Use these real Common App essays to get inspiration for your own personal statement.
Straddling two cultures—my family’s traditional roots and my modern American upbringing—has shaped my worldview. Learning to navigate both has taught me adaptability and appreciation for diversity.
When I was 15, I realized that my life was split between two worlds. On one side was the traditional, tight-knit culture of my family, who had emigrated from Vietnam. My grandparents, who had fled the country as boat people decades ago, held fast to their customs, their language, and their values. They’d tell me stories about life before the war, the harrowing journey across the ocean, and the sacrifices they made to start over in America. On the other side was the fast-paced, modern world that I experienced at school and with my friends, where independence, ambition, and self-expression were prized above all else. Balancing these two vastly different cultures was not easy, but it was in this space between the two where I began to develop a unique perspective on the world.
At home, my family’s values were centered around respect for elders, duty to family, and an unwavering belief in hard work. My grandmother, in particular, was the keeper of our traditions. She taught me how to speak Vietnamese, how to prepare traditional dishes, and most importantly, how to carry myself with the dignity that she believed was essential to our identity. Every Lunar New Year, our home would be filled with the smell of bánh chưng, a dish we made together as a symbol of our shared heritage. My grandmother would tell me that no matter how far we were from Vietnam, we could always keep our culture alive through these simple acts.
Yet, the moment I stepped outside the house, I was thrust into a different world. At school, I was just another American teenager trying to figure out who I was. My friends had diverse backgrounds, and most of them didn’t share the same expectations or experiences that shaped my home life. They talked about weekend parties and the latest trends, while I was focused on balancing my family responsibilities with school. It often felt like I had one foot in the past and another in the future, constantly straddling two identities without fully belonging to either. I would spend my days surrounded by the open, individualistic culture of America, but return home each evening to the structured and collective environment of my family.
The challenge of navigating these two worlds reached its peak when I started high school. Suddenly, I had to make choices about my future—choices that reflected not just my own aspirations, but also the dreams my parents and grandparents had for me. They wanted me to pursue a stable career, one that would ensure financial security, and they pushed me toward fields like medicine or engineering. But at school, I found myself drawn to other subjects—literature, art, and history—that allowed me to explore different ways of thinking and understanding the world. These were areas my family didn’t quite understand or value, but they resonated deeply with me.
It took time, but eventually, I found a way to reconcile these two sides of myself. I began to realize that I didn’t have to choose between them. My family’s traditional values of hard work, respect, and resilience were not in conflict with my modern, American desire for self-expression and independence—they complemented each other. The skills I had developed from navigating two cultures—adaptability, empathy, and a deep appreciation for diversity—became some of my greatest strengths. I learned that I could honor my family’s sacrifices and traditions while also forging my own path. By straddling two cultures, I had gained the ability to see the world from multiple perspectives, and this has given me a deeper understanding of the people around me.
One of the most significant moments of this journey came when I decided to write an essay about my family’s history for a school project. For the first time, I interviewed my grandparents about their experiences fleeing Vietnam and starting over in America. I had heard bits and pieces of their story before, but this time, I listened more closely, asking questions that I hadn’t thought to ask when I was younger. What struck me most was not just the hardship they had endured, but the pride they took in their ability to rebuild their lives while holding on to their identity. It was then that I truly understood the depth of the values they had passed down to me.
As I move forward, I carry both cultures with me. From my family, I have inherited the importance of perseverance, humility, and loyalty. From my modern American upbringing, I have learned to be independent, open-minded, and unafraid to explore new ideas. These two cultures, rather than being in conflict, have given me a unique perspective that allows me to appreciate the richness of diversity and the complexity of the human experience. Straddling two cultures has shaped who I am today, and I am grateful for the lessons it has taught me. Now, as I look toward the future, I know that I am ready to embrace whatever comes next with an open heart and an adaptable mind.
A panic attack during a school presentation spiraled into a fear of public speaking. I took that fear head-on, and now I mentor younger students, showing them how to find their voice.
Every time I walked up to the front of the classroom, the walls seemed to close in around me. My palms would grow damp, my heartbeat would pound in my ears, and my throat would tighten as if it were closing off the air. The first time I had a panic attack while giving a presentation, I barely managed to stammer out a few sentences before I froze, unable to force another word. The silence was deafening. Eyes were on me, waiting. I stumbled through the rest, my mind blank, my fear consuming me, and by the time I sat down, I was shaking. That day, I thought I would never speak in front of people again.
