Essays that got students in.
Curated from publicly published, permission-cleared sources — Johns Hopkins, NYT Modern Love, Connecticut College and others. We index, summarize, and link out. Read the originals at the source.
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I am every woman I have ever met. My sister Chloe taught me how to be a girl. I'm not just talking about the endless hours she put into teaching me how to apply blush or braid my hair. I'm talking about the love and compassion she gave me; her tenderness is woven through me like a piece of thread. Now, when I touch my cheek or brush my hair, I feel the love of my sister. We were all sorts of things together: fairies, storytellers, dreamers. But most importantly, we were girls. But then, Chloe went to boarding school. I was only 11, but I had to be brave to live without her, and I was made brave by Chloe, which is to say I was made brave by love.
The morning was a war I could not win with a mane as versatile as mine. On the left side of the quartz battlefield divided in half by my dipping sink lay an array of thick fragrant creams and strong gels to emphasize my natural pattern, moisturize, and eliminate the threat of dryness and frizz; on the other end, cool, sleek metal tools remained ready to heat up and flatten, dizzying sprays of vanilla and lavender aroma ready to defend from heat damage.
Contrary to popular belief, mini-golf is very challenging. The unforgiving, neon green turf and the jagged rock formations send my ball spiraling in the wrong direction and careen straight into the roaring waterfall every time. The irony of my inadequate skills, however, is not lost on my younger sister, who routinely avoids obstacles and sinks her ball straight into the hole. Her embarrassing victory dance follows soon after, much to my own dismay. Notwithstanding my mini-golf shortcomings, I am known as 'golf girl' by my peers and have learned much about myself and the game as the sole girl on my high school's golf team.
The clinking of measuring spoons always fills me with joy. Those shiny metal utensils know all of my secrets. They offer a sharp melody to accompany my pacing around the kitchen as I brainstorm our meal of choice for that snow day morning. It was a Tuesday, and I had just marched through my best friend Liam's door a few minutes earlier, drenched, and my hair decorated with wet snowy clumps from my not so much of a walk—but a winter trek—to his house.