Robotic AI essays

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:Essays are stupid. So many ridiculous unwritten rules about what to write about and what not to write about. At this point the process of writing and reviewing essays seems to be little more than fancy random number generator, except that a lottery would feel fair while this process seems designed to stress kids out and make them feel bad.

100 percent correct

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.

I am admitting this student/AI. What software did you use?

[Anonymous]

A simple search identified many similar essays. LLM cannot create new stuff, only reassemble from the old.

Complete failure if you are using thsi one.

The “Grandma’s Kimchi” College Essay — Focuses on the author’s grandmother making kimchi, then dealing with Alzheimer’s, and the narrator reflecting on memory, tradition and identity.

College Essay: Knowing My Grandmother — The writer watches their grandmother cook, explores family legacy, storytelling, and how that inspires their future aspirations.

Grandma’s Delicious Recipes: My Baking Journey with My Grandmother — A student describes baking with grandmother, experiences of illness, and uses the cooking motif to link to a future goal (medicine).

My Grandmother’s Kitchen — A descriptive essay about memories in grandmother’s kitchen, architecture, family meals, and what it means to the writer.

Grandma’s Cooking — More of a straightforward memory essay: family meals, grandmother’s cooking, and the warmth of tradition.

Grandmother College Essay Examples — A collection of essays on grandmothers/heritage; while not all are “cooking” themed, they show the pattern of using the grandmother figure and family tradition in college-essays.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:Honestly, everything sounds like AI to me now. I don't think I can even tell the difference. All these "tell tale signs" of AI are things I have done my whole life. I am super annoyed I can't use em-dashes anymore.

I use em dashes and colons and semi-colons and I am highly bothered by the fact that I'd be called out for being an imposter.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:AI is great and everyone's using it. The end.

Every single person‘s kids essay has some element of this stuff in it.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.

I would admit the Grandma. The grandkid sounds like a perfectionist dime a dozen, so I'd only admit her if her stats/ECs and teacher rec's are crazy good.

WhY? What did you learn abt the grandma other than she doesn’t hesitate when cooking and as a result is continually burned.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:Honestly, everything sounds like AI to me now. I don't think I can even tell the difference. All these "tell tale signs" of AI are things I have done my whole life. I am super annoyed I can't use em-dashes anymore.

I use em dashes and colons and semi-colons and I am highly bothered by the fact that I'd be called out for being an imposter.

It doesn't sound like you've used AI that much. The models I work with never use semi-colons. They do love em-dashes, but again, it's not the use of em-dashes per se, it's the way they use them in very predictable ways. Lots of single em-dashes toward the end of a sentence. After reading a lot of it, the syntax is the giveaway, not the dashes.

[Anonymous]

So if 50% of essays sound like this, then the AO would know what’s not AI?

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I’m an IEC.

I’ve read the same variation of 3 essays in more than two dozen apps on the last week and a half (cooking and ingredients as metaphor for how kid approaches life; Asian grandma cooking & sizzling rice imagery; neighborhoods walks revealing one’s values).

Kids do not realize how obviously AI they are and now they all follow the same exact format. It’s awful.

I don’t care how beautiful the writing is… The format of the essay is exactly the same and how the layers are revealed.

If your kid gets rejected or deferred from their early choice, please have them redo their personal essays. These are all red flags.

You are not a counselor.

The first thing about an essay is authenticity. Asian grandma and cooking is not authentic at all. How is it realted to one's passion, interest, and motivation? Didn't they say don't talk about race in essays?

If they were a counselor they would know that no one uses the acronym “IEC” nor would they expect anyone in the field to know what that is.

[Anonymous]

Is there a way to get the AOs to update a counter every time the grandma story was submitted? I'm curious to see how many kids tried it.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:A simple search identified many similar essays. LLM cannot create new stuff, only reassemble from the old.

Complete failure if you are using thsi one.

The “Grandma’s Kimchi” College Essay — Focuses on the author’s grandmother making kimchi, then dealing with Alzheimer’s, and the narrator reflecting on memory, tradition and identity.

College Essay: Knowing My Grandmother — The writer watches their grandmother cook, explores family legacy, storytelling, and how that inspires their future aspirations.