For weeks after, I avoided any opportunity to present, answer a question in class, or even raise my hand. Public speaking became a dark shadow, lurking in the back of my mind, ready to pounce whenever someone called on me. It wasn’t just a fear anymore—it was something I deeply dreaded. The thought of standing in front of a room, the weight of everyone’s attention on me, became overwhelming. I believed my voice wasn’t strong enough, that I would only stutter or embarrass myself again. So I stayed quiet, hoping to go unnoticed, thinking that maybe I could get by without ever having to speak publicly again.
But that fear lingered. It followed me from the classroom to my extracurriculars, threatening to limit everything I wanted to achieve. When I joined a community service club, I realized that sooner or later, I would be expected to lead meetings, give presentations, and speak at events. I couldn’t escape it forever. That realization terrified me, but it also sparked something within me. I couldn’t keep running. I needed to face this fear, or it would control my life.
One Saturday, I decided to confront the fear head-on. I stood in front of a mirror in my room, practicing my speech for an upcoming event. At first, the words came out shaky and uneven, just like they had in class. My voice cracked, my hands fumbled. But this time, no one was watching. No eyes bore into me, no panic set in. I kept going, over and over again, repeating the lines until they felt familiar, until they flowed naturally. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was excruciating at first, but slowly, I felt a shift. With every word I spoke, the fear seemed to loosen its grip, just a little.
The first real test came a few weeks later at a club meeting. I had to present a project in front of the group, something I had been dreading since the beginning of the year. My hands still trembled, and my heart still raced as I walked up to the front. But this time, I was ready. I remembered the countless hours I had spent practicing. I took a deep breath, and instead of focusing on my fear, I focused on the message I wanted to share. My voice wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. I made it through the presentation without freezing, without panicking. That small victory felt like the world had shifted under my feet.
From that day forward, I kept pushing myself, slowly, one step at a time. I signed up for more presentations, volunteered to lead meetings, and even joined the debate team. Each time I spoke, I felt the fear shrink, bit by bit. It didn’t disappear overnight, but it no longer had the same power over me. And eventually, something surprising happened: I started to enjoy speaking in front of others. What once seemed like an impossible hurdle had become a way for me to express myself, to share ideas, and to connect with people.
Today, I mentor younger students who face the same fear that once controlled me. When I see the nervous looks in their eyes, the hesitation in their voices, I remember where I started. I teach them the same strategies that helped me—practicing in front of a mirror, focusing on their message, breathing through the nerves. And most importantly, I remind them that fear is something that can be overcome, one step at a time. Watching these students grow in confidence, finding their voice just as I found mine, has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
Public speaking no longer frightens me. Instead, it’s become something I embrace, a way to share ideas, inspire others, and make a difference. Overcoming the fear wasn’t just about speaking in front of a crowd—it was about discovering a strength within myself that I never knew I had. And now, whenever I stand in front of an audience, I no longer hear the pounding of my heart. I hear my voice.
Every Saturday, I cook with my grandmother. What started as a chore turned into a deep exploration of my heritage. Food has become the way I connect with my family and my identity.
Every Saturday morning, I’d wake up to the rich smell of butter sizzling in a cast iron skillet and the unmistakable aroma of fried chicken. I would shuffle into the kitchen to find my grandma, her gray hair pulled back in a scarf, her hands moving deftly as she stirred pots and mixed batter. She’d hum an old gospel tune under her breath, and without a word, I’d grab an apron and join her. What started as a chore, something I did begrudgingly at first, soon became a ritual—our time together, our way of connecting not just to each other, but to the generations that came before us.
My grandma grew up in the South, and her cooking reflected the heart and soul of that region. Every dish she made had a story, every ingredient a purpose. "You can’t rush good food," she’d say, her voice soft but steady, as she showed me how to knead dough for biscuits or simmer greens just right. I didn’t fully understand it back then, but these meals weren’t just about feeding our bodies—they were about preserving our history, our culture, and our family’s identity. The kitchen was where I first learned about the strength of my ancestors, how they took simple, often discarded ingredients and turned them into something delicious, something that brought people together.
