It’s the summer before senior year and you’re set on becoming a Princeton tiger, all ready to stride through FitzRandolph Gate next August—or honestly insert your dream school. One obstacle remains though, you’re being asked to collapse your values, achievements, personality, identity, skills, and aspirations into the tiny question boxes with character limits. No brainer, right?

Looking back to my own college application struggles in the fall of 2022, certain advice still sticks out. Below, I’ll summarize five guiding principles that helped me the most.

1. Know who you are. 

College applications ask students to articulate a sense of self that can be the most difficult aspect of applying. What’s your deepest belief? What’s something you talk about for hours on end? What do you do with your friends? If you have answers to these questions, they’ll translate into a compelling story.

2. Do your homework. 

There’s no formula for piecing together the professors, student groups, classes, research institutes, and social components that make Princeton right for you. Chat with current students, learn about the school's research focuses, read about the senior thesis. Is there a professor that recently published a paper that sparked controversy on philosophy Twitter? Make it clear you’ve made an effort. Through this you might also find clarity on which schools shouldn’t be on your list.

3. Envision the future. 

While many kids hold national titles or start nonprofits, I think applications are less about raw achievement and more about your vision for yourself. Think less about what you’ve done; rather, how are the people and resources at Princeton going to make you the best version of yourself? If you’re not sure of your direction, what are different avenues the school can facilitate you in exploring? What do you want to learn, study, accomplish, that you can’t find elsewhere? How is this shaping you into someone they'll will be proud to call an alum when you’re a decade post-graduation?

4. Understand what you bring to the community. 

This doesn’t just mean your big award or largest community service project—this is anything you’ve poured your heart into. What would you mention while meeting a stranger at Sunday brunch? What’s something you did in high school that you could bring to colleges and really add to what exists there? Make them remember you.

5. Own what you have. 

Writing essays is not the time to focus on justifying why your achievements are particularly impressive, or conversely, why your circumstances prevented you from doing more. Context is good, always share it, but substance is key. Show colleges the best of your high school journey, and be proud of it! Whether you won the International Math Olympiad, taught the SAT math section to local students, or spent your evenings taking care of siblings, your experiences are what you make of them, so talk about what you learned and how it shaped you for the better.

Good luck, future tigers!

I never viewed myself as a writer. In fact, I remember I was quite opposed to the idea growing up. At the age of 6, I gave myself a headstart by struggling to read. In elementary school, the pattern continued as English was consistently my worst subject. Grammar and spelling never quite clicked in my brain—the latter of the two still has not improved with time (thank god for spell check). Thus, in middle school, I finally waved the white flag. I remember thinking to myself, “I’m good at many things, and I acknowledge that writing will never be on that list.” I never once thought I was good at writing, or had any interest in writing for myself.

I believe part of this misconception about writing came with its elusive nature. Growing up, it frustrated me that there was never a formula to follow. Unlike the math problems I could easily solve, writing left me uneasy on how to approach it, and even worse, how do you know when a piece is done? How do you know if it's good?

I didn’t like these aspects of writing for a long time. The only writing I did throughout my life was in a journal. I’m not sure what drew me to it, but initially I journaled to process things around me and to remember my life. Either way, I’ve been doing it consistently for the past seven years.

When I got to Princeton, my conception of writing didn’t change immediately. I took the infamous freshman writing seminar and felt further convinced that writing was not for me—academic writing at least. Slowly though, my journal evolved. Here and there I would write an entry that sounded pretty enough to share out loud with my sister. Looking back, I think my journaling slowly morphed into a sort of expressive art form. I was journaling to process my emotions, but also to portray my life in a poetic way. 

Even as I grew to love journaling, I did not formalize my love for writing until I found myself here, blogging for Princeton’s Admission Office. This job has helped me formalize my journal-like rants into completed pieces that I can share. And through these blogs, I realized a new inkling for that elusive yet expressive process we call creative writing. 

