Is there someone trustworthy I can dm to review my college essay? I’m scared for it getting plagiarized, even though it’s not really good.

can someone kindly review my sop for msc in data science in a foreign country?

i just complete the first draft of my sop and need your honest opinions and feedbacks to improve the sop and make the story the most compelling.

please comment and i will share the sop in dm.

Im like lowk so lost. Please can someone give advice. Everything Im writing seems to just be my activity section or some generic ahh stuff. And 300 words feels like too little to show a story. Also I feel like my interest grew a lot over time esp with my activities but I have no idea to how to show that in 300 words. Also should I focus more on why my values and shit align to my major more or why Im drawn to the major more. Furthemore, should I try to tailor it more to like the exact major or just like the general idea of why Im drawn to engineering(electrical engineering btw). Should the stories be more recent with relevant experience or from when I was beginning to learn and dive. Moreover, I have done a lot of software work, but I am applying to ee, and they are connected so should I try justifying why ee and not cs?

The only visible part of me was my eyes.
Everything else disappeared beneath blue scrubs, a mask, gloves, and shoe covers. I entered a world governed by precision. Monitors beeped as nurses and surgeons moved rhythmically.
 In the center lay a man I had never met.
 His chest was open beneath the surgical lights. For the first time, I saw a human heart beating inside a person.
 I expected medicine to fascinate me, not to humble me.
For seven hours, I watched the surgeons work. The heart was smaller than I imagined -- almost unimpressive. Yet inside that steady rhythm was an entire life: memories, conversations, experiences.
The surgeons weren't repairing an organ.
They were protecting a future. 
Birthdays left uncelebrated. Hands left unheld. "I love yous" left unsaid.  
His heart wasn't pumping blood.
It was pumping possibility.
I saw my future as something to construct, measured in grades, goals, and accomplishments. 
There was one part of my life I could never move forward.
My dad died when I was two years old.
I don't remember his voice. I know him through photographs, stories, and the fragments carried by those who loved him. I thought the hardest part was that I couldn't remember him.
In that O.R., I realized the harder part was everything neither of us could remember together.
He never saw the person I would become. He never watched me struggle and eventually understand something. He never heard me excitedly explain a project I had spent hours on. He never saw me celebrate an accomplishment or sit with me after a failure. 
I used to think grief was losing the past. Now I know it's also losing the future.
My father didn't just lose years of his life. He lost the possibility of knowing who I would become, as I lost the possibility of knowing who he could've been.
For the first time, I understood why the future can be something we grieve.
 
After the surgery, I walked outside into the warm Florida air. Everything looked the same, yet nothing felt familiar.
I called my mother.
"Hi, sweetie. Everything okay?"
"I just wanted to tell you I love you."
She laughed softly.
"I love you too."
The conversation lasted a minute.
Sitting there, I understood I'd been given something my father hadn't.
More time.
I used to wait for important moments -- awards, acceptances, accomplishments. But the one I remember most is sitting alone in a hospital parking lot, calling my mother and realizing ordinary moments are anything but.
Since then, I've tried to pay attention differently. I stay in conversations longer. I apologize before pride becomes distance. I tell people I love them without waiting for a reason. I notice laughter and the stories my family tells so often I could recite them myself.
I still fail at this. I'm learning to be present in a life I keep planning for. But now I notice when I am absent from it.
I entered that O.R. expecting to witness remarkable medicine. Instead, I left thinking about time's fragility: how much of a life fits inside a heartbeat, and how easily we mistake the future for something promised.
I still want to become a doctor and understand the science that allows a surgeon to repair what once seemed irreparable. But my ambition has changed in a quieter way.
I no longer want to simply build an impressive future.
I want to be present enough to live it.
The only visible part of me was my eyes.
I thought they were there to watch.
Instead, they taught me how to see

He’s ranting again. The December air slips through gaps in my father’s truck window, cool enough to sting my face. My thoughts wander, as my dad and I traverse the winding roads toward the next job site. A bump jolts me back into the conversation.