At first, I saw our Saturday cooking sessions as just another task—something to get through so I could go hang out with my friends. I didn’t appreciate the weight of what we were doing. But over time, something changed. One day, as we prepared a Sunday dinner feast of collard greens, fried catfish, and cornbread, my grandma started telling me stories. Stories of growing up in the segregated South, of picking cotton in the fields, of gathering with her family for meals after long, exhausting days. She spoke of my great-grandmother, who had passed down these recipes, and of the strength it took to keep these traditions alive through hardship. Suddenly, these Saturday mornings felt like more than just cooking—they were a bridge to my past, a way to connect to the women who came before me.
I began to take more pride in our kitchen rituals, learning not just the how, but the why behind every dish. My grandma taught me that food was love, that every meal we prepared together was a way of showing care and respect for our family. We weren’t just cooking—we were preserving our culture, honoring the struggles and triumphs of those who came before us. Each dish was a symbol of resilience, a reminder that no matter how tough life got, we always had each other, and we always had home.
One Saturday, while we were baking sweet potato pie, I asked my grandma if she ever got tired of cooking. She paused for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked at me with a knowing smile. "Baby," she said, "this is more than cooking. This is how we survive. This is how we remember who we are." Her words struck me deeply, and from that moment on, I began to see our Saturday mornings not as a chore, but as a gift. Each recipe was a lesson, each meal a story. Through food, my grandma was teaching me about our heritage, about the power of family, and about the importance of staying rooted in who you are.
As the years passed, I found myself craving those Saturday mornings in the kitchen more and more. I started asking my grandma to teach me the finer details—the perfect balance of spices in her gumbo, the secret to her flaky buttermilk biscuits. I wanted to learn it all, to carry on the traditions she had spent a lifetime perfecting. Cooking became my way of connecting not just to her, but to my family’s history. It became a way for me to ground myself in a world that sometimes felt uncertain.
One Saturday, as we finished up a batch of peach cobbler, I noticed my grandma moving a bit slower, her hands not as steady as they once were. The realization hit me that our time together in the kitchen wouldn’t last forever. I suddenly felt an urgency to soak up every story, every recipe, every lesson she had to offer. The food we made together had become more than just sustenance—it was a part of me, a part of my identity. It connected me to the past and gave me strength for the future.
Now, as I stand in the kitchen on my own, recreating her dishes, I can still hear her voice guiding me: "Take your time, don’t rush, and always cook with love." I’ve come to understand that these meals are a way of keeping her with me, of honoring the traditions she so lovingly passed down. Every Saturday, as I stir a pot of gumbo or pull a pie out of the oven, I feel a deep connection to my family and to the culture that shaped us. Through food, I’ve found my voice, my heritage, and my identity.
Cooking with my grandma taught me that food is far more than just something to eat—it’s a way of telling our story, of remembering where we come from, and of carrying our history forward. Her legacy lives on in every meal I prepare, and I am grateful for the lessons she imparted to me, both in the kitchen and in life. Through food, I have discovered who I am and the importance of keeping our family’s traditions alive for generations to come.
Who knew that video games could teach you about leadership, strategy, and teamwork? Through competitive gaming, I’ve learned how to build strategies and lead a team in high-stress situations.
When I was thirteen, I discovered the world of competitive video gaming. It started when I joined a local gaming tournament with a few friends, just for fun. Little did I know, that day would mark the beginning of a journey that would teach me lessons I never expected to learn from a screen. I’d always enjoyed video games, but this was different. This was about strategy, leadership, and teamwork. As I dove deeper into competitive gaming, I realized that the fast-paced, high-stress environment of these games demanded skills that extended far beyond just having quick reflexes.
