Can you see your teen’s story the way colleges do?
When you open a student’s essay draft, it can feel a bit like watching one of those baking competition shows.
You know… all the right ingredients are technically there, and that gorgeous salted caramel cake could pass for one from StickBoy (my favorite bakery up near App State). But somewhere between the mixing bowl and the oven, the flavor disappears. The contestant stands tall, proud, grinning—and then the judges taste it. Their faces say it all. You can almost feel the sting through the screen as they call it what it is: beautiful, but bland.
That’s the maddening part, right? Everything should work. Your teen’s story makes sense, the grammar’s solid, the message is clear.
effort ✅ structure ✅ heart ✅
But it’s missing that “I can taste this kid’s personality” moment that makes admissions readers smile and nod with recognition.
That spark doesn’t come from adding more spices (or adjectives). It comes from the tiny, nearly invisible, and unexplainable choices you can encourage your teen to bake into that essay so that it turns out unforgettable (unlike grocery store cakes 🫣).
So let’s peek into the essay kitchen for a second — at these subtle shifts that quietly separate good essays from the ones that make readers whisper, “We need this kid on our campus.”
1. The “Three Ingredients” Rule
When students write about something important to them, they often go broad — summarizing months or years of effort with sweeping statements.
“It was hard.”
“I learned a lot.”
“I grew as a person.”
Sure, these are neat and tidy — but they taste like air.
What your teen needs is specificity. It gives an essay dimension, depth, and personality. It makes the reader feel it. It’s the difference between a story you skim and a story you feel.
Here’s how this plays out on the page:
Let’s take this sentence:
As I got older, gymnastics became more intense. There was a lot of pressure on me, especially to get new skills.
Why it flops:
This could be anyone’s story. It tells us the pressure existed but gives us no clue what that actually looked like for this specific gymnast — the sweat, the repetition, the hunger to advance.
Improved version:
As I started middle school, gymnastics became more intense. I felt a lot of pressure to acquire new skills, perfect my routines, and advance to the next level.
Why it shines:
Now we can see the pressure. “Acquire, perfect, advance” — three tiny specifics that anchor the emotion in action. Swapping “as I got older” for “as I started middle school” pins the story to a real moment in time — something vivid and concrete instead of vague and forgettable.
It’s no longer an almost meaningless summary; it’s a scene you (and the essay reader!) can picture.
That’s the “Three Ingredients Rule.” Key statements need three specifics that give it weight, warmth, and flavor. (<<< See what I did there?!?) Without them, it’s just broth pretending to be soup.
2. Simplify to Strengthen
Once teens hit revision mode, something fascinating happens: they start writing for imaginary English professors instead of real people.
Every fall, I see teens pull the same stunt: they open a thesaurus and go full Shakespeare. Suddenly, “I tried really hard” becomes “I exerted substantial fortitude in the pursuit of…” — and us readers all need a nap.
They think “big words” make them sound college-ready. In reality, they just make them sound like they’re trying too hard—and readers can feel it.
Here’s an example of how easily meaning gets buried:
Look at this sentence:
I took one final breath and threw every ounce of my being over the precipice, cascading down at what felt like Mach speed.
Why it sinks:
It’s over-seasoned. The emotion gets buried under too much frosting. The reader’s brain stalls out halfway through “precipice.”
Improved version:
I took one final breath and threw myself over the sheer drop, falling at Mach speed.
Why it soars:
It’s cleaner, faster, and confident — like the moment itself. The language still has power, but now the image leads.
Clarity is the real flex. The best essays don’t try to prove the writer's intelligence — they trust their smarts will show up naturally in how they bring their story to life and the way they make sense of their experience.
3. Proof, Not Proclamation
Every draft I read has that one line where a teen declares a personality trait like it’s breaking news:
“I’m determined.” “I’m brave.” “I’m a leader.”
But if you have to announce it, it’s not going to land.
That’s what I call proof, not proclamation. Show me a scene that proves it, and I — and every other reader — will believe you every time.
Let’s look at what’s wrong with this sentence:
I was there to test my limits, and if I were to back down, then I would be allowing fear to decide my future, which I would not allow to happen because I have always been a fighter.
Why it sputters:
It’s stuffed with big ideas but no oxygen. One sentence trying to hold six thoughts. The heart of it — courage — gets lost in a sea of words. It sounds rehearsed, like a motivational poster. Readers tune out because they’ve read a hundred versions of it before.
Improved version:
I was there to test my limits, to see what I was capable of. If I backed down now, I’d let fear win. No way. I couldn’t live with that. I was a fighter.
Why it hits:
Short. Punchy. Human. The rhythm moves. We feel the grit instead of hearing about it. She doesn’t lead by saying she’s a fighter — she proves it. By the time she finally says the words, we already feel it. And when readers feel something for themselves, they believe it.
That’s what separates an essay that’s a collection of a lot of nice words from one that leaves a mark.
Why Editing Is Near Impossible
When It’s Your Own Kid
Parents have a front-row seat to their child’s entire story. You’ve watched every version of this amazing human unfold — the confidence, the nerves, the growth.
And that’s exactly what makes it so hard to read their essay objectively. When you read their essay, your brain automatically fills in all the backstory — even if it’s not on the page. Of course you understand what they mean. You’ve lived it with them.
You see your teen’s heart and hear their laughter in the background. But an admissions reader just gets the words on their computer screen.
That’s where I step in — part coach, part head chef — helping your teen turn solid ingredients into something that rises, shines, and leaves a great taste in the reader’s mouth.
Through my one-to-one editing sessions, we take what’s already there—the heart, the story, their spark—and shape it so it reads just as vividly to someone who’s never met your teen as it does to you.
In just a few hours, “fine” quietly turns into something truly tasty.
With heart, humor, and just the right amount of sparkle,
Christy
👋 Hi, if we haven't met yet, I'm Christy. I help students craft standout essays so they can submit their best possible applications with confidence.
Wanna chat? www.calendly.com/easiercollegeessays/30min
