So I finished up my essay, felt very proud of it. Then someone yesterday, on A2C and here, posted that they would like to add some tips to essays. I was like, "why not," not thinking. And just sent it to him. He didn't respond and now his post on A2C got taken down. And his account has existed for 77 days.

So now I'm scared. My essay is pretty unique, but still. Should I be worrying?

I have just finished writing my common app essay. Applying to film major in liberal arts colleges as an international student. I’m not sure this is the final-final version, but it’s definitely one of the last drafts. Please tell me what you think about it!!

Especially Americans. I need to know if it sounds natural.

Guys, I'm done with the first drafts of my personal essay, and I'd like people to help me review and edit them. Please can y'all help me. I have a deadline of October 20th.

So I’m stuck in between choosing two essays and I don’t know which would be better for applying to these schools being UMD College park, Towson University, Temple university, College of Charleston, and Appalachian State University.

My first essay pick is:

The Strings I Choose to Pull

I hold the strings to countless lives, each woven from ink, imagination, and possibility. With a tug, a character takes a step forward. With a twist, their world changes. I sit behind the curtain, watching their stories unfold, deciding which paths they should follow to become who I want them to be. Yet, as I guide my characters through unfamiliar worlds, I have begun to realize that I am also discovering my own.

Many days, I find myself doing something ordinary when a situation suddenly takes shape in my mind. I imagine how someone might react to a difficult choice, what could happen if one decision changed, or how a relationship might survive a challenge. Then, I begin asking myself how I could place my characters in that situation. In my web novel, “Villain To Hero?: Rehab University”, these questions become the foundation of my storytelling. I move characters like Pomu, Juro, and many others through possibilities, exploring how their choices shape who they will become and how this could affect them.

However, my characters are more than puppets on a stage. Growing up, I often felt out of place, as though I struggled to find where I truly belonged. Three certain friends in my life helped me feel more complete, reminding me that I did not have to face everything alone. That experience influences how I write Pomu and Juro, who continue to stand by each other through uncertainty and hardship. Through their relationship, I explore the importance of having someone who understands you, especially when the world makes you feel like an outsider. Writing their bond allows me to turn my own feelings into something meaningful rather than leaving the readers lingering for these feelings the characters harbor.

For a long time, I also worried about disappointing the people who followed my stories. If readers cared about a character, I hesitated to put that character through difficult trials that could shape them drastically. I imagined their reactions and wondered whether they would understand my decisions. Eventually, I realized that trying to satisfy everyone could prevent me from telling an honest story. A puppeteer who fears every movement cannot bring a performance to life. My characters need the freedom to make mistakes, experience consequences, and discover unexpected paths. I must be willing to take creative risks, even when I cannot predict the outcome.

This willingness to explore possibilities also connects to my interest in paleontology. Juro and his siblings possess dinosaur powers, and developing their abilities encourages me to think about prehistoric life beyond the facts I already know. I imagine how their powers might function, how their bodies would adapt, and how the traits of ancient creatures could influence their behavior. These fictional questions reflect my curiosity about how prehistoric animals lived and survived. Although writing and paleontology are different pursuits, both encourage me to investigate possibilities, ask questions, and build a deeper understanding of the world.

As I work toward becoming a paleontologist, I hope to carry this curiosity beyond my stories and into extensive scientific research. I want to study prehistoric life, explore evidence of fossils from the past, and contribute to our understanding of creatures that once inhabited Earth. My imagination may begin with Juro having a dinosaur related power, but it motivates me to learn more about the real animals that inspired him.

I return to my keyboard, gathering the loose threads of another idea. My characters wait at the edge of their next adventure, and I begin to write. I cannot control every consequence, nor can I guarantee that every choice will be understood. What I can do is approach each decision with purpose and curiosity. I may be the puppeteer, but the stories I create have taught me how to navigate uncertainty, understand connection, and keep exploring. Wherever my strings lead, I intend to follow them.