The first game that hooked me was "League of Legends," a complex, team-based strategy game. It wasn’t long before I was spending hours each day studying the game, watching professional players, and practicing with my team. Each match required us to make quick decisions under pressure, communicate clearly, and adapt to our opponents’ strategies. I quickly learned that having a plan was essential, but being flexible enough to change that plan in real time was just as important. One minute we’d be pushing toward the enemy base with full momentum, and the next, we’d be on the defensive, trying to recover from a surprise attack. Every move had to be calculated, and every mistake could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
At first, I wasn’t a leader. I preferred to play my role, focus on my character, and leave the big decisions to someone else. But as I gained more experience, I started to notice gaps in our team’s communication. We’d lose matches because no one took the lead when things got tough. That’s when I decided to step up. I started calling plays, organizing our team’s movements, and giving clear instructions during crucial moments. It wasn’t easy—there were times when I doubted myself, and not every decision I made was the right one. But I quickly learned that leadership wasn’t about being perfect; it was about staying calm under pressure, making the best decision with the information you have, and taking responsibility for the outcome.
Through gaming, I also discovered the importance of trust and teamwork. In a game like "Overwatch," each player has a specific role—whether it’s healing, tanking damage, or dealing out attacks. No single player can win a match on their own; we all depend on each other to do our jobs. I learned to trust my teammates, even when things weren’t going well, and to keep communication open and positive. If someone made a mistake, we didn’t dwell on it—we focused on the next play. I realized that the strength of our team wasn’t just in our individual skills, but in how well we worked together, how well we adapted to challenges, and how much we believed in each other.
One of the most surprising things I learned from competitive gaming was how to handle failure. In the world of video games, you lose more often than you win, especially when you’re pushing yourself to improve. There were matches where we were completely outplayed, where no strategy seemed to work, and where it felt like we’d never get better. But instead of giving up, I learned to approach each loss as a learning opportunity. We’d review the match, analyze what went wrong, and figure out how to improve for the next one. This mindset—of always striving to get better, even in the face of defeat—has become a core part of who I am. It’s taught me resilience, patience, and the value of persistence.
As I continued to play and improve, I started mentoring younger or less experienced players, helping them understand the game’s mechanics and strategies. I remember the first time I coached a new player through their first competitive match. They were nervous, just like I had been, but after guiding them through a few key decisions, they started to find their rhythm. Watching them grow more confident and skilled reminded me of how far I’d come, and it made me realize how much I enjoyed helping others succeed. Teaching them was a way for me to give back to the community that had taught me so much.
Competitive gaming has taught me lessons that go far beyond the virtual world. I’ve learned how to lead a team under pressure, how to build and adapt strategies in real time, how to trust others, and how to turn failure into growth. These skills have shaped not only how I approach gaming but also how I approach challenges in my everyday life. Whether it’s a group project at school or a difficult personal decision, I now have the confidence to take the lead, the patience to trust the process, and the determination to keep pushing forward, no matter how tough things get.
Looking back, I never would have guessed that a video game could teach me so much about leadership, teamwork, and resilience. But through gaming, I’ve developed skills that I know will carry me forward, both in and out of the game. Today, I’m still competing, still learning, and still growing as a leader. And who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll take these lessons to a different kind of arena, one where the stakes are even higher and the challenges even greater. But for now, I’m proud of how far I’ve come, and I’m excited for the journey ahead.
Folding paper into complex shapes has been my favorite hobby for years. It taught me not just creativity, but also precision, patience, and problem-solving—skills I now use in my academic life.
A myriad of colorful papers litters my desk, each square a potential masterpiece. As I fold the edges together with care, a familiar feeling washes over me—calm, focused, and excited. This is my happy place. My passion for origami started with a simple crane, but it has since evolved into an art that defines who I am as a Korean-Japanese individual.
I remember the first time my halmeoni (grandmother) taught me how to fold a paper crane. She handed me a piece of paper and, with patient guidance, led me through the steps. “This is not just paper,” she said in Korean, her voice soft yet firm. “Each fold carries intention.” It was a lesson I didn’t fully understand at the time, but over the years, it has shaped the way I approach both origami and life.
Jeonlyag: Strategy. With every fold, I learned that the slightest misalignment could throw off the entire design. At first, my cranes were a bit crooked, their wings uneven, but I refused to give up. I spent hours refining my technique, meticulously ensuring that each crease was perfect. This precision became my guiding principle—not just in origami, but in my academic life as well. Whether I’m solving a challenging math equation or writing a lab report, I approach each task with the same careful attention to detail. My teachers often praise my thoroughness, and I know that it’s the mindset I developed through origami that allows me to excel.
