Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:Wow those seem cringe. Is that what top colleges really want to see - some sort of metaphor for life, deep thinking type of creative writing exercise? My kid just wrote about their hobbies and interests and how they’re going to contribute to the campus community…but doing the standard reach/target/safety thing.

Yes, a lot of them are extended metaphors.
Didn't you see the Romanian cooking essay posted here?

Anonymous wrote:Yikes. My DC has been working on an essay since January that’s an extended metaphor related to food and her chosen major. I thought it was creative but now it seems like a dime a dozen.

Also, “three things clumped together” is how everyone writes, especially at work.

Anonymous wrote:The problem with AI is that its likely pulling from the same source? So the Asian grandma and sizzling rice probably came from here?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOKmfNMiGNI

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:What kind of services do you offer?

- were these for apps due this week or months from now? If the former, I don’t know of experienced/well know essay readers who take on last minute clients so I’m assuming you took on last minute clients (which says something about you AND the kid) or were lax in mandating earlier deadlines from your clients.

- what did you do for these clients other than post about it here?

Op here. Sorry - just back here now after the last few ED are in today.

I posted that this weekend as an FYI only - after conducting "Application Reviews" for the last fourteen days (our national firm takes on a fixed number of these in late October and late December, and it's somewhat easy to spot these issues). These clients were not full or comprehensive clients - just applicants who purchased ED1/EA reviews (Michigan was the most common EA school) and were hoping for a marked-up Common App. I provided each of them with comments over the last week or so; it's unclear what the final product looked like when submitted. Had I (or anyone else) read or been involved with the personal essays earlier, I'm confident they also would have spotted these issues.

I stand by the robotic nature of AI-influenced essays - the candidates were from around the country, and all sounded eerily similar - in a way that generally has not happened before. The AI glaze, as I call it, is real. Your eyes glaze over, and there is nothing at all memorable other than the "sizzling rice" or "spitting oil".

Anyway, the original point was for parents to read those personal statements. They shouldn't sound great or perfect. They should sound like a conversation with your kid - and tell the AO something important about them. GL to all of your children over the application season.

If the kid has done some decent ECs, they should be able to develop an essay from what they learnt from their ECs, I doubt it the essay would be anywhere close to robotic. Even if they use AI to improve their essay, the content would still be highly highly specific and authentic.

"sizzling rice" or "spitting oil" sounds like the applicant has done nothing in high school.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:My kid is at Princeton and they shared college essays their first few months of schools. It started when seniors back in HS asked my kid about his essay and he asked his roommates, etc.

Long story short - they were all pretty meh. Sizzling rice w grandma. Commutes from poor neighborhood to rich one.. The books on my bookcase spanning diary of a wimpy kid to Cervantes. Tutoring this immigrant taught me about linguistics

This stuff doesn't matter as much as people think

This did not happen.

Anonymous wrote:Yikes. My DC has been working on an essay since January that’s an extended metaphor related to food and her chosen major. I thought it was creative but now it seems like a dime a dozen.

Also, “three things clumped together” is how everyone writes, especially at work.

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:Yikes. My DC has been working on an essay since January that’s an extended metaphor related to food and her chosen major. I thought it was creative but now it seems like a dime a dozen.

Also, “three things clumped together” is how everyone writes, especially at work.

+2 listing 3 things in a row is very common in all writing. Em dashes are fine in essays, especially if you are trying to reduce the word count. I wouldn’t use more than 2 or maybe 3 em dashes in the Common App personal essay though.

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.

YES, I have used em dashes and the rule of 3s for a long time. Annoying.

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.

YES, I have used em dashes and the rule of 3s for a long time. Annoying.

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.

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 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 wrote:Yikes. My DC has been working on an essay since January that’s an extended metaphor related to food and her chosen major. I thought it was creative but now it seems like a dime a dozen.

Also, “three things clumped together” is how everyone writes, especially at work.

Anonymous wrote:

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