All of this is to say that being fluent in an art form doesn’t come naturally for everyone. For me, I believe years of journaling evolved a weakness of mine into a strength. It has been an unexpected turn of events to say the least. I don’t know if I’ve earned myself the title of a writer, but I can admit that I now view myself as one. 

As a Politics major—and even more specifically, as a Politics major who is also a Peer Academic Adviser (PAA)—there is one question that I find myself answering quite frequently. Whether I am at the Academic Expo hosted during orientation, one of the various PAA-led academic advising fairs, or even in casual conversation with my non-Politics major friends, I am guaranteed to be asked the following question: “So what’s the difference between Politics and SPIA?”

Every year, many students generally interested in political science find themselves choosing between the Politics Department and the School of Public and International Affairs, otherwise referred to as SPIA. Although both departments have their own respective benefits and display a considerable amount of overlap, the distinctions that do exist between the two ultimately lead dozens of students to choose one over the other every year.

The most common response given to curious students is that Politics is a more “theoretical” major, whereas SPIA is more “practical.” To this day, I am often guilty of responding in the same way—at least initially. In my view, this is a vast oversimplification, but it begins to hint at the difference between the ways that each major approaches the political realm. Courses and research in the Politics Department tend to focus on the “why” questions behind politics, often inquiring into the reasoning behind state and non-state actors’ political actions. In a sense, the field of Politics seeks to explain why political life is the way that it is. For example, in a course that I took about authoritarian regimes, we sought to understand the constraints and enticements guiding the decisions taken by authoritarian leaders. Although SPIA students are also required to take some courses within the Politics Department, a bulk of the work associated with the major focuses on applying interdisciplinary knowledge to policy suggestions. Here, the focus is less on the why, and more primarily directed towards the question of what to do differently. Thus, dividing the two majors based on theory and practicality is a bit of a misnomer—policies are built on theories, and theories have practical applications. But the work that is carried out ultimately does emphasize distinct themes.

Other things to consider between the two majors are differences in requirements, flexibility, and department sizes. As briefly mentioned above, SPIA takes a largely interdisciplinary approach. This means students are required to take courses in a variety of fields—politics, economics, psychology or sociology, statistics, and more. This also means, however, that there are more structured prerequisites and core classes for SPIA majors. Politics majors are really only required to take classes within the Politics Department, and there is only one truly required research course taken junior fall. Independent work also looks differently for the two majors, with Politics having one shorter research prospectus in the fall and one longer research paper in the spring. SPIA majors take a research seminar in one semester, and join a policy task force during the other—each has an associated research paper. Both write a senior thesis. Perhaps the last main difference between the two departments is in their sizes. In the Class of 2026, almost twice as many sophomores declared SPIA as their major compared to those who declared Politics.

Politics became the obvious choice for me after taking a political theory class my freshman spring, as well as after considering how much department size mattered to me. I also realized that, despite the obvious importance and value of more directly influencing and writing policy, I had no interest in actually doing so from either an academic or career standpoint. 

Both majors are great choices for students interested in political science. It just so happens that, for me, Politics was the best choice, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Like other colleges, Princeton provides incoming students with orientation programming that prepares them for a smoother transition into life on campus. First-years move in a bit earlier than returning students, and the bulk of orientation takes place during the week leading up to the start of the fall semester. These days are filled with a wide variety of events, socials, and presentations. What many prospective applicants might not know about, however, is the fact that orientation actually encompasses another component at Princeton which begins in the middle of summer.

The first exposure that many students will have to Princeton and the support network awaiting them is through their Peer Academic Advisers (PAAs) and Residential College Advisers (RCAs). Every group of advisees, or “zees” for short, receives an introductory email from their assigned RCA in early July, shortly followed by an introductory email from their PAA and other residential college staff. These two students are responsible for leading many of the orientation events, and every RCA-PAA pair continues to support their zees throughout the school year. From the start, then, every student is provided an ample support network within their residential college, and everyone working behind the scenes is always available to dispel any confusion surrounding either orientation or the school year to come.