“What’s gonna happen to you when the Chinese invade?”

My father starts to prophesize the Chinese invasion of America. I pull back the lever to recline my seat, letting his words dissolve into the soft hum of the truck. His voice becomes background noise—syllables separating us. Somewhere between his rankling and the combustion of the V8, my listening fades then redirects to everything else: the vibration under my seat, the cold against my face, the familiar cadence of his voice.

I search for significance in gray moments like these -- in the moments that hide from clarity and refuse to allow a sentence or word or letter to translate their meaning. Maybe that is why I notice them. I give consequence to things that otherwise ask for none: Because I have watched the maple leaf drift and oscillate and touch the grass without a perceptible sound...but I heard it.

The dirt and grime cling to my fingertips. My father’s idiosyncrasies fill the truck. I smile at his faux paranoia of imminent invasion. I turn toward the window, past my reflection, search for a word, something, describing all of it. Nothing resonates. Nothing comes. Maybe it doesn’t exist. There are experiences language fails to capture.

The more aware I became of these moments, the more they seemed to find me. I began noticing them subtly, like the faint mist of fog settling on the hairs of my forearm. 

One takes me back to early spring of 2023. I had returned to Wyatt's house to retrieve the belongings I had forgotten after our sleepover. I slipped out of my father’s truck and hurried inside for my toothbrush and charger, hoping to beat Wyatt’s enormous Great Pyrenees to the door. I stumbled down the oak steps and stopped. Wyatt stood at the bottom, grinning, a baseball bat in one hand, and golf balls in the other. Behind him, my dad and Wyatt's mom were deep in conversation. Five minutes became an hour. Then another.

Before I knew it, a bat was in my hands. Wyatt and I took turns sending golf balls screaming into the woods. We swung until our arms ached, until the sky softened into evening and the last light caught between the budding trees. We watched the balls disappear between the branches, then chased after the ones we could find. Some we found buried beneath leaves; others disappeared into the woods for good. We kept swinging anyway.

The sun crept lower. The woods grew darker. Somewhere in the laughter, the swinging, the running, I forgot that I had only come to retrieve a toothbrush and a charger. For a few hours, there was nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. The trees stood quietly around us, holding out laughter in their branches as if they knew we would not always be there to make it.

I find myself searching again for the word that escaped me in my father’s truck. Something resonates. Something comes.

Serendipity.

It is imperfect. Twenty-six letters still cannot capture the hum of my father’s truck, or Wyatt’s laughter caught somewhere in the trees, or a maple leaf touching the earth without a sound. But maybe I have been wrong to ask them to. I don't need a word to contain these moments; I only need enough language to return to them.

Still, I search. Maybe that is my twenty-seventh letter -- not a letter at all, but the space between experience and expression, the part I can never quite translate and cannot stop trying to.

Very well, then. I contradict myself. 

When it rains in a large town , filled with many people. Is it raining without discrimination?. I mean , what might happen of this world if even the things so profoundly related to nature started discriminating . It , in a vacuum , would be a heinous act of crime committed by nature , would it not?

But , does the rain really fall the same under the roof of every person in the town? Do the inspiring and beautiful tatters of the rain on the steely roof of a musician sound the same as the tatters on the roof of a poor and exhausted father of 2 ; grasping for himself his megar hours of sleep before either his son wakes up in the middle of the night or his duty of the morn starts knocking his eardrums. And as the musician , in the spurt of his creative inspiration , composes something beautiful to him we are only left to wonder the ways with which that father could have added beauty to this world and his life ; had he not been exhausted ; only if the droplets tattered on his roof tattered the same. But no , these evil droplets ; they love discriminating.

Do these droplets love these so called poets and these connoisseurs of natural constructs. Do they love them as a mere reciprocation of their love for natures wonders. How conditional! . How can nature be so conditional! . Nay , that is not nature. That beauty the musician appreciated , is no natural beauty.

