These examples show an early draft alongside the revised version after feedback. Shared with student permission; identifying details changed.
What We Worked On
This student had a powerful experience at the center of the essay but the original draft had several issues that diluted its impact. The opening led with a neighborhood comparison that distracted from the scene itself and highlighted the writer's privilege, which can trigger bias against the student. The tense shifted inconsistently throughout, and the central figure — referred to only as "the mother" — lacked the grounding detail needed to make her presence feel real. More significantly, the essay tried to carry two separate lessons: staying calm under pressure and meeting hostility with compassion. We worked on focusing the essay around a single coherent insight — resilience — dropping the reader directly into the action, giving the central figure a name and a physical presence, and selecting a personal example that illustrated that theme clearly. The closing was also retooled to look forward, connecting the values the student had developed to how she hoped to navigate her college years — a much stronger note to end on than a list of personal pledges.
Not a single sight of greenery in the area, unlike my neighborhood, I arrived at a run-down housing community, far different from my own neighborhood. Shopping carts are bestrewn on sidewalks and paint peeling off the buildings. I came to volunteer, distributing toys for Christmas to the children living in the housing community. While passing out gifts, I heard a loud BANG. I jumped up from the seat I occupied, shocked, and with a sense of fear. I turned around and saw two teens smashing a mailbox and a light post. I stepped back slowly, but a mother handing out gifts stood calm—shoulders relaxed, eyes steady, untouched by the high tension I felt. Her calming, yet assertive tone told me not to worry. Her aura and presence made me feel safe. She guided the children and calmly reassured the volunteers. Her composure, so effortless, left me quietly in awe.
What I saw was resilience. Though her strength and response to this violence impressed me, my real astonishment came from how her attitude translated hatred directed toward her into compassion. I used to believe resilience was simply pushing through hardship. However, with this mother, I saw something deeper. She remained calm and patient; while the teens lashed out at her with anger, she never mirrored the teens' anger, choosing instead to meet their hostility with steady composure. She turned hate into empathy. She wasn't afraid; she turned a rough situation into a lesson of care. I stood frozen while she remained steady. In that moment, I realized I also wanted to carry that same strength and face pressure and challenge with grace.
I promised myself I wouldn't hesitate if faced with a similar situation like hers ever again. An opportunity came last summer, while I was working as a soccer coach, a child suddenly started choking. Rather than standing there afraid, I patted her back, gave her water, and called for my manager. Driven by a strong desire to help and a rush of adrenaline, I came with the same calmness and control I had seen in that mother back then.
While the mother's intention wasn't to be inspirational, she ended up being one. To this day, this mother still reminds me that there is bravery and heroism within everyone. I am grateful for how she showed off her resilience in a compassionate way I have never seen before.
I wish more people could witness strong acts of resilience like hers and hopefully learn from them. I know I can't solve everyone's struggles, but I know that the simple acts of kindness and empathy will carry light to the darkest places. Whether I am at practice, school, or home, I will always take criticism positively, never see someone as worse than me, and stay composed in the face of pressure. I learned from her to understand that you can never judge someone for who they are on the surface, as you never know what battles they are fighting within. When I first saw those teens destroy that mailbox, I saw pure evil within them. However, with a new lens from the mother, I now know the teens weren't evil. Just frustrated by the unfortunate conditions they had to deal with. I continue to carry patience and compassion for others and plan to continue volunteering to spread this message through action.
Bringing people together and staying active in communities and organizations gives me a purpose wherever I go. Resilience is an inner mindset and the outward actions one chooses to commit. I will always carry the lesson she taught me that day. Her resilience was a gift to me that I can only repay by showing the same compassion to others. From being frozen by fear to moving with timeless grace. I believe that even in the harshest moments, there is an opportunity to respond with compassion and remind others of our shared humanity.
Shopping carts were abandoned along the sidewalk as I arrived to volunteer at the YWCA's transitional housing facility. We had assembled outside at tables under a tent to pass out Christmas gifts to the children living in the community when I heard a loud BANG. Shocked and feeling a sense of fear, I jumped up from my seat. Turning around, I saw two teens, not much older than I was, smashing a mailbox and a light post with baseball bats while shouting vulgar words. As I moved back slowly, Mrs. Schreck, the volunteer coordinator, stood calm, her shoulders relaxed, her eyes steady, apparently untouched by the high tension I felt. Instead of matching the teens' anger, she guided the children receiving the gifts and calmly reassured the volunteers.
