The Stranger’s Supplement

Sarah opened a new document and typed: “Why Yale?”

She had written this essay fourteen times. Once for Yale, obviously. But also for Princeton (“Why Princeton?”), for Stanford (“What makes Stanford right for you?”), for Duke (“Why Duke?”), for Northwestern, for Penn, for Vanderbilt. The prompts were all variations of the same question, and Sarah had fourteen variations of the same answer.

She knew the formula. Research three specific programs. Mention two professors by name. Reference one unusual campus tradition that showed she’d done her homework. Express how her past experiences aligned perfectly with their institutional values. Close with a vision of her future self thriving on their campus.

For Yale, she wrote about Professor Chen’s research in cognitive neuroscience, the residential college system, and how her experience founding a mental health awareness club had prepared her to contribute to Yale’s community of scholars. She wrote about reading articles from the Yale Daily News. She wrote about imagining herself in Sterling Memorial Library, surrounded by history and possibility.

It was a good essay. Her college counselor said so. It was specific, genuine, and demonstrated clear fit.

The problem was that she had also imagined herself in Princeton’s Firestone Library, surrounded by history and possibility. And in Stanford’s Green Library. The libraries were different buildings, but the image was the same: Sarah, alone with books, becoming someone.

She submitted the Yale essay on November 1st. Then she opened a new document and typed: “Why Princeton?”

By December, she had written twenty-three “Why Us?” essays. The Google Doc was titled “WHY US — MASTER LIST” and contained a color-coded spreadsheet. Blue text: professor names. Green text: specific programs. Yellow highlights: unique campus details that couldn’t be accidentally repeated across schools.

Her friend Maya asked her, in the cafeteria one day, why she wanted to go to Yale.

Sarah’s mind went blank. Then she said, “Professor Chen’s research in cognitive neuroscience.”

Maya blinked. “Okay, but like… why do you want to go there?”

Sarah opened her mouth. The answer was in the essay. She had written it. She knew she had written something true, something about community and intellectual curiosity and the residential college system creating intimate spaces within a larger university. But sitting across from Maya, with her lunch tray between them, she couldn’t remember why any of that mattered.

“I don’t know,” Sarah said finally. “It’s a good school.”

That night, she opened the Yale essay and read it again. It was still good. The sentences flowed. The details were specific. But as she read, she had the strange sensation that she was reading about someone else — a girl named Sarah who loved cognitive neuroscience and residential colleges, who had founded a mental health awareness club because she was passionate about destigmatizing mental illness.

Sarah had founded the club, this was true. But she had founded it because her counselor said colleges liked founder stories. She had maintained it for two years, organizing events and leading meetings, and somewhere in that time, she supposed she had become passionate about mental health awareness. Or maybe she had just become good at talking about it.

She closed the document and opened a new one: “Why Northwestern?”

The formula worked. She wrote about Professor Martinez’s journalism program, about Medill’s community of storytellers, about how her experience as editor of the school newspaper had taught her the power of narrative. She wrote about imagining herself at The Rock, painting it in the middle of the night with her future classmates.

The essay was due in two hours. She submitted it. Then she sat very still and tried to remember if she had ever actually wanted to be a journalist.

She had been editor of the school newspaper. This was a fact. She had written articles, edited copy, managed a staff of fifteen students. Her favorite article had been about the school’s new mental health resources — she’d interviewed three counselors and five students. People told her it was powerful. Her counselor said it showed leadership and social consciousness.

But had she enjoyed it? She tried to remember enjoying it. What she remembered was the relief of having something substantial to put in the “Activities” section, the satisfaction of seeing her name in print, the way her counselor had smiled when she mentioned she was editor-in-chief.

Her mother knocked on the door. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Sarah said. “I just submitted Northwestern.”

“That’s wonderful, honey. Why Northwestern?”

Sarah looked at her mother. She could recite the essay. She could talk about Medill and Professor Martinez and The Rock. But her mother wasn’t an admissions officer. Her mother was asking a different question.

“I’m not sure,” Sarah said.

Her mother frowned. “You just wrote an essay about it.”

“I know.”

In January, Sarah received an interview request from Yale. She prepared by reading her “Why Yale?” essay and memorizing the key points. When the interviewer — a woman in her forties who had graduated from Yale twenty years ago — asked Sarah why she wanted to attend, Sarah delivered her answer smoothly. Professor Chen. Residential colleges. Mental health awareness.

The interviewer nodded, wrote something down. Then she asked: “But what draws you to Yale specifically? What is it about Yale, and not another excellent university, that makes you want to spend four years there?”

Sarah felt something inside her collapse. She had answered this question. She had just answered it. Professor Chen was at Yale. The residential college system was Yale’s system. These were specific things.

“I…” Sarah started. She looked at the woman’s face, trying to read what answer she wanted. “I think Yale’s emphasis on community within a larger research institution really aligns with my values.”

It was a sentence from her essay. She heard it come out of her mouth and recognized it, word for word.

The interviewer wrote something else down. They talked for another thirty minutes. Sarah said all the right things. When it ended, the interviewer smiled and said she’d submit a positive report.

Sarah walked home in the dark. It was January, and the streets were empty. She tried to remember when she had started performing. Was it the first “Why Us?” essay? Was it earlier — the moment she’d chosen to found the mental health club instead of joining an existing one? Was it the day she’d decided to take AP Biology instead of Studio Art because colleges preferred science?

She thought about the girl in her essays — the Sarah who loved cognitive neuroscience and journalism and residential colleges. That Sarah had clear passions. That Sarah knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. That Sarah would thrive at Yale or Princeton or Stanford.

Real Sarah stopped walking and stood under a streetlight. She tried to list things she liked. Not things that looked good on applications. Not things that demonstrated leadership or intellectual curiosity. Just things she liked.

The list wouldn’t come.

She had been so busy becoming the kind of person colleges wanted that she had forgotten to notice what she herself wanted. Or maybe she had never known. Maybe that girl had never existed. Maybe there was only this: the essays, the interviews, the carefully constructed narrative of passion and purpose.

When she got home, there was an email from Vanderbilt. They wanted to know if she was still interested — demonstrated interest was very important to their admissions process. Could she please respond to confirm her continued enthusiasm?

Sarah opened her “WHY US — MASTER LIST” and found the Vanderbilt essay. She read it. The Sarah in this essay loved collaborative learning environments and wanted to study neuroscience through a liberal arts lens. She had specific reasons for wanting to attend Vanderbilt, and she expressed them with conviction.

Sarah clicked reply and typed: “Yes, I remain very interested in Vanderbilt.”

She sent the email. Then she opened a new document and stared at the blank page.

She tried to write: “This is who I actually am.”

But she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Outside her window, the streetlights buzzed. Her computer screen glowed. Somewhere in the document folder on her laptop, twenty-three different versions of herself waited in twenty-three different essays, each one convinced of different passions, each one certain of different futures.

Sarah closed the document without saving it.

She opened her calendar. Tomorrow she had an interview with Princeton. She would need to reread that essay tonight, remind herself which Sarah she needed to be.

The cursor blinked on her screen: an empty white space where a person should be.

Photo by Mike Yukhtenko on Unsplash