While my second essay is:

I hold the strings to countless lives, each one woven from ink, imagination, and possibility. With a tug, a character takes a step forward. With a twist, their entire world changes. Some strings lead toward redemption; others tighten around choices they cannot undo. I sit behind the curtain, watching the consequences unfold, wondering which threads I should cut and which deserve to remain.

 My fingers hover over the keyboard, but my mind is turning like a cog thinking of the next steps.

 Pomu stands at a crossroads, carrying the weight of everything they have endured. Juro follows a path I have carefully laid before him, unaware of the obstacles waiting around the corner. Quinn drifts into the spotlight, and I begin to wonder whether readers will grow fond of them. Each character moves along the threads I have spun, yet the more I develop their stories, the more difficult it becomes to decide where those strings should lead.

In my web novel, Villain To Hero?: Rehab University, I can pull a character backward, return them to an earlier scene, and change a single decision. A different conversation, a moment of hesitation, or an unexpected betrayal can send the entire plot spiraling in another direction. I watch each possibility unfold in my imagination before choosing which version deserves to reach the page.

 Sometimes, I let the strings lead somewhere darker. I imagine a future without Juro, watching the remaining characters struggle to find their footing in a world that no longer has him. Their choices change. Their relationships shift. The story bends beneath the weight of his absence. My fingers pause. Is this the direction I want to take, or am I simply testing how much my characters can endure?

 Then another thought creeps in. What will my readers think?

 I imagine someone staring at the screen, rereading a passage they never expected to encounter. Will they understand why I pulled that particular string? Will they recognize the purpose behind my decision, or will they close the story, unwilling to follow me any further? I picture the characters my readers have grown attached to, their stories tangled with the expectations of people who want to see them succeed.

 For a while, I treated those expectations like invisible hands guiding my own. I hesitated before making difficult decisions, searching for a path that would satisfy everyone. If readers loved a character, why risk disappointing them? Why disturb a story they enjoyed?
But a puppeteer who fears every movement will never bring a performance to life.

 I cannot keep every character safe from hardship or guarantee that every decision will be welcomed. If I allow the fear of disappointing my audience to dictate every movement, then I am no longer directing my story. I am simply following someone else’s script.

 That realization changed how I write. I still treasure the people who follow my work. Their enthusiasm encourages me to return to the keyboard, even when the next chapter feels impossible to untangle. Yet I have learned that caring about my readers does not mean surrendering every creative decision to them. I must understand why I pull each string, even when I cannot predict what will happen after the curtain rises.

 Ansel may fall. Juro may make a decision that leaves readers questioning everything they thought they knew about him. Pomu may find hope in a place I never expected. I cannot promise that every outcome will satisfy everyone, but I can make sure each one serves a purpose.
I return to my keyboard, gathering the loose threads of my imagination. The characters are waiting, their futures suspended between countless possibilities. I take a breath and begin to write.

 I may be the puppeteer, but every story demands that I take a chance on where its strings lead. And as long as there are new paths to explore, I will keep pulling them.

Im a senior in high school and I’m looking for College Admission Officers to grade and help me improve my college essay.

ive posted a few of these a couple of months ago and all my ideas were a total flop according to reddit, so ive been really thinking and writing on this new topic and I wanted to share it! Pls lmk if u guys think this is decent and if anyone can read my essay (its already done-ish... I havent had anyone edit or read/give me feedback!)

the whole idea starts with me sitting beneath a tree and each branch represents a future. I never choose a branch, I just sit there comparing each one. one looks promising yet too much work, another is a passion but not secure enough (u get the idea.) This whole mindset of never dedicating to something or pushing through with a plan followed me thru highschool until i decided to start a club where Id go to elementary schools and teach them the importance of brushing teeth and all that. What was supposed to just be a resume filler actually turned into something i really enjoyed. I loved connecting with the kids and it was something i actually loved doing and wished someone had done that with me at their age. I wrap it up with basically saying im still not certain on what the rest of my life is supposed to look like, and I dont think anyone does even though everyone pretends they do. But instead of constantly stressing on the next 20 years of my life, i should just focus on the next step

the ending is basically :

Maybe another branch would’ve led somewhere better.

I’ll never know.