I used to believe leadership meant being loud and forceful, but Mrs. Shreck's effortless composure left me in awe as she persuaded the boys to stop, expressing herself in a quiet, even tone. Bats were lowered and no police rushed to the scene. Although her strength and response to vandalism impressed me, my real astonishment came from how she translated the hostility aimed at her into empathy for the teens. The way that Mrs. Schreck treated them changed how quickly I judge others. I also learned that bad actions can come from the frustrations of being in unfortunate circumstances.
From that day on, whenever I find myself in stressful circumstances or feel on the verge of panic, I picture Mrs. Schreck, who, for all I know, was scared that day but demonstrated her power and strength through her calmness. I am thankful for her showing me that leadership can take many forms, including having a steady demeanor when there is conflict. As one of the captains on my club soccer team, I often face verbally abusive opponents, but I try to lead the team to not match the same negative energy by staying composed myself. This often means extending my hand to the opposing player when he is on the ground after a hard foul. Our team can then focus on the match rather than escalating to a potentially bigger conflict on the field. I've learned that rage does not always have to meet rage, and our opposition can soften when they receive an unexpected response like patience and composure.
One summer when I was an assistant counselor at a camp, a young child, Max, locked himself in the bathroom, crying loudly for his mom. Although I was frustrated by his tantrum, I knew I had to act quickly. I told the other kids to leave so I could talk to Max alone. I tried to show the same compassion and kindness I had seen in Mrs. Schreck, hoping I could make Max feel how I once felt by creating a calm presence to build his safety and trust.
Now, whenever I find myself in uncertain situations such as starting college, I can reflect on the values of compassion and fearlessness. As I look forward to meeting students from diverse backgrounds and facing new experiences, I know it is important to not judge others or make assumptions, that sometimes just being a calm presence can make others feel comfortable. I am grateful to have learned from Mrs. Schreck that day that real strength doesn't necessarily mean being commanding and assertive; instead, it can be the quiet ability to choose empathy, even when it's hardest. I hope I can inspire my future communities to see the goodness in others no matter what the circumstance.
What We Worked On
This student had a genuinely moving experience at the heart of her essay but the original draft didn't fully develop what made it meaningful. The writing told the reader how to feel rather than showing the emotional journey, repeated similar ideas across multiple paragraphs, and never clearly answered the underlying question the prompt was asking: what are you grateful for and how has that gratitude changed you? The most significant work involved helping the student identify the real insight buried in her story — that she had become so accustomed to routine expressions of gratitude that she had stopped registering them, which made Maya's unexpected acknowledgment all the more powerful. We restructured the essay around that contrast, moved the explanation of Maya's iPad and communication challenges to where they were first relevant, and condensed the closing to focus on a more believable, nuanced account of how the experience had changed her.
Good morning Maya.
These were the words that emerged from Maya's iPad, a non-verbal student whom I had been working with the past year. This initially shocked me, for I always had to prompt Maya with what to say, directing her hand as if it were my own. However, this time was different. Maya had said good morning to me without needing any support! She had never done this before. Never. Did I just hallucinate hearing it? However, the proof was right in front of me, the words displayed clearly on the speak-bar. All of a sudden, a feeling of warmth enveloped me until I could not contain the smile forming on my face. She had actually said it!
When I chose to be a peer tutor for the class, I believed that having the opportunity to assist these students would be a mitzvah, a good deed. I wanted to make a difference. From the beginning, Maya and I worked well together. I was tasked with helping her produce an electronic good morning to everyone following the start of the period. However, when she said good morning to me, without prompting, it was monumental. It meant everything in my eyes. All the hardships and good times I faced with Maya accumulated into this single moment. It was near the end of the school year and it was her way of saying 'Thank you, Leila, here's what I now can do'. She had finally spoken on her own, something that I had tried to get her to do the entire year. She acknowledged me. She had found my name all on her own. She had personally said good morning to me.