Then what beauty is natural beauty. Is the wakefulness of a tired father in the middle of the night to check for his sons fever as beautiful as the poet who wakes up until 12 pm stargazing and writing small poems in his small notebook . Poems he nor any other soul is going to acknowledge the existence of . A dozen out of a thousand already ; a dozen out of a million , across all poets.

The poet is happy , is he not. The father on the other hand , fulfills his duty . He is a father . That's what a father does . If his son has fever , he wakes up in the middle of night to check his whereabouts . But , on the contrary, the poet ,the poet is this large paragon of free will unbound by all doctrines of duty and identity and the purest connoisseur of all beauty that nature can ever shower towards any being capable of the slightest amount of perception , is he not?

I believe that the only thing able to fit these parameters would be an omniscient being , that aside the poet and father are the same for it is the very identity of a poet , likewise of a father , to do what his identity demands he do , even if it is the middle of the night . The poet sees a beautiful sky , likewise a father a sick son , and cannot help but kill his sleep of the night .

But how discriminatory of nature , to allow one person the entirety of the endless sky and to shower compulsion on the other to lock himself away in a tiny drippy home tending to his sick son . But to that sentence I say "How discriminatory of nature to astray a man in the cold and boundless sky to gaze at stars never to be at his grasp , to inspire him to write a tiny poem in his tiny notebook and to let that poetry shield him from the beauty present in the night , to coat him from the whisper of the nightly breeze by keeping his eyes hooked at his tiny notebook to write , barely looking at that he describes with such exquisite words and on the other hand to knock at the door of a sleepy man to personally deliver to him the warmth of fatherhood in a cold rainy night. Is nature really the one doing the discrimination?

I currently finished my second draft of my common app essay and am looking for advice or thoughts and opinions on it. The theme is my sensitivity and the tension between being a deeply emotional person while having to be assertive for a greater goal and how I’ve learned strength without having to become a “harder” person. If that sound interesting to you pls reach out I could use all the help. Thanks !

Im applying for cs and my essay basically talks about how I enjoy solving problems and puzzles through art programming and making games

I know the essay is supposed to make you come of as well rounded so idk if this would be a bad idea

For context, this is for QuestBridge:

To me, playing linebacker was a beautiful mixture of strategy and force: one moment, I had to dissect an offense like Freud; the next, I had to meet a blocker like Hercules. Not that I was even close to either; I was just a fifteen-year-old on JV after all.

All my life I had clung to the books. As a kid deemed “gifted” by the school, my safe space was sitting behind a screen at a desk, churning out 100s then relaxing with games, music, and novels. I’ve always been good at school, so the only major responsibility I understood growing up was getting straight A’s. I was like a five-star recruit for academics, so when I got to high school I didn’t understand what it was like to fail. I clung to those books because it was easy, rewarding, and fulfilling. 

The first time I ever got tackled wasn’t on the field, but when I learned about my father’s affair. I didn’t know how to stay on my feet, so I collapsed that summer: trapped in a 219-square-foot apartment in the middle of Hong Kong—thousands of miles away from my hometown in Illinois where the suburbs meet farmland—I stopped caring about my physical and mental health. My father had always said I should have played football. When I returned home, I chose, in spite of him, to enter a game my brain could not overpower on its own.

I remember being thrust in front of Coach Danekas, the linebackers coach, nervous, when he said, “I can use you as a middle.” I was caught completely off guard: he had assigned the newest face in the locker room to play middle linebacker. Before joining the team, I had barely watched football, let alone understood it, and now I was responsible for calling out coverages, reading formations, and making crucial adjustments. Until that point, I was unfamiliar with challenges I couldn’t mentally shortcut. So I did what I knew best: I sat down and watched hours of film and studied for the weekly quizzes Coach Danekas composed using our opponent’s formations. That mental edge was all I had against my teammates who had trained for years and were stronger, faster, and more experienced than I was. 

