It’s 11:43 p.m. I’m staring at the Common App portal, trying to craft the perfect 650-word story that somehow captures everything I’ve ever done, everything I’ve ever felt, and everything I want to be. My browser has 19 tabs open—college rankings, essay tips, YouTube videos titled “How I Got Into My Dream School.” I should be sleeping, but I can’t. Not when everything feels so fragile, like one wrong word might ruin everything.
Welcome to college admissions season, where we try to sell the best version of ourselves without really knowing who we are yet.
We hear it all the time: “It’s more competitive than ever.” And it is. Schools that once had acceptance rates above 30% are now in the teens. The top-tier ones? Single digits. It’s hard not to feel like you’re entering a lottery—except the ticket costs hundreds of dollars in fees, test prep, and lost sleep. That pressure makes everything feel like it matters too much. One B sophomore year? One missed club meeting? Suddenly, it feels like your whole future is hanging in the balance. Even the “safeties” don’t feel safe anymore.
I applied to sixteen schools, six of which I didn’t even visit. I added some of them to my list the night before the application deadline. I just felt like I needed more chances because everything is such a gamble. A gamble where the house always wins.
We’re told to be authentic. Vulnerable. Unique. But the college essay has turned into its own performance. It’s less about who you are and more about how you tell your story—and whether that story fits what the school wants to see. All of us are just trying to answer the same unspoken question: Do I make your campus look good? That’s the dirty secret: it’s not about finding students who would thrive there. It’s about curating a class that reflects well on the school.
Now that the process is over, I wish I could say I feel relieved—but honestly, I still carry some of the weight with me. I made it through the deadlines, the essays, and the decisions, but the fear and self-doubt didn’t disappear overnight. Looking back, I realize how much of myself I poured into trying to be what I thought colleges wanted. I spent so many nights questioning whether I was good enough, whether I’d made the “right” choices, and whether rejection would define me. Even now, with everything submitted and settled, part of me still wonders what it all meant. Was I chasing a school or an idea of success that was never really mine to begin with? I’m proud of how far I’ve come, but I’m also still trying to heal from what the system put me through.
In the end, college decisions came and went. Some brought joy, others disappointment, and most just left me feeling…tired. But what I’ve learned is that my worth was never in an acceptance letter. It wasn’t in a ranking, a test score, or an essay. It’s in how I showed up for myself through all of it—in the late nights, the quiet doubts, the moments I kept going when I wanted to give up. The system may not be built for students, but I made it through anyway. And that, in itself, is something to be proud of.