I just know I couldn’t stay beneath the tree forever.

pls lmk ur thoughts!

I’m a Yale ‘30, got in RD and also to Cornell, Columbia, Brown, Dartmouth, and misc other top schools. I’ve won and placed in various national writing competitions and have self-published 2 novels.

I am genuinely just bored and not associated with any colleges admissions dept or some “professional” college consulting service.

I have nothing to sell you, so I will be genuinely honest and critical. I’ll read entire applications too. Send what you want in my dms, and I’ll give my best advice and reasoning. Because i’m not getting paid, don’t expect me to spend hours helping you, I just want to give direction and my opinions.

TLDR: Dm me your essays, I feel like giving back to the community that helped me perfect mine.

i think i have a decent essay but i’d like more people to read it and give me their thoughts before the fau deadline tomorrow! please let me know!

I need someone to review my personal essay can someone do it for me ??

Hello, please lmk if you could review my essay. Thankyou!

Title. I'll DM it to you if you're down.

Hello everyone, I have a draft of my personal statement ready for review, and am looking for feedback preferably from someone with a little experience, any help is greatly appreciated!

The essay focuses on a metaphor to origami and compares it to uncertainty, just to get an idea of what I wrote about.

Would anyone be willing to review my JHU supplements? Thanks!

What was your first reaction, thoughts or basically what question popped in your head?

Opening line/hook of my personal essay

I am just trying to get some feedback on my draft. I am not a great writer so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. You can just DM me!

hey need someone to read my essay before i submit it. plz dm if you can help tysm!!!

it's rlly the last thing I need to look over and I'm also not the best when it comes to rereading my work. The paragraph on music is really where I'm worried the most but I wanted to include it as it's a big thing on my application as well as something in my life

For years, three strands of hair defeated me. 
Every YouTube tutorial had made it seem simple: divide the hair into three sections, cross one strand over another, and repeat. They were basic instructions that anyone should be able to follow. Yet, when ten-year-old me sat on the cold tile floor, my arms wobbled like jello from being raised above my head, and my fingers seemed entirely incapable of cooperation. The black, frizzy strands slipped apart. Three sections multiplied into six, tangling together, and refusing to resemble the neat braids I admired on my peers.
Most young girls learn how to do their hair from their moms. I didn't. My mother has sleek, silky, black hair that seemed to obey every brushstroke, while mine had other plans. The New York summer heat made my long, thick waves expand with the sticky humidity, knotting overnight into a ball of waves. Because my hair texture was entirely different from her own, my mother simply didn’t know how to handle it, and eventually she stopped trying to learn. Navigating my hair became a solo mission inside a home where everyone else seemed to fit a specific mold. I became used to my Vietnamese relatives making comments about my hair, and over time I became accustomed to their teasing. They would affectionately call my kinky mess tóc như cái tổ chim (bird’s nest) or tóc dựng ngược  (bedhead), followed by some lighthearted laughter. I began to believe that there was something fundamentally wrong with my hair, and by extension—with me as well. 
Braiding seemed to be the solution to my unmanageable chaos, a way to hide my texture and avoid comments. So I tried for a while, sitting on the same cold tile floor, bingeing beginner tutorials, hoping one would just click. Every attempt ended the same way: loose sections, escaped strands, snapped hair ties, and cramped hands. Eventually, I stopped trying altogether.
At fifteen, however, I picked up the hairbrush once again, tired of trying to fit into someone else’s standards. I was back on the bathroom floor; my first attempts were still atrocious. My shoulders ached while the familiar urge to quit rushed back in. 
A braid finally held, but it was far from perfect: the tension was uneven, and wavy strands stuck out at odd angles. Yet, looking in the mirror, I felt a new sense of pride. 
For years, I believed that success came from natural talent, that if something did not come easily, it was not meant for me. I fell into a trap of perfectionism, looking at others and only seeing their results. However, it was through music that I quickly learned that the performance people saw on stage was built on a foundation of mistakes that they never heard. The audience never saw the unglamorous side of performing: the countless hours of practicing the same measure until my embouchure ached, or the metronome repeating the same beat constantly. I wasn’t born with talent; I had to earn it through hours of slow practice, sore fingers, cracked notes, and the patience to keep trying when things fell apart. Even then, I am still not perfect. 
 For a long time, I thought I had failed at learning how to braid my hair. The braid was never waiting for me to become more talented, more coordinated, or more confident. It was waiting for me to become patient with myself. 
Now, when I stand in front of the mirror, my hands move automatically. Three strands. Cross. Repeat. 
Sometimes I think about the ten-year-old girl sitting on the bathroom floor, surrounded by broken hair ties and half-finished tutorials, convinced she just wasn’t capable of doing it.
I wish I could tell her to keep going. 
But then again, I guess she did.