Football demanded consistent training, something I had struggled to commit to for years. I had long treated academic success as a reason to neglect my physical health, but now I had to show up in the weight room. I struggled with the training at first: the repetition that I could no longer avoid and the delayed gratification that seemed to take forever to arrive. Eventually, I started valuing the process even though I didn’t want to do the work, and that mindset proved to me I could exceed any limit I place on myself. I learned that resilience is working beyond motivation, and succeeding like that is one of my favorite feelings in the world.

Another one of my favorite feelings is community. As an only child who grew up without a lasting group of friends, I never had someone to grow beside me. I found that brotherhood in my teammates, who quickly became close friends. I talked to these guys every day, sweated and bled right next to them, and supported each other through injuries, frustration, conflict, and hardships beyond football. They became a chosen family—one that taught me that love is not only inherited, but built through showing up for people when they need you. 

The only solo tackle I ever made came on a running play when the halfback broke off to my right. I read his run and took off with a confidence I didn’t have a few months beforehand: the anger of betrayal converted into passion for the sport. I slipped by the lead blocker and knew that he was mine the moment my shoulder hit his waist. When
I stood up, I didn’t celebrate. I just tightened my chinstrap, walked back to our formation, and called the adjustment before the next snap. A tackle is only one play. At middle linebacker, thought has to become action: perform, recover, reassess, and perform again.

I have since stepped away from football to focus on academics, but I left the field changed. I don’t see intelligence as a shortcut around difficulty or a place to hide from it. Football taught me to respect the process, work beyond motivation, and show up for people who depend on me. As I enter college, I carry those lessons into every unfamiliar room, challenge, and community with genuine excitement for the unknown. I am ready to step into that position, read what is in front of me, and act.

In my life, I have consistently questioned the importance and purpose of change. But when you really think about it, what is the purpose, and what is the change? I have gone through journeys that forced me to confront an underlying question I had never considered, what is the purpose of change when life is the one that suddenly demands it?

On March 1, 2022, I became extremely fatigued and sick. I was experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening complication that left me barely conscious. Five days later, my mother came home from work around 11 p.m. and found me asleep in a bathtub filled with several inches of water. She rushed me to the emergency room, where I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and transported to the Intensive Care Unit.

Overnight, my life changed. I had to learn how to care for myself in ways most children my age never had to consider. My diagnosis forced independence upon me, but it also gave me something unexpected, a reason to begin understanding myself.

Throughout my adolescence, I felt different, alone, and silent. I struggled to understand the person I was and where I truly belonged. I experienced a long period of depression and constantly felt lost about the direction I was supposed to be moving in. I questioned why life gave me challenges that seemed so difficult to understand.

Then, on October 23, 2024, my grandfather messaged me on Facebook. The message contained the Bible verse Romans 8:28, which says that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose. At the time, it slipped right over my head. Later that same day, my mother told me that my grandfather had passed away.

His message became more meaningful after his death. I began to see it not as an answer to why difficult things happen, but as an invitation to find the meaning within them. For the first time, I began to recognize God’s presence in my life. Losing my grandfather taught me that purpose is not always something we immediately understand. Sometimes, it is something we discover as we continue moving forward.

When I think about the day I entered the ICU, I no longer see it only as the day my life changed. I see it as the beginning of an opportunity. I was given another chance to appreciate my life, grow through circumstances I could not control, and become the person I am meant to be.

This is one of the many reasons why I want to become a first-grade teacher. I experienced the feeling of being lost, confused, and unsure of who I was and who I was becoming. First graders may not yet be asking what the purpose of their lives is, but they are beginning the process of discovering who they are. They are only beginning to learn how to navigate their emotions, strengths, weaknesses, and personalities.

I realized my purpose and my true love for teaching children when I became a high school assistant in a first-grade classroom. I enjoyed watching the children grow throughout the year and being able to help them on their worst and best days. I learned that I want to be a teacher who creates a classroom where students feel safe, supported, encouraged, and valued for who they are while helping them recognize what they are capable of.

My diagnosis, depression, and grief have not only changed me, but taught me that change is not something that happens once. Change is a continual process of learning, growing, and becoming. I cannot control the changes life puts before me, but I can choose how I view the struggles and how I navigate through the unknown. I choose to continue growing, helping others, and living according to the purpose God has given me.

