Essays that got students in.

I stare into my bathroom mirror as I remove the mask. For the first time, I will attend high school showing my full face. I need to be beautiful, just like the girls on my TikTok feed. I examine each video, searching for the common thread. A hot pink blush gleams on each girl's cheek. Despite the stark contrast between my pale Irish skin spattered with freckles and that of the sun-kissed influencers, I race to Target to search for the infamous Revlon Insta-Blush which comes in stick form, making it foolproof. Or, so I thought.

The concept of balance guides me through life. At heart I am a figure skater. Since early childhood I've learned how to balance on and off the ice rink; to glide though skating routines and busy schedules.

"No le pongas demasiada sal!" My mom, anticipating a bitter taste from the soup, alarmed me. Yet curious like a five-year-old, I felt it was my mission to discover the secrets behind the little white container in front of me. Standing still, making noise at a shake, laid the salt. Deciding to empty half the recipient, my mom and I laughed the second I tasted our alphabet soup. Composed of primarily sodium chloride, salt is a staple for food and culture. At the same time, the element is an equal symbol for health, preservation, and connection. Seen time again in history, salt was a compensation for Roman Empire's soldiers, a source of currency for ancient China, and an exchange in the Gulf Coast from the Olmec people.

Just outlining the coastlines took a month. On the solid, 22-inch by 30-inch sheet of white paper I was working on, I couldn't just press the "undo" button if my highlighter happened to slip.

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.

75,000 flipped pages. 11,520 packed boxes. 6 school maps. I began measuring my life in flipped pages, packed boxes, and school maps when I was 6. As my family and I flitted between states and coasts for my father's job over the last decade, I shielded myself with fantasy novels. With my head propped on the baseboard near my nightlight and a book held up in front of me by aching arms, I would dance in whimsical forests, fight daring battles, and rule dangerous courts long after dark.

I was born to two moms. One, my biological mom, Meredith. One, my mom who adopted me, Mary. Because they were a same-sex couple, the law required that Mary adopt me in order to be my parent. They used Sperm Donor 3311. All I know about my "father" is that he didn't have a familial history of cancer, he has a twin brother who is 6'4", and he studied math in school.

"The difference between an anti-personnel and an anti-tank mine is not that complicated," I am told casually, in halting Russian, by a boy even younger than I am during a walk through the Chechen mountains. I am freshly 14 and visiting my father's homeland for the first time, unfamiliar with the harsh realities that kids half my age already know ironclad. My guide points out the areas where the grass is overgrown and the fruit trees abundant. People and animals alike know to avoid them; someone has learned of landmines the hard way. It shouldn't surprise me — the scars of war on this rugged country are omnipresent — but it is so jarringly different from my life in London that it is nevertheless hard to digest.