The communication barriers between us disintegrated. Maya's vocabulary was limited to her iPad's word bank, although it was difficult for Maya to use it on her own. I high-fived her and told her good job countless times, feeling immense pride for Maya. Even while I continued on with my day, her words stuck with me.
Good morning Leila.
Our hard work throughout the year was in those 3 words, and it summed up our relationship perfectly. I had helped her with a lot of skills, and she had helped me, too. I taught her how to count and identify objects and she taught me how to think outside the box. I taught her how to find words on her iPad and she taught me how to communicate in a whole new way. Because Maya was nonverbal, I learned to identify her little quirks which revealed her emotions. For example, when she curled her hand into a fist and tapped it with her other hand, it meant that she didn't know how to do something. That moment when she said good morning to me on her own, I knew it meant gratitude, respect, and friendship.
Even though all she did was say good morning with no prior encouragement, it truly meant the world to me. It was more powerful than any thank you I had ever received, and it made me realize how directly communicating with Maya changed me. She saw me and she thanked me for helping her, for being there for her. She inspired me to never give up and taught me how even a small act can truly change someone's entire world, just as she had changed mine. Even in moments where I feel frustrated and lost, I think back on this moment with Maya and I am reminded that progress is always possible and I feel motivated to carry on. Thanks to my experience with Maya, I learned that there are many different ways to communicate and I now appreciate every small moment I have with someone, as these small moments might actually be big. Thank you, Maya.
Good morning Leila.
These were the words that sounded from Maya's iPad. Maya is a non-verbal special education student whom I assisted each day last school year. The words initially shocked me — prior to this moment, I always had to direct Maya's hand on the iPad's word bank because it was difficult for her to process independently. This time was different. Maya had said good morning to me without any support. She had never done this before. Never. All of a sudden, a feeling of warmth washed over me and I burst out with a smile. She had actually said it.
When I chose to be a peer tutor in the learning resource class, I believed that having the opportunity to assist these students would be a mitzvah, a good deed. I had worked with children in the past and wanted to continue being a mentor. I was used to their obligatory thank yous and pleases — the common courtesies taught from the moment you can speak. I was used to small interactions fading from memory almost as soon as they happened. In contrast to all the chatter of those I had previously mentored, Maya was silent.
From the beginning, Maya and I worked well together. I was tasked with helping her produce an electronic good morning to everyone at the start of the period, and I also helped her with counting, reading, and finding words on her iPad. Despite all of this, she had never independently located a word on her own until that morning. It was near the end of the school year, and it was her way of saying, 'Thank you, Leila. Here's what I can do now.' Her words stayed with me.
Good morning Leila.
I could not stop thinking about this moment, which confused me — after all, it was just one of many small interactions I had on a daily basis. Why wasn't it fading like all the others? Then it hit me. This was not just any small moment. Maya had acknowledged me. Those three words displayed the progress we had made over an entire year. At times I had felt almost attached to her, moving her hand as if it were my own — but she had separated us. Not in a grand gesture, but a quiet one. I had always assumed that when real change happened, everyone would know about it. Maya showed me otherwise. I was the only one in the room who even realized what she had done. Something meaningful does not have to be big.
I am grateful for my time with Maya. Yes, I had taught her, but she had taught me too. I cannot easily recall many small moments from my past — if you asked me the first time I hugged my best friend, I would have no memory to offer. Maya taught me that a small moment can carry enormous weight. It can hold joy, sorrow, and, in her case, progress. I had spent years overlooking moments like these, but she taught me to pay attention to them. I find myself more willing now to notice and appreciate what might otherwise pass unnoticed — a small improvement, a quiet dinner with family, an unexpected kindness. These small moments, I have learned, might actually be the big ones. Thank you, Maya.
All essays are shared with the student's permission. Identifying details have been removed or changed.
When I was in elementary school, my sole aspiration was to be a teenager. Because braces appeared to be the markings of a bona fide teen, I began pressing paperclips against my teeth to look like Kristen, the teenage girl across the street.
From my window, I had ample opportunity to study Kristen's aesthetic. I watched her practice baton twirling on her driveway each evening, chasséing in and out of the garage to change shoes for a new routine. I faithfully tried to emulate her. I even took up baton twirling for a week, earning only a scraped knee and a bruised ego.