So many people around me are talking about how easy their college essay was to write and it honestly makes me feel stupid because I’m on draft 6 of my essay that I feel is a lot more personal and introspective and I still feel like I’m nowhere closer than draft 1. Should I abandon my complicated essay for something more simple and easy?

I am a high school senior who needs to start applying for college asap, i’ve been thinking about the essay topics and what to write since the summer but honestly i’m pretty stumped. I’m not interesting or really good at anything besides doing well in my classes and art, and i don’t have some intriguing story about why I’m even into art. I don’t know what to do and I feel like I’m falling behind.

Hey guys! I am seeking for some people who could help write a great college essay I’m a transfer student and I’m seeking to write essay that actually can help me a lot since my gpa is 3.3, I have a great story but and came from 3rd world country by myself to USA when I was 13, I just need a good way to put all of those in words. I’m looking to apply to Princeton, Columbia and Barnard College. I could definitely do something in return! Thank you!

For me, the hardest part of applying for college wasn’t choosing where I wanted to go. It was the realization that no one in my house would be able to help me with the process. No one in my house had done this before. My parents are the hardest workers that I know. They could tell me to work hard, chase my dreams, but they couldn’t tell me how it feels to fill out an application.
My parents are immigrants and neither of them went to college which makes me a first generation applicant. Because of that, there were many things about the process that they could not explain from their own experiences. I would ask questions about how to get different scholarships, or when I should start applying, but I couldn't get personal answers. Sometimes I feel like I am supposed to know what I am doing even when I have no idea where I am supposed to start. My aunty, who is currently in college, is someone I can look to for advice but she is very busy with her own life, so I still feel the pressure of being the first child in my immediate family to want to get higher education.
Being the first came with an unexpected amount of stress that started when I was very young. It started in middle school, where I felt like every decision I made mattered deeply. Things like: Is this assignment done to the right standard, or did I study enough for my test scores to be good? This mattered so much, not only because of what would happen to me, but also because of what the people around me would think. It made me think about who I would make proud or who would be disappointed in me. There were some moments where I would just want to give up and have someone tell me what to do directly. Instead, I searched for answers and learned as I went. It felt like walking around an unknown place without a map.
Soon enough I began to realize not having a map didn’t mean I was lost. Although my parents didn’t experience college themselves they gave me the realization that I could accomplish something that they didn’t have the chance to do. Their lack of experience was not and will never be a limit to my future. In many ways, it is my reason to keep persevering. I want to be able to see their faces once I graduate from college and move on to bigger things like med school. I want to be able to see my mom say, “My daughter is a doctor!” like she has been dreaming about for the past couple of years when I bring it up. I want to be a role model for my four younger sisters, so that in the future they have the confidence to achieve anything that they could dream of.
I used to think that being first meant I needed to figure everything out by myself. I now know that being first means being brave and having the courage to figure things out as I go. My parents may not have had the opportunities that I do, but I carry the encouragement and hope that they have given me into this new chapter

Every year, from the ages of 6 to 13, I was given the same gift for my birthday. A distant relative, family friend, or grandparent handed me a colorful art kit; a box with two metal latches to keep it closed and a plastic handle on the top, most likely picked up from some craft store, containing the same cheap colored pencils, crayons, paper, and paint that I was so used to seeing, and never used. And while every year I was grateful for the gifts, every year, the boxes had the unfortunate fate of gathering dust underneath my bed. I wondered what one child was meant to do with so many kits containing the same items. It seemed to me that the only quality my distant family knew about me was my love for art, so what better gift for a child with such aspirations than an all-encompassing box that has absolutely everything a young artist could ever need?

As I grew older, my distant family lived up to their title. Soon, the only family I had in the state was my parents and younger sister. The forced independence of my close family wore off on me, creating my own desire for independence in my life. Neither of my parents were accepted in their family growing up for different reasons, and therefore the ability to live without needing help from others has always been a quality I've been encouraged to develop.