As a PAA for Mathey College, I am responsible for guiding a group of zees through an online advising course known as ClassPath. Starting in mid-July, incoming students can access the site. There, they will find a variety of modules and guided assignments focused on different aspects of Princeton academics. In one module, students are instructed to reflect on their path to Princeton and how that may guide their future class and major selections. In another module, students are encouraged to browse through course offerings in anticipation of their meetings with their faculty advisers, who will ultimately help them decide on their schedules for the semester. As students complete modules, I interact with them on discussion boards and provide feedback for submitted assignments. At the end of the course, I host small group discussions over Zoom in order to introduce myself to my zees, allow them a chance to get to know each other, provide important information about orientation, and answer any questions that might have come up over the course of the summer.

Overall, ClassPath is meant to help students know what to expect of Princeton academics before even setting foot on campus. I remember feeling extremely intimidated the summer before my own freshman year, but getting to talk with my PAA and even hearing other students feeling the same way helped me feel more comfortable when the time came to move in. ClassPath is one of many examples showcasing the value placed on advising and intentional community integration within the University.

As ClassPath wraps up for the incoming Class of 2028, I’m excited to meet my new group of zees during orientation and move in for one last year at Princeton.

Mentorship and advising have been some of the most meaningful aspects of my time at Princeton. Being on the receiving end of this kind of guidance has allowed me to feel more connected to the campus community at large. This support has been a conglomeration of mentors and advisers from all over the University, ranging from my residential college staff over at Mathey College to professors willing to lend a listening ear, and even upperclassmen. These individuals have helped me grow not only as a student but as a young professional and young adult as well.

The Princeton University Mentoring Program (PUMP) is one of the many mentorship opportunities available to students. It is housed within the Carl A. Fields Center on campus, which is the focal point for many affinity spaces and cultural communities on campus. PUMP seeks to provide valuable support and resources to first-year students of color in order to help them navigate Princeton with confidence. Through PUMP, participating first-years are matched with one peer mentor (either a sophomore, a junior, or a senior) and one alumni mentor. Throughout the school year, mentees form close bonds with their peer mentors and periodically meet with their alumni mentors virtually.

The process for forming these matches is typically carried out by the PUMP coordinator within the Carl A. Fields Center staff. All PUMP participants submit a form early in the school year outlining their personal and career interests. They are then matched according to compatibility. My junior year, this meant being matched with a first-year who was interested in learning more about the Politics Department, and being matched with an alumna currently attending law school—something both my mentee and I were interested in pursuing.

PUMP members participate in a variety of activities. The core of the program is the time spent one-on-one between mentees and their mentors. Each pair receives a small stipend each month to encourage them to get a small meal together on Nassau Street, or to use as they see fit (some might even use it to go kayaking near campus). Pairs are encouraged to meet a few times each month and maintain consistent communication. One of the pillars of peer mentorship relies on approachability and dependability, and that is cultivated through these frequent interactions, where mentees can ask questions about their academics or campus life more generally. As a peer mentor, you are responsible for staying up to date on knowledge surrounding potential resources that may be helpful for your mentee. Additionally, the PUMP executive board hosts a variety of monthly workshops, meetings, and social events for both mentees and mentors. Some examples include an event discussing internship opportunities, a presentation on campus resources and offices, and painting nights. Often, delicious catering from nearby restaurants is provided.

Altogether, PUMP helps students acclimate to the academic and cultural dynamics of the University in a space meant to feel like home. Many students go on to maintain their friendships with past mentors over the years—a testament to the impact that the program has for those who participate. Although I have stepped down from my position as a peer mentor this year, I leave with fond memories of the program and hope that first-year students continue taking advantage of such an amazing resource and community on campus.

It’s the summer of 2024, and I’m in that weird purgatory phase between years—feeling too old to claim the title of sophomore, but too young to drop the rising which precedes junior. Through these mixture of titles, I came to the realization that I’m exactly halfway through. Halfway through my Princeton experience.  