As my skill grew, so did the complexity of my designs. No longer satisfied with simple cranes, I began tackling multi-piece modular structures and intricate tessellations. These advanced designs require a different kind of thinking—problem-solving and strategy. When I encounter a difficult step, I don’t give up. I experiment with different folds, trying to see the problem from various angles. It’s a mindset I carry with me in all areas of my life. When a school project becomes overwhelming, I break it down into smaller, manageable pieces, just as I do with my origami. Each fold is a step closer to the final product, each small success a building block for something greater.
Tamgu: Exploration. Over time, I began exploring the world of origami beyond traditional designs. I taught myself how to fold dragons, flowers, and complex geometric shapes, often using YouTube tutorials in both English and Japanese to expand my skills. The language barrier was a challenge, but it also became an opportunity. I started learning Japanese phrases through origami tutorials, trying to understand the meaning behind the terms like "ori" (fold) and "kami" (paper). This opened a deeper connection to the culture behind the art, blending both my Korean and Japanese heritage. My mother’s Korean stories and my halmeoni’s Japanese traditions came together in the delicate folds of paper, each one representing a piece of who I am.
Daehwa: Conversation. Origami has also become a way for me to connect with others, especially within my family. My halmeoni and I now fold paper together every time she visits, sharing stories of her childhood in Japan and her own memories of making paper cranes as a young girl. My mother also joins in, reminiscing about her experiences growing up in Korea. These conversations mean everything to me. It’s through these moments that I’ve come to appreciate how art can bridge generations and cultures. My friends at school often ask me to teach them how to fold their favorite animals, and it feels rewarding to share something so personal with them. Origami has become more than a hobby; it’s a way for me to connect with my roots and the people I care about.
Hundreds of paper creations now fill my room, each one a memory, a moment of learning, or a conversation shared with family. Through origami, I’ve discovered a world where creativity meets precision, where patience leads to mastery, and where even the most complex problems can be solved, one fold at a time. Like the intricate models I create, my experiences with origami have shaped me into someone who values careful planning, creativity, and perseverance. As I look to the future, I carry these lessons with me, ready to embrace whatever challenges and opportunities come my way—one fold at a time.
I’ve always been a perfectionist, but learning how to let go—whether of an argument, a failed project, or an expectation—has allowed me to grow and pursue new opportunities fearlessly.
Perfect grades, spotless notebooks, and meticulous plans.
These were the pillars of my life as I entered high school, driven by an intense need to control every aspect of my academic and personal world. I believed that if I could just maintain this level of perfection, success would always follow. However, my tightly controlled vision of success began to crumble when I encountered situations that I simply couldn’t predict or manage. Failed group projects, unexpected challenges, and even disagreements with friends left me feeling anxious and defeated. It was then that I realized: no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t control everything. This realization marked the beginning of my struggle to let go—of perfection, of control, and of unrealistic expectations.
At first, I fought against it. I doubled down on my efforts to ensure everything I did was flawless, rejecting any sign of failure. But the more I resisted, the more frustrated I became. Eventually, my rigid approach to life proved unsustainable, and I found myself emotionally drained. In an effort to regain balance, I reluctantly decided to change course: I would try to let go, even if it terrified me.
Guided by this new mindset, I began to embrace imperfection. I stopped obsessing over every tiny mistake on my math tests, allowing myself to learn from them instead. In group projects, I started trusting my teammates to contribute, rather than trying to do everything myself. This shift wasn’t easy—there were plenty of moments when I wanted to take control again—but I found that letting go allowed me to enjoy the process rather than obsess over the outcome. For example, I discovered my love for art through painting, something I never would have attempted before for fear of “doing it wrong.” Now, painting became an outlet where I could experiment, make mistakes, and enjoy the freedom of creativity without needing every brushstroke to be perfect.
However, the tension between my desire for control and my newfound practice of letting go didn’t disappear. It became clear that letting go wasn’t just about accepting failure, but about finding balance. Through this journey, I realized that letting go was like pulling back the curtain on my true self. My perfectionism had been a shield, a way to avoid vulnerability, but letting go allowed me to connect with others on a deeper level. I found that I didn’t need to be perfect to be loved or accepted. In fact, it was through my imperfections—my willingness to try new things, my openness to failure—that I discovered the joy of collaboration and connection.
