(August 2025)
Lately, I’ve been working with my second-oldest on his college Common App essay. (And if you’re a parent of a high school junior or senior, let me offer this advice: if your school or community offers a one-week Common App writing course—and time and finances allow—take it. They’re fantastic.)
I feel somewhat qualified to help, given that I’m a professor of English. And yet I also feel wildly unqualified, given that I’m his mom. In my experience, the fewer outside roles we try to play in our kids’ lives, the better.
If you’re wondering what the Common App is—or if you’re old enough to remember when college applications meant paper, envelopes, and stamps—it was created in 1975 by a group of 15 private colleges but didn’t really take off until it went digital in 2007. Since then, its essay component has gone through many phases, from 25-word responses to submissions in comic strip form. Today, it’s a 600-word essay based on one of seven open-ended prompts.
My son and I recently spent an evening brainstorming topics. Fortunately for him—and I say that sincerely—he hasn’t experienced the kind of trauma that tends to anchor many college essays: the loss of a parent, a major illness, a devastating failure, or an against-all-odds success story. (Not to diminish any of those topics—they’re valid and powerful—but when you don’t have one, finding a meaningful story can be a tougher task.)
It ended up being a great conversation about who or what has shaped him. He landed on a topic that felt “good enough” to get started—and honestly, with enough revision and feedback, I think it’s going to be more than good enough. I’m excited to see where it goes.
But while he was typing away, I got stuck on the idea of the essay itself.
There’s something a little ironic about asking 17-year-olds to write reflectively about their lives. I love reflection—I assign it weekly in my college classes. But it’s a big ask for someone who hasn’t yet lived two full decades, someone who can’t vote, rent a car, or legally sign most contracts. To distill your life into a single story or insight at 17 feels… both profound and slightly absurd.
I think we should all be required to re-read our Common App essays every ten years—at 30, 40, 50—just to remember what it felt like to stand on the edge of everything. To smile at what once seemed monumental, now a footnote. A faded photo. A blip.
Of course, that got me thinking: what would my 600-word essay be today? What event or person would I choose? What moment, in the blur of days and decades, has shaped me most?
My son and I continue our weekly Common App dates—he writes and worries and wonders; I toggle between English professor, cheerleader, and mom. At some point, we’ll call it done and hit submit. And then his future will begin to play out before my very eyes.