Princeton moves fast. Just the other day I remember dreaming of what college would feel like. The independence, the late night talks, the college romances and life-long friends waiting to be met. As a rising Junior, I admit these distant dreams now feel like grounded reality, but more importantly, I feel more grounded in myself. I know that I’ve significantly changed from the 18 year-old who walked through Fitzrandolph gate with eyes wide open but with a mind quite closed and ignorant of the challenges which awaited her. 

With time, I’ve become more aware of my freshman year ignorance. I believe I came into college with an over romanticized vision of adulthood, in addition to a blaring confidence that everything will go my way if I work hard enough. Not to discourage anyone, but college will never be a bed of roses. I think facing this reality, and the many challenges at Princeton, knocked down my 18 year old confidence to a certain degree. While my confidence has been lowered at certain points during my time here—I’m happy to report that it’s been on a steady trajectory uphill. 

A recent conversation with a friend enlightened me on a psychology term which I think accurately describes my growth during my two years here: the Dunning-Kruger Effect. If you’re not a psychology major (like me), you may not have heard about it. The Dunning-Kruger Effect is a cognitive bias where someone’s limited knowledge in a certain area causes them to become overconfident in their abilities. Essentially, when people have a gap in their knowledge, they tend to assume they know it all instead of realizing the gap. Funnily enough, I heard about this effect and thought “Wow! That exactly describes my college experience!”

However, I’m now aware of that gap, and I can therefore place more trust in myself and my judgment. From my two years here, I’ve learned a few things.  For example, I still believe things can go your way if you work hard enough, but now I understand it only comes with the addition of patience and flexibility. Further, I still love to romanticize college, but I no longer have the expectation that every second of it will be filled with those iconic moments. 

If I’ve truly learned anything, it’s that mistakes are meant to be made. They’ve helped me learn about myself, gain a sense of independence, and most importantly, given me a stronger sense of self. I’ve realized, I’m growing up a bit. I’m still proud of where I started, and I’m even prouder of where I’m going. Who knows, with my confidence rising, maybe soon I can drop that part of the title. Maybe being a junior isn’t so bad after all. 

Like many of my peers on campus, long before I stepped foot on Princeton's grounds, I dreamed of attending this school. It was my absolute dream school — by every definition of the term. And whenever someone asked me why I was so hellbent on fulfilling this dream, I'd have two words for them — Creative Writing. 

Since early in my childhood, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I swallowed any book that was handed to me and would spend hours during summer vacations typing up tales of my own. When I was finally old enough to think about college and all it could offer me, the one thing I knew was that I wanted to go somewhere I could write — and write well. Princeton charmed me. So many of the professors who filled its Creative Writing department were known to me from the bookshelves of my household. A.M. Holmes, Paul Muldoon, Tracy K. Smith. I knew if there was anywhere where I could fulfill my dreams of becoming a good writer, it would be Princeton. And so it became my dream school. And when I arrived on campus last autumn, I was committed to making my Princeton Creative Writing dreams come true. 

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Unfortunately, I ran into a couple of issues. Sometimes, Creative Writing classes at Princeton can be challenging to get into. For class camaraderie, these courses are typically limited to 10 people. Additionally, 2-3 spots are saved for students of each class year. In my case, for the Introductory Playwriting class I dreamed of taking last autumn, exactly two seats were reserved for first-year students. So, on the day of course enrollment, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. When the clock struck 7:30 am and it was time to hit the "enrollment" button, I found that my Princeton Creative Writing dreams were not over yet. I had somehow snagged one of the two first-year seats. Thus, my creative journey at Princeton could begin. And the start of this journey was everything I dreamed it would be. My playwriting course was wonderful. So many of our class sessions were filled with enticing laughter, helpful feedback, and nuanced discussions. My professor seemed to have an unlimited fount of advice for all of us young playwrights. And I ended the semester with a budding portfolio of plays I was proud of. It was indeed a dream.

The next Creative Writing course I sought at Princeton was Introductory Poetry. On the day of course enrollment, I found myself in a very similar position to the beginning of the fall semester. 2 reserved spots for first-years. Crossed fingers. Hopes for the best. Unfortunately, it seemed that my playwriting luck had run out. When the clock struck 7:30 am, the class had filled up instantaneously, and I was gutted.