Pls DM if you think you can help. just need some general feedback!

I need peer suggestions. Any comments would be appreciated :)

i’ve literally had no idea what to write about for months now but ive kind of settled on one topic. I’m writing about how people who don’t know me may view me as someone who’s constantly occupying themself with activites or things to do to keep them busy, which is true, but using my giant stuffed animal (who’s a sloth) represent a slower paced, isolated side of me that i also enjoy.

Ok guys I have been putting the common app essay to the back burner for a very long time but tonight I have somewhat of a draft going on. What are your guy's thoughts> (Essay Down Below)

Learning to Be Seen

I stared at the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. I needed to use the bathroom, but I couldn't bring myself to raise my hand. I wasn't worried about my teacher saying no. I was worried about the eyes that might follow me across the classroom. What if someone laughed? What if somebody said something? Looking back, it's strange how much I overthought something so simple. But at the time, waiting for the bell seemed easier than risking another embarrassing moment.

Growing up, I was the short, overweight kid who always seemed to be the target of someone's jokes. "Stink Stink" and "Piggie" were nicknames I heard almost every day. Even when nobody said anything, I worried about what they might be thinking. I started avoiding situations where I might draw attention to myself. I hated being in pictures, worried about speaking up, and constantly wondered how others saw me. Eventually, I became more comfortable being unnoticed than being myself.

As I approached high school, I began changing physically. I grew taller, lost weight, and started spending more time at the gym. Slowly, something unexpected happened. The nicknames disappeared. Classmates who once made fun of me started talking to me normally. People who had barely acknowledged me before suddenly wanted to get to know me.

For years, I believed that changing my appearance would change how people treated me. In some ways, I was right. What I hadn't expected was how little my own mindset would change.

Despite looking different, I still carried the same insecurities. I could have a normal conversation with someone and still find myself wondering what they really thought of me. It confused me that people could change their opinions of me so quickly while I struggled to change my own.

One rainy afternoon, I was working out at my local recreation center. Between sets, I sat on a bench with my head down. When I looked up, I caught my reflection in the mirror across the room.

For a few seconds, I barely recognized myself.

I thought about the younger version of me who had spent years wishing he could look different. My first reaction was shock. I couldn't believe how much had changed. Then came a feeling of relief, like a weight I'd been carrying for years had finally been lifted off my shoulders.

That afternoon wasn't the moment every insecurity disappeared. But it gave me a chance to recognize how far I'd come. I began thinking about how much of my life I'd spent trying to become someone other people would approve of. I'd put so much energy into worrying about their opinions that I rarely stopped to ask what I actually wanted.

Over time, I started making choices for myself. I made more friends, became more comfortable expressing my personality, and stopped avoiding things simply because I might be judged. I even began feeling comfortable being in pictures, something I once dreaded. I wasn't suddenly the most confident person in the room, and I still have moments when I overthink things. But I was beginning to enjoy being myself rather than constantly worrying about how I appeared to everyone else.

Recently, I found myself in a familiar situation. I was sitting in class when I needed to use the bathroom. Without giving it much thought, I raised my hand, asked my teacher, and stood up. I walked out of the classroom without worrying about who might be looking.

Years ago, I would have sat there watching the clock, counting down the minutes until I could leave without anyone noticing. This time, I didn't even think about it.

Nobody else would have noticed the difference. But I did.

And for once, that was enough.