Grandma’s Delicious Recipes: My Baking Journey with My Grandmother — A student describes baking with grandmother, experiences of illness, and uses the cooking motif to link to a future goal (medicine).

My Grandmother’s Kitchen — A descriptive essay about memories in grandmother’s kitchen, architecture, family meals, and what it means to the writer.

Grandma’s Cooking — More of a straightforward memory essay: family meals, grandmother’s cooking, and the warmth of tradition.

Grandmother College Essay Examples — A collection of essays on grandmothers/heritage; while not all are “cooking” themed, they show the pattern of using the grandmother figure and family tradition in college-essays.

This year the winners would the ones who come up with unique topic.

AOs will use GPT (ironically) to determine whether the author is stir frying some left over rice from last century.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I’m an IEC.

I’ve read the same variation of 3 essays in more than two dozen apps on the last week and a half (cooking and ingredients as metaphor for how kid approaches life; Asian grandma cooking & sizzling rice imagery; neighborhoods walks revealing one’s values).

Kids do not realize how obviously AI they are and now they all follow the same exact format. It’s awful.

I don’t care how beautiful the writing is… The format of the essay is exactly the same and how the layers are revealed.

If your kid gets rejected or deferred from their early choice, please have them redo their personal essays. These are all red flags.

You are not a counselor.

The first thing about an essay is authenticity. Asian grandma and cooking is not authentic at all. How is it realted to one's passion, interest, and motivation? Didn't they say don't talk about race in essays?

If they were a counselor they would know that no one uses the acronym “IEC” nor would they expect anyone in the field to know what that is.

NP. Many professionals in the business use the term IEC especially if they have invested in their education.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.

This is an auto reject.

Why though?

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.

I am admitting this student/AI. What software did you use?

I'd rather now say (it's pretty expensive per month - I use it for work). But I am now having fun ripping into AI personal statements (I don't have a kid going through the process right now, so I have that luxury, I suppose).

Here's one I just asked for: asking for a different take on a cliche essay topic (if Asian cooking grandma is #1, what's #2) - sports injury (soccer, kid was goalie at a small private high school). I made no changes to the output.

___________

The pop in my shoulder was quieter than I expected. No dramatic crack, no scream—just a soft, wet sound that somehow I heard over the roar of the crowd. I was airborne, diving for the ball, when my arm caught the post at the wrong angle. The penalty shot sailed past me into the net, but I barely noticed. I was too busy watching my senior season disappear.
At Riverside Academy, we don't have a football team. Soccer is Friday nights. Soccer is homecoming. The entire school—all 340 of us—crowds the bleachers, and for those ninety minutes, we're not just a small private school in suburban Connecticut; we're a community united by something bigger than calculus tests and college applications.
And I was supposed to be the anchor of that community. Captain. Starting goalkeeper for three years. The guy with Division III scouts watching from the sidelines.
"Six to eight weeks," the orthopedist said. "No contact sports this season."
I did the math in my head. Our season was ten weeks long. By the time I could play again, we'd be lucky if we were still in contention for playoffs. Most likely, my high school soccer career was over.
The first week, I showed up to practice in my sling and sat in the bleachers. Coach Mendoza said I didn't have to come, that I should focus on healing. But where else would I go? Soccer had been my identity since freshman year. Without it, I wasn't sure who I was supposed to be.
From the bleachers, I saw things differently. I watched Jake, our backup keeper, freeze during one-on-ones, his footwork all wrong. I saw our defense drift too far forward, leaving gaps I used to yell at them to cover. And I realized something: I could still see the game. I just couldn't play it.
"Jake's dropping his hands too early on high shots," I told Coach after practice.
Coach looked at me for a long moment, then handed me a clipboard. "You've got practice on Thursday. Teach him."
So I became something I never expected: a coach. Every practice, I worked with Jake on positioning, on reading the striker's hips, on the split-second decision of when to come off the line. I filmed our games on my phone and made cut-ups of defensive breakdowns, which we'd watch during lunch in Ms. Morrison's empty classroom.
"Why are you helping me?" Jake asked once. "I took your spot."
"You didn't take anything," I said. "We're on the same team."
The truth was more complicated. Watching Jake improve, seeing our defense tighten up because I'd taught them to communicate better, gave me something I didn't expect: purpose without performance. I'd always measured my value in saves, in shutouts, in scouts' nods from the sidelines. But from the bench, in street clothes, I was learning that contribution doesn't always show up in the box score.
We made it to the state semifinals—the furthest Riverside had gone in twelve years. Jake played the game of his life, making seven saves in our 2-1 loss to the eventual champions. When the final whistle blew, my shoulder ached from jumping and cheering, and my voice was hoarse from screaming instructions from the sideline.
In the locker room afterward, Coach gathered us together. "This season was special," he said. "Not because of how far we got, but because you learned what it means to be a team. You learned that everyone has something to contribute, even when it doesn't look like what you thought it would."
He was looking at me when he said it.
The thing is, I did get recruited. Not by the D-III schools that used to scout me, but by something better: by the eleven guys who voted me captain even though I never played a game senior year. By Jake, who wrote in my yearbook that I made him the goalkeeper he never thought he could be. By the understanding that my value to the team wasn't in my athletic ability alone—it was in my knowledge, my leadership, and my willingness to serve the team in whatever capacity they needed.
On homecoming night, they gave me a jersey with "COACH" on the back and let me walk out with the seniors for the coin toss. The crowd cheered, not because I'd made some incredible save, but because I'd shown up, day after day, to give everything I had to something bigger than myself.
That's the save I'm most proud of—the one where I saved my own understanding of what it means to matter.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:I used a paid version of AI (the highest payment tier) and gave it this prompt:

Can you tell me what the Asian grandma personal essay is that lots of candidates have been getting paid AI help with? Using words like spitting oil and sizzling rice? Is there a sample essay you can provide to give me a sense for what everyone is saying is a pervasive themed essay this cycle?

If not, then draft a personal essay about cooking with your Chinese grandmother. sizzling rice. Spitting oil. vivid imagery. What I learned. Go.

__________

The oil hits the wok with a violent hiss, spitting droplets that dance across the stovetop like tiny meteors. My grandmother doesn't flinch. At seventy-eight, Lao Lao has been baptized by hot oil more times than she can count, each scar on her weathered hands a testament to decades of feeding our family.
"Too timid," she scolds in Mandarin, watching me hover the spatula above the rice. "Food doesn't respect fear."
I push the day-old rice into the wok. It crackles and pops, each grain turning from pale to golden as it meets the heat. The kitchen fills with the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and my own inadequacy. In school, I calculate derivatives and write essays about Shakespearean tragedy. But here, in Lao Lao's narrow Queens kitchen, I am still a student struggling with the most fundamental lesson.
She learned to cook during the famine years, when a handful of rice was more precious than gold. "We couldn't waste even one grain," she tells me, her gnarled fingers teaching mine how to fold the egg into the rice with precision. Every movement is economy. Every ingredient, purpose.
I watch her dice scallions with a cleaver that's older than my mother, each cut so uniform they could have been measured with calipers. There are no recipe cards here, no measuring cups. Just instinct honed over decades, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her, and now—if I can learn to stop being afraid of the heat—to me.
The rice sizzles, releasing steam that fogs my glasses. I used to think this was just fried rice, something I could order for $8 from the place down the street. But as Lao Lao guides my wrist through the tossing motion, I realize I'm learning something that can't be delivered in a takeout container.
"In cooking," she says, "you must commit. Add the ingredient or don't. Hesitation makes everything soggy."
It occurs to me that she's not just talking about fried rice.
At school, I'm the student who triple-checks every answer, who reads each essay prompt five times before starting. I've built a life around certainty, around right answers and clear rubrics. But standing here, with oil spitting at my forearms and the smell of toasting garlic filling my lungs, I'm learning that some of life's most important knowledge comes from instinct, tradition, and the courage to lean into the heat.
Lao Lao tastes the rice with the wooden spoon, nods once, then ladles a portion into my bowl. It's not perfect—some pieces are slightly scorched, others not quite crispy enough. But it's mine.
"Next time, better," she says, already washing the wok. "But this time, good enough to eat."
I take a bite. The rice is hot, savory, alive with flavor. And for the first time in her kitchen, I'm not afraid of burning.