Moreover, amid my melodrama over not getting into a class I wanted to take (for the first (and likely not last) time in my Princeton career), I somehow convinced myself that this failure meant the end of my Creative Writing journey. Luckily, I had some older (and wiser) Princeton peers who had run into similar failures during their time at Princeton and encouraged me to talk to the powers that be within the Creative Writing department. So I marched to the New South building (home of Creative Writing on campus), ready to plead my case. Luckily, the department's Program Manager was satisfied with my passion for writing. After a 5-minute monologue on why I wanted to take the course, she tinkered around and secured me a spot. My dreams were not defeated. In fact, with this simple act of kindness, these dreams began to transform.

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I had chosen to take Introductory Poetry off the advice of my playwriting professor. According to him, poetry courses help with writing dialogue for plays. So, as excited as I was for the course, I had low expectations for the quality of writing I'd produce. At this point in my life, writing poetry was not my passion. However, this quickly changed when I met my ebullient professor, Patricia Smith. Her love for poetry radiated throughout our classroom. She encouraged us to find our poetic voices, be confident, and learn from one another's writing. Thus, we came to every class striving to learn more, write better, and craft a poem that touched its readers.

Additionally, in a short time, our class became a little community. We'd rave about one another's poems long after feedback sessions had concluded. We'd share poetry over email and text from our favorite poets. We even channeled our poetic passion into organizing a class field trip to see the Poet Laureate, Ada Limón, in New York City. With the support of our gracious professor, our class caught a train to New York City, ate dinner at a yummy Ethiopian restaurant, and attended one of the most beautiful poetry readings of my lifetime — hearing nature poems from some of the nation's most renowned poets. (We even got to meet Ada Limón afterward!)

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When I returned to my dorm that evening, buzzing with the energy of the beautiful poems I'd heard and the wonderful memories I'd formed with my classmates, I felt confident in the fact that I wanted to be a poet. While I'd spent most of my life knowing that I wanted to be a writer, I'd never felt as passionate about one specific writing medium as I did about poetry. With my professor's encouragement, I could use what I'd learned in playwriting the previous semester to write dramatic poetry. For the entire month of April, I was encouraged to write one poem a day — 30 poems in 30 days. I devoted this month to creating characters and bringing them to life via poetry. It was challenging but so rewarding. 

As my first year at Princeton concluded, I felt proud that I could no longer say I wanted to be a writer. Instead, I could say I am a writer. I had a portfolio. I knew the kind of work I wanted to produce. In 9 months, I had learned so much about myself and my creative aspirations. I had made my Creative Writing dreams come true. 

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It’s always been you. But why?

Throughout my years at Princeton and even before then, people have asked me why I chose psychology as my major. I wish I had a perfect response that would provide some clarity, but the only thing I can say is: it just felt right.

I’d like to preface my journey to choosing a major by saying it was in no way conventional. When I was in high school, I racked my brain trying to figure out what I should major in. My dad wanted me to major in architecture, which I wasn’t totally opposed to. I was really leaning towards a major in English or Creative Writing. I always loved reading and writing but didn’t see myself making a career out of it because I wrote for fun and wanted it to stay that way. One day in biology class, someone mentioned they were going to major in psychology and I don’t know how, but it felt right for me too.

One thing to know about me is that once I decide on something, I stick to it. So I took a deep dive into the field of psychology, not really knowing what I was looking for, but I loved how I could do anything with it. Psychology is one of those majors that can be applied to most fields. I could go to medical school, work in advertising, or even continue with a life filled with research. I loved what seemed like endless possibilities, and while I was deciding on one thing now, I knew I would have multiple options to choose from later on.

Coming to Princeton, I wouldn’t say I was close-minded to other majors, but the more I learned about psychology, the more I fell in love. My first psychology course was Cognitive Psychology with Professor Tania Lombrozo. This course remains one of the best lecture courses I have taken at Princeton; it was so engaging and sparked my curiosity. I was one of two freshmen in this course, and while it was challenging, it solidified that I had made the right choice.