Once I became a teen, the mystique dissipated. Acne decorated my face, and my braces were unflattering, painful, and, mortifyingly, an archive of my lunch. I never raised my hand in class. If a teacher did call on me anyway, my cheeks burned and my eyes watered. I would stammer, forget everything I knew, and become acutely aware of the cystic acne on my forehead. I wanted to dissolve into the classroom walls.
Mr. Nelson, my eighth grade humanities teacher, provided an escape route from my desire to exist unseen by casting me as the nosy neighbor in a class skit. I can still conjure the exhilaration of running onstage and delivering a grating "helloooooo" that made my classmates and Mr. Nelson laugh. In the hallways I was terrified of being laughed at, but on stage I relished the laughter. It was being me that caused distress, and for a few minutes, I wasn't.
My love of acting was born. I enrolled in drama classes and auditioned for every high school play. I was never the lead, but I didn't care. What drew me to acting was the process: studying a character, identifying with her, becoming her. Whether I was Miss Lynch in Grease or a chorus member with no lines, I gave myself over completely to someone who wasn't me. And that, paradoxically, was the first time I felt comfortable in my own skin.
Yet life off the stage persisted with moments no character could navigate for me: interviewing for a job, sitting with a friend in crisis, sharing my perspective when it diverged from the norm. Speaking in class continued to feel incredibly dangerous, leaving me uncomfortably exposed. I had to learn to exist as myself and bear it.
Acting proved instructive in learning how. As a child, I understood people mostly through surfaces. I watched Kristen's braces glint in the sunlight and concluded that confidence and belonging could be assembled externally. Acting dismantled that understanding. The more characters I inhabited, the more interested I became in the invisible architecture of a person — their fears, desires, humiliations, and the experiences shaping them.
When I read, I approach each character the way I would if I were preparing to play her: what does she want, what is she afraid of? Reading The Scarlet Letter, I fell in love with Hester. I admired the fierce interior life she protected while the world reduced her to a symbol. When a classmate argued that she was one-dimensional, something in me rose above my dread of being seen. I raised my hand, cheeks burning, and shared my perspective.
My insecurities about my perceived flaws have limited me, but they have also made me attentive to the interior lives of other people. I still have insecurities, each carrying the same temptation to fade quietly into the background. What has changed is my willingness to be vulnerable despite them. I now recognize the gifts that can emerge from emotional discomfort: empathy, perception, and the ability to connect with literature, other people, and myself.
For years, I searched for someone else to become. What I eventually realized was that no performance, no character, and no imitation could spare me from the harder task of becoming fully myself.
I thought about a time long ago, a time before the war. The air was thicker now, heavy with ash and silence. Streets that used to pulse with life were now twisted metal and crumbling stone. No familiar voices. No bustling crowds. All the pawn shops I used to frequent were closed and boarded up. All that remained was the distant howl of wind rasping through what used to be home. The world was holding its breath.
Maybe it's nothing.
Or maybe something terrible was coming.
"I'll use my knight to take your bishop," my grandpa said.
"Oh come on, I was really invested in his backstory," I replied.
The ominous threat vanished. We were on day four of our chess game. For my grandpa, chess was a study in patience. For me, it was a brutal test of patience.
When my grandpa first taught me chess at five years old, I despised it. So. Much. Waiting. He could spend twenty minutes deciding whether to move his rook one square to the left or one to the right. My sisters and grandma would head to the mall and return hours later to find me still at the table, with an empty popcorn bowl and some shriveled grapes, with the board advanced maybe one or two moves. I hated the slow crawl of the game, and I hated my grandpa's long diatribes that would delay, even more, his next turn. Sometimes, to end the game, I'd purposely sacrifice my queen.
But over the years, I stopped trying to escape. As I got older, chess with my grandpa remained slow, but my imagination sped up. I started filling the long pauses between moves with my own creativity. Pawns became soldiers with tragic backstories. Bishops became cunning generals plotting campaigns. Confronted with a four day chess game, my restlessness ignited my imagination and turned the board into a battlefield where every piece was a character with something to lose. When I played, I wasn't only trying to win — I was living in fantasies that defeated my impatience with invention.