I am admitting this student/AI. What software did you use?

I'd rather now say (it's pretty expensive per month - I use it for work). But I am now having fun ripping into AI personal statements (I don't have a kid going through the process right now, so I have that luxury, I suppose).

Here's one I just asked for: asking for a different take on a cliche essay topic (if Asian cooking grandma is #1, what's #2) - sports injury (soccer, kid was goalie at a small private high school). I made no changes to the output.

___________

The pop in my shoulder was quieter than I expected. No dramatic crack, no scream—just a soft, wet sound that somehow I heard over the roar of the crowd. I was airborne, diving for the ball, when my arm caught the post at the wrong angle. The penalty shot sailed past me into the net, but I barely noticed. I was too busy watching my senior season disappear.
At Riverside Academy, we don't have a football team. Soccer is Friday nights. Soccer is homecoming. The entire school—all 340 of us—crowds the bleachers, and for those ninety minutes, we're not just a small private school in suburban Connecticut; we're a community united by something bigger than calculus tests and college applications.
And I was supposed to be the anchor of that community. Captain. Starting goalkeeper for three years. The guy with Division III scouts watching from the sidelines.
"Six to eight weeks," the orthopedist said. "No contact sports this season."
I did the math in my head. Our season was ten weeks long. By the time I could play again, we'd be lucky if we were still in contention for playoffs. Most likely, my high school soccer career was over.
The first week, I showed up to practice in my sling and sat in the bleachers. Coach Mendoza said I didn't have to come, that I should focus on healing. But where else would I go? Soccer had been my identity since freshman year. Without it, I wasn't sure who I was supposed to be.
From the bleachers, I saw things differently. I watched Jake, our backup keeper, freeze during one-on-ones, his footwork all wrong. I saw our defense drift too far forward, leaving gaps I used to yell at them to cover. And I realized something: I could still see the game. I just couldn't play it.
"Jake's dropping his hands too early on high shots," I told Coach after practice.
Coach looked at me for a long moment, then handed me a clipboard. "You've got practice on Thursday. Teach him."
So I became something I never expected: a coach. Every practice, I worked with Jake on positioning, on reading the striker's hips, on the split-second decision of when to come off the line. I filmed our games on my phone and made cut-ups of defensive breakdowns, which we'd watch during lunch in Ms. Morrison's empty classroom.
"Why are you helping me?" Jake asked once. "I took your spot."
"You didn't take anything," I said. "We're on the same team."
The truth was more complicated. Watching Jake improve, seeing our defense tighten up because I'd taught them to communicate better, gave me something I didn't expect: purpose without performance. I'd always measured my value in saves, in shutouts, in scouts' nods from the sidelines. But from the bench, in street clothes, I was learning that contribution doesn't always show up in the box score.
We made it to the state semifinals—the furthest Riverside had gone in twelve years. Jake played the game of his life, making seven saves in our 2-1 loss to the eventual champions. When the final whistle blew, my shoulder ached from jumping and cheering, and my voice was hoarse from screaming instructions from the sideline.
In the locker room afterward, Coach gathered us together. "This season was special," he said. "Not because of how far we got, but because you learned what it means to be a team. You learned that everyone has something to contribute, even when it doesn't look like what you thought it would."
He was looking at me when he said it.
The thing is, I did get recruited. Not by the D-III schools that used to scout me, but by something better: by the eleven guys who voted me captain even though I never played a game senior year. By Jake, who wrote in my yearbook that I made him the goalkeeper he never thought he could be. By the understanding that my value to the team wasn't in my athletic ability alone—it was in my knowledge, my leadership, and my willingness to serve the team in whatever capacity they needed.
On homecoming night, they gave me a jersey with "COACH" on the back and let me walk out with the seniors for the coin toss. The crowd cheered, not because I'd made some incredible save, but because I'd shown up, day after day, to give everything I had to something bigger than myself.
That's the save I'm most proud of—the one where I saved my own understanding of what it means to matter.

Same comments as before

Em-dashes

Set of 3 things clumped together