50 Successful Harvard Application Essays

D
AVID 
R
OBERTS
“Let’s face it, you’re slow,” my violin teacher said.
He was, as always, complaining that running was detracting from my practice time.
That summed up what running had always meant to me, ever since I was a seventh grader,
choosing his sport for the first time. I was fine and content, however. I always had Jeffrey and Archie,
classmates like me who ran slowly. We were good friends. We laughed together; we raced together;
we pushed each other, and endured tough workouts together. But after middle school the people I
trained with went on to do things they were better at. I remained, even though I was not good enough
to be considered for varsity.
High school running was hell. I struggled with workouts, most of which I had to run alone. In the
hot, dry days of autumn, I often coughed on the dust trails left by my teammates as they vanished into
the distance. During the workouts, I got passed incessantly, almost getting run over on occasion. It
hurt not to be important; to be dead weight for the team. I looked forward to the next year, when I
could hopefully run with the incoming freshmen.
It didn’t happen that way. Even a year later, I was 
still
the slowest on the team. How could the
freshmen who had snored off the whole summer beat me, a veteran from middle school and high
school with decent summer training? I nevertheless reconsidered the effectiveness of my training, and
looked forward to getting “back in shape.” It was only after my condition had been deteriorating
steadily for a few weeks that I began to feel a new level of humiliation. I started to have trouble
keeping up with old ladies in the park, and each day I worked frantically to prevent the discovery of
that fact by my teammates, running toward the sketchy areas of the ramble, in the south, where there’s
barely anybody. My mother, worried about the steady deterioration of my condition, contacted a
doctor.
I was anemic.
The doctor prescribed a daily iron pill, and the results were exhilarating. I joked that I was taking
steroids. I sunk into endless oxygen. I got tired less. During the workouts, I felt more machine than
man. Iron therapy taught me something fundamental. It reminded me why I was running; why I had
stuck to this damn sport for four straight years. When I was anemic, I struggled to gather what little
motivation I had for those painfully slow jogs in those parks. Putting the effort in, and seeing the
dramatic results fooled my mind like a well-administered placebo. Iron therapy was the training
wheels that would jump-start my dramatic improvement.
It took four months—four months of iron pills, blood tests, and training—to get back to my
personal best: the 5:46 mile that I had run the year before.

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Early February that year, the training wheels came off. I was running close to seven miles a day on
my own. But I wasn’t counting. I could catch a light. I could walk as many stairs as I wanted without
getting tired. I was even far ahead of where I was the year before. After two and a half years as a 5:50
miler, I finally had a breakthrough race. I ran a 5:30. I asked coach if I could eventually break 5
minutes. He told me to focus more on maintaining my fitness through spring break.
I ran the mile again, this time outdoors. Coach had me seeded at a 5:30. I ran the first lap, holding
back. I didn’t want to overextend myself. I hoped to squeeze by with a 5:35. The euphoria was
unprecedented as I realized by the second lap that I was a dozen seconds ahead and still holding back. I
finished with a 5:14.
On the bus ride back from the meet, one of my long-standing dreams came true. I pretended to
ignore Coach sitting next to me, but he kept on giving me glances. He was excited about my time. We
talked a lot about the race. We talked about my continuous and dramatic improvement. He said it was
early in the season and that I would break 5 minutes after only a few weeks of training.
Six weeks later, Mr. Song, my chemistry teacher, asked me if I had broken 5 minutes for the mile
yet. I told him all about how I had run in three meets over the past month and had failed to break 5:15
on every one of them. I told him that 5 minutes was now for me a mirage in the distance. Mr. Song,
however, did not show much concern: “You’re just overtrained. Once you ease up before the big
meet, you’ll drop in time once more.”
Even though these consoling words were from the man who had baffled my nutritionist when he
had guessed that I was anemic, I still doubted his wisdom. On Sunday, I would run the mile once. My
last mile of the year. This was it. Using my tried-and-true racing strategy, I finished with a 5:02, a 12-
second drop in time. Mr. Song’s predictions had again turned out to be correct.
Before I was anemic, the correlation between hard work and success was something that only
appeared in the cliché success stories of the talented few. Now, I am running more mileage than I ever
have before. And my violin teacher still complains.
But I smile. I know it’s going somewhere.
REVIEW
David’s opening sentence of “‘Let’s face it, you’re slow,’” blends welcome humility with an assumed
question. This mystery propels the first half of the essay: namely, “Why is David slow?” It’s an
admirable strategy from the start, as college admissions essays usually approximate a brazen
“Hardship X and/or Triumph Y Made Me an Übermensch.” Yes, this essay is of those stripes as well,
yet it tempers what could be an egotistical display with an attractive dose of self-deprecation. For
example, in the first sentence, the assumption is not that slowness is the hardship; rather, it is that he
has to face the fact that he is trying too hard and should probably stop doing as such. But we all like
someone who has so much earnestness, they must be told to quit.
The first half of the essay exhibits mastery over creating reader interest and flows from thought to

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thought with ease. We have a mystery, a struggle, and a familiar tone that does not smack of
presumption. David’s climactic reveal of the cause of his slow-running speed is a surprise—handled
with mature self-awareness that an iron deficiency isn’t the same as cancer or loss of limb.
Ironically, once David’s physical capacity is restored in the essay, the essay becomes anemic itself.
Who is Mr. Song? If Coach’s approval was so important, why was he not mentioned pre-diagnosis?
Too many elements are thrown in as auxiliary support to David’s victory lap. This leads to an odd
contrast to his plain message of hard work equaling success. For where were all of these people when
he was working hard but 
not
succeeding? Before the diagnosis, it was his friends and his mother; why
are these other authority figures coming out of the woodwork in the eleventh hour? Moreover, the
quantification of success—only obsessed with numbers and times—takes the heart and soul out of his
prose.
Though David starts off strong, his final lap leaves a reader wishing he had stopped halfway
through, and is a fair warning to applicants to make sure to stop when they are ahead.
—Christine A. Hurd

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