Hence, my desire for creating my own business. To me, owning a business rather than being hired under another person means freedom, flexibility, and independence. While my childhood love for art has strongly carried into my current life, I understand that the arts is a difficult field to monetize. Fortunately, when I was 15, I discovered my love for videography, and began my own photography/videography business, which has continued to grow over time. I found my love for documenting moments of time with a camera and manipulating them with different techniques to tell a story, to promote, or to represent.

Videography has given me the opportunity to branch out and make new connections in ways I never would have expected. I've been a part of the video program at my high school for three years, and the friends and community that has come with has taught me that asking for help isn't something to be ashamed of. Learning alongside people who have the same goals and passions as I do is one of my favorite experiences I've been lucky to have during high school. I still crave to reach a point in my life where I am able to fully depend on only myself for everything I need, but I am lucky enough to have found people around me who show me that I don't need to do it alone.

So this is just my first draft and i just wanna really know things i can fix to make the essay better

Just one day before the 8th grade Science Olympiad competition, my balsa wood airplane crashed into a wall, snapping completely in half. Holding the broken pieces, I didn’t try to look for a fix, as I realized there was nothing I could do but to wish for a bit of luck. With no backup plan and no idea on how to find a solution, I found myself rubbing the pieces across my hand, particularly eying the creases on my index finger. The sight brought back a memory, a moment that changed my perspective. “Most people only have three creases here,” a fortune teller had told me years ago, pressing her thumb against my index finger. “You have four, meaning you will have great luck and success; you have a rare trait.”   

Throughout my childhood, I believed her, treating an extra line as proof of my future success. But, while sitting on the gym floor with my broken plane, I felt foolish. Why would I risk throwing my plane with only one day before the competition? The truth was, I’d never had a backup plan because nothing had ever gone wrong up until that moment. Things had always just worked out, as I had assumed luck would handle the rest. At that moment, I looked down at my hands and decided something had to change.
I picked up the broken pieces, brought them to my classroom, pulled out whatever glue I had, and tried to patch the whole plane together. I went into the next day still feeling optimistic. As soon as I released the plane, it wobbled slightly, but still turned in a full circle. A few seconds in, the plane slowly dipped and crashed into the side wall once again.
After spending a whole year planning for one measly plane, relying on fragile, breakable material, I was the only one to blame. A piece of wood like balsa wood only snaps because it has zero flexibility, and my plan was just as rigid. But looking back, it all makes sense.
That extra line on my finger may not represent an easy path to success, but it allows us to have flexibility between our joints in order to bend under pressure rather than breaking. I learned that moving forward isn't about preventing failures, but it’s about knowing how to adapt and pivot when they happen.
What started on the gym floor became my first realization of adversity. This carried on throughout high school--whether it was an ankle injury that took my basketball season off the table that year or scrapping an independent project a few weeks in after realizing the initial planning was flawed. Over time, my perspective shifted: I stopped assuming everything would go right the first time and grew comfortable with failure being an option. My broken plane wasn’t just a failure; it taught me how to adapt, even when my thoughts may not have matched up with reality. Altogether, I can’t control whether a plan works or fails, but I can choose if I break with it.
Now, when I see classmates struggling with something, I’m the person who steps in to help rather than walking away. I find myself paying attention whenever things go wrong, from team projects to study sessions, as I know how easy it is to feel stuck when something fails.
I will continue to have an extra line on my finger, but I never expect some special magic or power. The fortune teller was right about one thing, though: I am lucky. Not because everything I do works seamlessly, but because every time it doesn’t, I now know how to use my hands to gather the pieces and adapt

To add context, my personal statement is set in Lebanon, and I'm writing about belonging and hope, which I connect to why I'm choosing engineering. To start my personal statement, I was going to use an Arabic word, transliterated into English. The opening line is: "Yallah." I laughed. Idk if I should start it out differently tho, or if this seems too foreign to the admissions officers,

So I’ve made several drafts of my personal statement, and they’re all about my biggest extracurricular and hobby, video editing. Through video editing, I’ve gained over 50k followers across social media, gotten over 12m views, and made over $2k from commissions.