For me, these realizations came through my involvement in different communities. I found a sense of belonging in the theater club, where I learned that the best performances often came from embracing spontaneity and creativity. My time in the robotics team showed me that innovation requires a willingness to fail and try again. I also became a peer mentor, helping younger students navigate the challenges of high school. Through these experiences, I saw firsthand how letting go of rigid expectations allowed for growth, not just for myself, but for those around me.
Although these ventures may seem scattered, they have collectively taught me the art of balance and the power of vulnerability. The rush of performing on stage, the excitement of seeing a robot we designed finally work, the quiet satisfaction of helping a struggling student—these moments are what I want to carry forward into my future. In the end, my struggle between perfectionism and letting go wasn’t resolved by choosing one side over the other, but by learning how to find balance between the two. Through this journey, I discovered that letting go doesn’t mean giving up—it means giving myself permission to grow in unexpected and meaningful ways.
Poetry isn’t just an art form for me—it’s a way to understand the world. Writing and reading poetry has taught me to find meaning in the small things, and I’m excited to bring that perspective to college.
I’ve been a lover of words for as long as I can remember. It started when my grandmother, my *dadi*, recited poems to me in Hindi during my childhood. Her voice, rich with emotion, would fill the room as she shared stories of India’s monsoons, festivals, and village life. Even though I didn’t fully understand the depth of her words at the time, I was captivated by the rhythm and flow of the poetry. It felt like magic—how a few lines could paint vivid pictures of places and people I had never seen.
As I grew older, my fascination with poetry deepened, and I began writing my own poems, trying to capture the world around me. My first poem, written in third grade, was about a mango tree—an ode to the summers I spent visiting my grandparents in India. It was simple, but it sparked something inside me. Poetry, I realized, wasn’t just about describing the world; it was about understanding it. Through poetry, I could find meaning in the everyday, from the way sunlight filtered through leaves to the quiet moments of family prayer at the temple.
By middle school, I was immersed in the works of poets from all over the world, from Rabindranath Tagore’s spiritual verses to Sylvia Plath’s raw emotions. I filled notebooks with my own poetry, experimenting with different forms and styles, blending the imagery of my Indian heritage with my experiences growing up in America. I wrote about my *dadi’s* stories, the aromas of spices wafting from the kitchen during Diwali, and the feeling of being caught between two cultures. Poetry became my way of processing the duality of my identity—how I could be Indian at home, speaking Hindi and eating *rotis*, while also navigating the American world outside.
In high school, I joined the school’s literary magazine, eager to connect with others who shared my love for writing. I started submitting my poems, and some were published in local anthologies. One of my most personal poems, about balancing Indian traditions with my American upbringing, even won a regional award. But more than the recognition, I found a community. We discussed the power of language, the use of metaphor, and how poetry could be a form of activism, healing, or simply a way to tell our stories. It was in these moments that I understood poetry was not just about the words on the page—it was about connection, about using language to bridge gaps between people and experiences.
Spoken word poetry became my next step. I started performing at local poetry slams, standing on stage with my heart racing, but as soon as I spoke my first line, a calm settled over me. The response from the audience was electric, and it reinforced my belief in the power of poetry to move people. After one performance, a woman approached me, telling me how my poem about growing up as a first-generation Indian American mirrored her own experiences. That moment stayed with me—it showed me that my words could create a space where others felt seen and understood.
Writing poetry has shaped the way I see the world. It has taught me to pay attention to the details, to find beauty in the smallest things—a fleeting glance, the scent of jasmine during summer, the sound of rain on a tin roof. Poetry has also allowed me to explore the complexities of my identity, to embrace both my Indian and American sides without feeling like I have to choose one over the other.
In the end, my journey through poetry has been about self-discovery and community. From the simple verses I wrote about mango trees to the more complex pieces about culture, family, and belonging, each poem has been a way for me to understand the world and my place in it. As I look forward to college, I’m excited to bring my perspective to new communities, to continue exploring through writing, and to connect with others who share a love for storytelling. Wherever I go, poetry will remain my guide, helping me find meaning and connection in the world around me.
Need help coming up with essay ideas?
Try our college essay idea generator