I can’t say I didn’t explore my options. I thought I might be interested in philosophy, so I took an Ancient Philosophy course. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a meeting of the minds when I read the ideas of Aristotle and Socrates. Then, I thought anthropology could be something interesting, so I took “Empire of Debts,” an amazing course taught by Prof. Julia Elyachar. While I loved the course, I had a strong preference for the discussions over the dense readings. Even though some psychology courses can have dense readings, I find myself enjoying them. A few honorable mentions are “Zen Buddhism” (a religion course), “African American Studies and the Philosophy of Race” (an African American Studies course), and “American Television” (an English course). Most people find general education requirement courses annoying but I loved all of the ones I took, even if they weren’t going to be what I chose to study.

So, when sophomore spring came and I had to choose my major, it was an easy choice. Every step was both exciting and nerve-wracking. Finding my junior paper advisor, joining a lab, submitting my junior paper abroad – all of these things weren’t easy, but I was happy doing them. Even now, my last summer at Princeton, it was an easy choice to work on my thesis research. I had the support of my advisor, the support from the Office of Undergraduate Research (OUR), and my own volition to create something special. Now, I’m working on a longitudinal project that I created with my lab titled “First Year Narratives,” where we recruit First-Generation Low-Income (FGLI) students across different institutions in NJ. In the midst of creating flyers, sending emails and preparing survey items, I find myself so happy with the choice I made.

This blog honestly could’ve been pages long with all the reasons I chose psychology, from fMRI studies to the amazing courses I have taken. When choosing your major, there are so many ways you can come to a decision. But I hope at the end of the day, you love it.

My sophomore classmates and I celebrated Declaration Day this past April. After we declared our majors, we gathered on Cannon Green, and took pictures in front of our department banners. Needless to say, it was a beautiful way to finish the Spring 2024 semester. 

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Declaring African American Studies was filled with several plot twists. I initially came to Princeton as a prospective English major. Yes, I was that voracious reader who spent hours immersed in fictional worlds. As I got older, I would write as a form of activism at my predominantly White high school. It only made sense that if I wanted to pursue writing full-time, an English degree was the way to go.

That all changed when I took my first African American Studies/Philosophy class, “Race, Racism, and Racial Justice,” with Professor Lidal Dror my first year. We would discuss whether race is a social or biological concept. We would read about long standing racial justice issues like reparations, affirmative action, and racial profiling, all of which further informed my activism. I walked away from every lecture eager to continue these difficult, yet necessary conversations with my classmates. 

One must take five African American Studies classes to complete the certificate. But I knew five classes wasn’t enough to satisfy my thirst for Black knowledge. I wanted to go all the way – Junior Paper, Senior Thesis, Senior Colloquium – because the field became my special interest.

Additionally, the Undergraduate Board of Advisors (which I am now a part of) inspired me. Despite majoring in the same field, they were committed to different paths. One student merged their interests in race and computer science through her independent work. Another student aspired to be a photographer. And still another student wanted to work at a museum. At that moment, I realized that I would not have to choose between my academic and creative work. The African American Studies department would hold space for me to merge the two together, so I can produce the best independent work possible.

As much as I loved the department, I made a brief detour to Anthropology in Fall of my sophomore year. I thought my parents – who thought African American Studies would leave me unemployed – would find it more acceptable. Although I did well in my Anthropology class, the readings did not excite me compared to my African American Studies readings. I was not looking forward to doing fieldwork, either, which is required for the Anthropology Senior Thesis. 

More than anything, I missed studying my special interest. Returning to the African American Studies department feels like returning home. No matter how many times I switched my major, the professors and students have always welcomed me back with open arms. And just like the books I read as a child, our readings gave me a new purpose as a writer: to tap into Black joy, love, healing in my work. My department is just the beginning.