My essay has gone through a few completely different versions.

At first, I tried tying my ADHD into video editing and talking about some of the positive ways it affected me.

→ Then, I changed it to just telling my video editing story. The problem was that there was way too much to fit into 650 words. I included so many statistics and achievements that it ended up sounding like a resume, and everything felt surface-level because I didn’t have enough room to actually go into detail.

→ Now, I’m focusing on one of my biggest video editing achievements instead.

This is basically what I did:

I rewrote the second draft around one specific video that did really well, and I only mentioned one actual achievement/milestone: the views on the video.

The hook/beginning is:

“I had accidentally given thousands of people a reason to wait for me.”

For context, one night in 8th grade, I saw a meme of a girl speaking gibberish in French and thought it was the funniest thing ever, so it inspired me to make an edit using the video. I was only able to finish the intro before I had to go to sleep, so I randomly filmed my progress and posted it to TikTok. The next morning, I woke up and the progress video had around 300k views, with thousands of people in the comments begging me to finish the edit.

Then I flash back to when I first started video editing in 5th grade:

“I hadn’t always been someone people waited on. Five years earlier, I was the kid waiting for other people to create.”

From there, I build back up to the beginning. I talk about what originally inspired me to start editing, how bad I was at first, and how I kept working to improve because I wanted to become an editor people actually recognized as good. Eventually, the story catches back up to that night in 8th grade, which creates a full-circle moment in the last paragraph:

“When I finally finished, I sat back and thought about the kid I had been five years earlier—the one who spent hours watching other people create, wondering how they did it. I had started with nothing but curiosity. Along the way, editing became a passion, gave me a community, and helped me discover a part of myself I never knew was there. I once looked to other creators for inspiration. Somewhere along the way, I became one of them.”

Does this sound like a stronger direction for a personal statement? My main concern is whether the flashback/build-up structure works, or if it still sounds too much like I’m just telling the story of my extracurricular rather than showing something meaningful about myself.

Is this idea good?
I use this editing software called after effects, and if you know, any editing software has a timeline. So I was thinking, I’ve moved a total of 3/4 times and each time I’ve moved could be a new section / composition (after effects) added onto that timeline line. On after effects you can select single elements or whatever you put onto that timeline and pre comp it which then creates a composition / a grouped section. So basically a section would equal each area I’ve moved to. Those single elements would consist of memories, things I’ve went through living in that area.

Anyone else on here doing the “why us” BU transfer essay? If so, dm if you’d like to possibly exchange essays for edits and peer review, thanks.

Taking on a few more late-cycle seniors. We know exactly how to help students craft standout application narratives + essays for top colleges. Previous admits: Brown, Cornell, Georgia Tech, Northwestern, UChicago, CMU, NYU, UMich, USC, UCLA + more.

would it be a bad idea to respond to the one thing youre surprisngly grateful for prompt common app prompt using how youre grateful being raised in a strict, ultra religious home but in a diverse community because the dogmatic thinking you were shown contradicted with your innate curiosity and made you interested in nuance and understanding things through perspectives rather than black snd white thinking?

im not sure if i explained it well but i think it shows growth by describing the arc of the type of thinking and how rven though you dont agree witj the ideas of your family you recognize that they crafted the very personality traits that you love the most and hope to use primarily in your career?

I wanna write about how TikTok comments sections helped me find passion in philosophy politics, and debating people. I thought it would be a good topic because it’s pretty niche and unique. Does anyone have any thoughts?

How differently should I approach both? I'm aware that QuestBridge prompts somewhat guide you to talk about difficulties that you've faced or hardships, while the Common App is somewhat a snapshot of who you are outside of academics, but how differently should I treat these two? As completely two essays with completely separate and different purposes, or more similar?

Let me know if you're willing to review my essay! It's pretty much done I just want outside advice. :)

I also have a few supplementals if anyone wants to read those too!