Let me tell you about the night I nearly set my laptop on fire trying to find "good Common App essay examples" – and not just because my 2013 MacBook Air overheated when I opened too many College Confidential tabs. (We’ve all been there with that crusty old device, right?) It was junior year, my hands smelled perpetually of whiteboard markers from SAT prep, and I thought the key to college admission was finding Some Magical Template™ hidden in the depths of Reddit forums.
Oh man, was I wrong.
After reading 27 sample essays that all sounded like Nobel Prize acceptance speeches (Seriously – since when does everyone have a “life-changing trip to Guatemala”?), I made my first big mistake: I tried to write about building houses in Honduras… even though I’d never left Texas. My essay draft read like a Wikipedia page crossed with a Hallmark card. My AP Lit teacher handed it back with “WHERE ARE YOU IN THIS?” scribbled in red Sharpie so hard it tore the paper.
Here’s what finally worked:
The week after that disaster, I was working my Saturday shift at Scooter’s Coffee (shoutout to the caramelicious Annihilator drink) when a regular named Mr. Jenkins spilled his usual black brew all over the counter. Instead of getting mad, he laughed until his dentures rattled and said, “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit – that’s the third shirt this week!” Turns out he was grieving his wife, and our 7 AM chats became his daily bright spot. I wrote my real essay about stained aprons and the quiet magic of being someone’s “third shirt” – not about some inflated version of myself I thought colleges wanted.
What I wish I’d known:
- The best essays smell like your life. Literally. Mine mentioned the scent of burnt coffee grounds and Dollar Tree lavender hand soap from the shop
- Specific > Inspirational. Admissions officers read enough “and that’s when I knew I could change the world” lines to fill a landfill
- Your “why” matters more than your “what”. That kid who wrote about reorganizing the Target socks display? He’s at Yale now
Three years later, I’ve helped my little brother and three cousins with their essays. We always start the same way: I make them describe their most random core memory from the past year. Last month, my cousin realized her “aha moment” wasn’t winning state track, but the time she spent teaching her golden retriever to high-five during lockdown. (Spoiler: That’s the story she’s running with.)
Look – I get it. You’re sitting there thinking “But my life isn’t special enough.” Let me stop you right there. The night I submitted my application, I accidentally used my mom’s credit card to pay the $75 fee instead of mine. She still brings it up at Thanksgiving. Your humanity – the messy, funny, painfully real parts – is exactly what makes your essay work.
Want to test this theory? Go to your camera roll right now. Scroll to last Tuesday. There’s your essay fuel: the half-eaten Pop-Tart breakfast, the inside joke text thread, the weird leaf that looked like Obama’s profile. Start there instead of trying to sound like a TED Talk.
(And if anyone tells you to write about your sports injury comeback story? Run faster than I did in my one season of JV track.)
You’ve got this. Now go delete those “How I Saved the Rainforest” drafts – or at least save ’em for when we’re both accepting our Pulitzers someday.