my best to prepare. I went to an REI class and scoured YouTube. With our limited resources I ransacked Target and Amazon. I started this process three months prior to the trip which was about two and a half months before my friends did. Needless to say that week leading up to the trip was hectic. I didn’t really mind though, I was used to it. The spontaneity of my friends is probably what I love most about them.

I’m going on an adventure!

The scene kept replaying in my mind as we hiked up the mountain. The flowers danced in the wind and the trees waved, wishing us good luck. I imagined the mountain wasn’t just any mountain, but the Lonely Mountain and somewhere deep within its core lay The Great and Terrible Smaug atop unimaginable riches. I was Bilbo Baggins going on an adventure.

I have always loved books, so full of adventure and mystery. I can be anything I want to be. I can be a courageous hero battling a fierce dragon or a wizard attending a magical school. All my life I’ve read other people’s adventures and now finally I was going on one of my own!

I’m going on an adventure!

“Any moment,” I thought, “I’m going to collapse.” I was physically and mentally exhausted. “I can’t go on,” I thought. “No more! No more!” my legs screamed at me. Three hours of hiking uphill under the blistering sun had utterly drained me. I wanted to turn back; this wasn’t what I signed up for.

I was at my breaking point.

“Guys I need to stop,” I said. Too tired to respond they just nodded.  We all flopped onto the ground trying to muster the energy to keep moving. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be at home, in my bed, cuddled up with a book.

Staring at my friends, my mind flashed back to the previous night. Our bellies rumbling, we spent a half hour desperately trying to turn on the stove (ravioli never tasted so good). That night the four of us crammed into one of the two-person tents and stayed up talking about nothing and everything: school, human nature, our love lives, good and evil. I remembered the first day, we sang at the top of our lungs the entire drive to the trailhead, excited to be going on our adventure.

I stood up.

No!

This was our adventure. Every adventure has its highs and lows. What hero hasn’t experienced some sort of trial? This was our adventure, our time to make memories. When we look back we will remember how we kept going; we didn’t give up.

With renewed purpose I trudged forward. Each step one step closer to a great memory.

After another two hours of pure determination we reached the top, and my God what a view.

I whispered, “Holy cow…”

We stood atop a cliff overshadowing a deep valley. In the valley lay a iridescent lake cut in half by a spit of land.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, and it was ours.

Having memories like this is what motivates me to go out of my comfort zone and do extraordinary things. I want to look back on my life and be able to say, “What a great adventure!”

This young man used Essay Mentors’ process to write a fantastic essay. He was accepted to Williams College, Boston College, Tufts University and Wheaton College. He was born in Kenya, and moved to Boston when he was in the 8th grade.

Michelangelo’s Sistine chapel saved my life.

Just like the renaissance paintings, I create art in order to communicate something. I recently sketched a piece portraying a woman in the constant struggle between good and bad. I wanted to make an image that would show us the relationship between our Id, ego, and super ego, a theory I learned in psychology class. I created shadowy devilish figures to portray the Id, a woman to portray the Ego, and angelic figures to represent the super ego. My favorite subject in art is the human condition- motherly instinct, a child’s innocence, human wickedness, a convict’s redemption, religion and many other human characteristics are found in my art.

In the whole process of creating a piece of art, I enjoy sketching the most. I enjoy it because it is raw, it is simple but it is the foundation of the whole piece. I always ponder, “The body has to be perfect, the mouth has to be perfect, the eyes, ears, chin, hair, neck, pose, background… it all has to be perfect”.

Goose bumps form on my arms and my pupils dilate when a good idea presents itself.

My ears lose their function as I drift into happiness.

My mouth frowns when I see a flaw.

My mind melts into conversations between selves. Self-one thinks “The hair needs more substance.” Self-two thinks “the nose is not symmetrical.” Self-ten thinks “I should stop thinking to myself.”

The conversation goes on until I can no longer see a flaw. I always strive for perfection, even when I am not drawing. Just like Michelangelo, I want to create perfection.

When I was twelve years old my father died; five months later my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I wanted to escape the sadness and boredom through art, but I was not inspired.

Then an idea struck me: the computer can give me the inspiration I needed. I rushed to the computer and googled “renaissance paintings”. I found one particular image that would change my life. The Sistine Chapel appeared on the screen for the first time. I saw the center piece; it depicted Adam stretching his finger trying to touch God.

I cannot describe the feelings that overcame me when I saw it, but I can tell you for sure, I felt exhilarated. I looked at Adam; he looked humble, kind, and innocent. I looked at God; he looked wise, magnificent, and all powerful. I felt vitalized when I saw Adam reaching for God. I wanted to be as worthy as Adam. I wanted to live fully, I wanted to learn from Michelangelo and be the best I can be.

I am now a muralist. I have been given the opportunity to influence people’s days and even their emotions. I work with a team of other students. Beyond making friends and having a good time the works that we produce together comes from the soul. Creating a mural is a team effort. Many organizations give us a chance to bring beauty to this world. The most memorable establishment I worked for was an elderly home; one woman told us “We want Elvis!” Staying true to their requests I created a scene of the 1960’s musical culture. I always feel gratified when their faces shine in amazement. I feel a connection with them when I help them immortalize a personal image on the wall.

My middle name is “Kamunge”- it means light bearer in my native tongue. Through my art and actions, I wish to bring light to those who are trapped in dark times.