My drive to learn and listen sped up too. I began to welcome my grandfather's lectures and inquiries. Between moves, he'd quiz me on an upcoming primary, the story behind the opera he was blaring on the stereo, or the history of Nebraska's unicameral government. The minutes — or hours — between moves had an equal chance of turning into an action movie in my mind or a debate with my grandpa on the effectiveness of Woodrow Wilson's presidency. Chess wasn't just a game anymore; it was our shared language of curiosity.
I used to think that an experience's value came from its outcomes: the win, the grade, the goal scored. However, somewhere between my grandpa's prolonged turns, my visions of moats and castles, and our lively debates, I realized that meaning often lurks in the pauses. Waiting isn't wasted time. It is where thinking happens, where ideas form and relationships deepen, where I thrive.
I started choosing to flourish in the laboriousness rather than rushing toward a conclusion, a choice that now defines everything I do. Staying up late with friends to polish a paper is less about the grade and more about discussing refinements to a thesis or, in all honesty, amusing each other with jokes. Soccer warm-ups are less about securing a win and more about telling stories with teammates as the sun sets. When hiking, between the trailhead and the summit, I let my mind wander — like to the buddy-cop slasher detective movie I've been plotting, scene by scene, to the rhythm of my footsteps and the soundtrack in my headphones.
My grandpa still takes an eternity to move his rook. I enthusiastically fill the waiting with fantastical stories or animated discussions. Now I see that patience isn't the absence of action; patience is a space for imagination. In life, the real contest is never the one on the board. It is the magic between the moves that matters most.
I descended the stairs to see my baby, Trixie, soaring across the room. Trixie flew in agonizing slow motion. Everything ceased to exist except Trixie and my voice screaming "no!" as Trixie crashed to the floor, her head severing from her body. Trixie was decapitated.
Trixie, a high tech doll that tracked the care provided to her, had been my responsibility for 72 hours for my Child Development class. For three days, I rocked, changed, fed, and played with Trixie. I sacrificed sleep to tend to her needs throughout the night. The evening my 72 hour commitment was fulfilled, I proudly placed Trixie in a corner in the basement to be returned to school the following Monday.
Anticipating the arrival of some new acquaintances from school, I tidied the basement. I was excited because I had begun to make new connections after a couple of years of Covid-19 isolation. I loved my friends from middle school, but I was yearning for more friends, more invitations, more recognition. Shallow as it may sound, I wanted to be popular.
I greeted my first guests with glee, but as the party filled with people, I felt unsettled and anxious — feelings I tried unsuccessfully to ignore. I felt disconnected from myself, like a piece of unassembled furniture whose parts were not connecting. I suppressed a scream of frustration as one of my guests accidentally spilled gasoline from our garage on the basement carpet and another lied to her mom about being at my house to study for a test. I questioned the choices that led me to cleaning up other people's messes and covering for other people's lies.
I headed upstairs to get more towels, and when I came back down, I witnessed Trixie's demise. The smell of the spilled gasoline, the loud cackling, and the mangling of poor Trixie sparked a realization: I was chasing the wrong dream and spending time with the wrong crowd. I felt broken, much like my decapitated baby.
My first responsibility was to apologize to my teacher and take accountability. My next was to find a path to fulfillment and self-confidence that didn't depend on the approval of others. I nurtured the friendships I had from middle school and built a wider group of diverse friends who support me, respect me, and with whom I genuinely enjoy spending time. Recently, I had my 18th birthday party. There were no sinking feelings that night. No spilled gasoline or lies. Just a lot of laughter.
I channeled my energy toward finding a greater purpose. I pursued an IB diploma and threw myself into challenging classes, projects, and activities where I could make meaningful contributions. I became president of a club focused on supporting families. I worked with children and wrote for the local paper. I organized events to support others, like me, with asthma. I joined the track team because it consists of a great group of people, and none of them cares that I'm not a fast runner. They appreciate my enthusiasm and commitment. I found my worth from within.
What I take from this period of growth is that while I may sometimes make a wrong turn, I can change direction and pivot to something better. I learned that living authentically and purposefully is more gratifying than living for the approval of others. I learned that I matter — that all people matter regardless of popularity or fame or wealth or any superficial standard. Whatever I choose to do in life, I can learn to move on from the broken and toward the healing. Trixie was broken, but she was repaired. She is now whole. And so am I.