As part of the various distribution requirements that one is expected to fulfill before graduating from Princeton, there is a mandatory course that all Princeton students must take: Writing Seminar—or colloquially called "Writing Sem." Even before I stepped onto Princeton's campus as a bona fide student, this course haunted me. Given that so much of a Princeton student's academic work relies on independent research and writing, the University kindly allows students to foster those skills in a classroom setting during either their first-year fall or spring semester. While most of the Princeton I spoke to before coming to the University lauded the independence of choosing classes and exploring niche topics in these classes, the conversation often got menacing when we reached the subject of the Writing Seminar. I'd quickly become intimidated as these students spoke of the hours of writing they had to do, the harsh grading, and the (sometimes) strict professors. Princeton writing seminars, at the time, required three papers: one 5-6 page paper, one 7-8 page paper, and one 10-12 page paper. On top of that, there are many other smaller assignments, readings, and feedback sessions that one has to complete during the 12-week semester. Thus, while I was lucky enough to take a Writing Seminar during the spring semester of my first year—after having some rigorous Princeton courses under my belt—by the time January rolled around and it was time to brave this beast of a course; I was very anxious.

However, upon arriving at my Writing Seminar classroom for WRI 129: Disrupting Nature, I was immediately assuaged by my professor's kind smile and warm welcome. Our class session immediately started with icebreaker questions—favorite TV shows, recommended books, etc.—and it was clear that this seminar would be more than just a class that the university required us to take; it would be a community. I won't lie; I had no idea what I was doing when I arrived at the seminar's first graded paper. I scribbled out six pages of (what I like to call) nonsense about climate change and human sacrifice, but I'm not sure what the seminar expected of me. And when I received my professor's feedback, I was pretty disheartened. I felt like I had written a failure of a paper. However, the hidden beauty of Princeton writing seminars is that you always get a second chance:

• You turn in drafts of your graded papers.

• Your professor returns these drafts with meticulous feedback.

• You revise.

The revision is what's graded. So, I rallied. I engaged with my professor's feedback, asked numerous questions in class, pored over my materials, and revised. And even in the end, I did not get the grade I had hoped for on this first paper. But, for what seemed like the first time in my academic journey, that didn't matter as much to me. What mattered more was a comment my professor left on my revision. "I can see the improvement from the draft to the revision." She could see my progress, and so could I! I was learning. I was growing. It felt good.

For the rest of the semester, I committed myself to caring more about progress than grades: engaging with reading materials that I typically would avoid, spending more time brainstorming essay subjects than I'd ever done in the past, and asking questions that I usually would keep to myself. All for the sake of growth. When the second paper came around, I was genuinely excited about writing it. I felt like I knew what I was doing, and I was excited to learn more while writing it. My grade on this paper improved from the prior, but so did my motivation. The task of academic writing was no longer intimidating; it was kind of fun. 

For our final paper in Writing Seminar, we were allowed to write about a topic of our choice. Given my interest in literature and what it says about us as human beings, I chose to write about the importance of nature-related children's literature during the pandemic. With the help of my professor and classmates (who I'd become so comfortable with in a matter of months), I was able to find intriguing sources and go down intriguing rabbit holes. Although I spent most of my spring finals season tucked into Firestone library, analyzing depictions of talking rabbits and bears, I was enjoying myself. The tools that I had learned in Writing Seminar allowed me to approach writing this 10-12 page paper with some ease. There were moments when I got stuck and felt unsure of where to go next while writing, but the resources of my professor, my classmates, and the Princeton Writing Center enabled me to brainstorm and move forward. By Dean's Date (the date at the end of the semester when all written academic work is due), I was beyond proud and excited to turn my paper in. I had completed Princeton's daunting Writing Seminar. And I was a little sad to leave it behind.

There are many academic beasts that Princeton students must brave on the path to obtaining their degree. However, braving this specific beast of the First-Year Writing Seminar has taught me that difficult academic obstacles are a part of the beauty of higher academia. Facing these obstacles, struggling, getting past them, and learning new things in the meantime are all part of academic growth and success. Moreover, looking back and seeing the hills you climbed to reach the next steps of your academic career makes the process all the more fulfilling. So, I'll get excited the next time I feel daunted by a step in my academic journey. I'm ready to grow.