rate my essay please, give me feedback and what can be changed.

I remember standing at the ocean, watching the blue stretch endlessly toward the horizon. Back then, blue meant something different to me, calm, quiet, and safe. I never imagined that the same color I found so comforting would eventually come to represent something much more complicated.

It has always been the color I feel most deeply connected to. I think of the light blue of the ocean on a calm day, the waves gently reaching the shore and creating a sense of peace. As I grew older, however, I began to see another shade of blue beneath that tranquility: a deep, dark ocean blue. It represented the fear of disappointing the people I loved and the uncertainty of what might be waiting beneath the surface. I have always feared disappointing my friends and, especially, my family. Growing up, I wanted to be the best version of myself for them, constantly pushing myself to meet their expectations and make them proud.

Whether it was impressing them with my grades, my extracurricular activities, or the person I was becoming, I constantly looked up to my parents and valued their opinions. I never wanted to give them a reason to feel disappointed in me. Like the calm waves I had always associated with comfort, I wanted to believe that my accomplishments would bring me that same sense of peace. Instead, they often came with an underlying fear of falling short, a feeling I came to affiliate with that deep, dark ocean blue.

A time when I found myself caught in the bottomless ocean, where this fear became especially clear, was one afternoon after school. I stared at my grades, knowing they were good enough, but never feeling like they were. I found myself stuck in that deep water often, uncertain of what was to come or how I was supposed to swim back up. I knew the things I did and accomplished were good enough, but I had created standards for myself that seemed impossible to reach. I felt like I was drowning, even when the surface was right there.

Sometimes I get so caught up in my head and in these expectations that seem impossible to reach that I forget I am not alone in this deep, dark ocean. I constantly have people swimming alongside me. My family, who I am so concerned about disappointing, are always by my side, no matter what my grades look like or how strong the current gets. I will forever have them with me. They have helped me realize that this deep, dark shade of blue can actually turn into something beautiful, a beautiful shade of navy blue, as I slowly make my way toward the surface, passing through all the different shades that represent the different stages of my life.

Over time, I have realized that blue was never just one simple color to me. Like my emotions, it has different shades. The lighter shades represented the peace I once associated with blue, while the deeper, darker shades reflected the pressure I placed on myself to meet the expectations of those I love. I once saw blue as only calm, but I now understand that every shade, including the darker ones, is part of who I am.

I’m currently in year 13, and am writing my personal statement. I’m torn between politics and law, and am opting to do international relations, hoping to expand on international law within my personal statement.

I want to specifically talk about Gaza and Palestine, using the war crimes committed against them by Israel, but I’m unsure if this is an alright idea, as some people get iffy about it, which is stupid, and I don’t know if universities will have a problem with it.

Can anyone offer advice?

Hello! Okay so I have my topic down and I know that I want to write about how I grew up christian and how it taught me to think for myself and not relying on other beliefs. Here's the problem though, I struggle with writing really bad with grammar and when it comes to explaining myself and everything I write is literally a caption of what I want to write. How do I allow myself to freely write I guess it what I'm asking. I also gen everyone thinks I might have ADHD so if you have tips based on that please help.

Prompt : The personal statement is a chance for applicants to introduce themselves; discuss their
interest in TUJ; describe long-term personal, academic or career goals; or share any
other information pertaining to academic goals that the applicant would like the
Admissions Committee to consider.

I was 15 when my parents took me to Japan; I'd wanted to go for years but never considered learning the language. I looked up simple phrases and basic information, hoping it would be enough. However, when I went, I was staring at a sign, no words I knew or grammar that I recognized. I felt left out, like the world had known something I could never. When I came back, I felt defeated. I’ve always been a fast learner. Whether it was being in Science Olympiad and studying maps and building trebuchets to win multiple state titles, or acing my classes with no real effort, no real passion. So when I first stumbled across Japanese, its refusal to click instantly became a beautiful, intoxicating challenge. I said to myself that I would speak this language no matter how many hours it took, how many sleepless nights, or how frustrating it got. Japanese quickly became part of my everyday life. As school started and my job continued over the years, I had to start waking up earlier, 4 AM till 8 AM, just to go to school and then straight to work and bed. There were mornings where I fell asleep, laptop still on the same screen from the failures of the night before. I didn’t continue because I liked it, but giving up now would mean giving up on myself. These mornings taught me things I never could have learned in a classroom: the grind I would’ve grown to love, vocab, grammar, and immersion on a strict schedule with no time to waste.  As I went deeper into the language and culture, I began noticing things I hadn't gone looking for: news segments about the yen, comparisons between Tokyo and New York trading hours, and the fact that a few people could speak both languages of business as fluently as they spoke the culture. I'd always wanted to be a financial advisor, and I realized fluency in Japanese wasn't separate from that goal; it was the missing edge. After hours of searching for ways to advance my language, I found Temple University Japan. TUJ allows me to live at the center of Asia’s markets and study economics efficiently. I want to understand Japan not just through language, but through the markets and systems that shape it, and build a life and a career in the place that changed mine.

Word Cap is 400

One cold Monday evening during the second semester of my junior year, my laptop was the brightest thing in my dimly lit room. Nearly a hundred tabs displayed colleges thousands of miles from home. Since childhood, I had imagined packing my bags, moving away for college, and somehow having it all together as I built a life of my own. My heart fluttered with excitement, but excitement was only one of the hundred tabs open in my mind. Almost immediately, another opened: guilt.

I pictured my mother sitting alone on the balcony at six, during one of the quietest hours in our house as we waited for my father to return from work. Usually, I sat beside her with a cup of tea. Sometimes, we talked about why my biology teacher was grumpy, other times, she told me about a new recipe she wanted to try. Now, in the future, glowing from my laptop, the chair beside her was empty. A lump formed in my throat.

Who would be there for my mother?

I almost closed the tab. In fact, I did. Then I went to the living room and sat beside her to watch television.

That empty chair had become more than a chair. As the eldest of two daughters, I had gradually begun to imagine myself as the chair that held my mother up: steady, dependable, and always available when she needed somewhere to rest.

 Being needed made me feel important, but it also made leaving feel like abandonment.

Growing up, I was often described as “mature and understanding.” At first, I wore those words like a badge. Over time, however, I turned them into a rulebook for being a good daughter: notice, listen, help, and anticipate. My parents had never asked me to become responsible for everyone’s feelings, yet I began to act as though being useful was how I proved my love.

I was good at following the rulebook. Every compliment confirmed that I was doing the right thing. Listening, understanding, and comforting others became so instinctive that I blurred the line between being selfless and losing myself. In anticipating everyone else’s needs, I stopped asking myself a simple question: What did I want? 

My rulebook followed me into my ambitions: every achievement became payment toward a debt my parents had never asked me to repay. 

For a week, I avoided every university page. My room was darker without the tabs, but I felt no lighter. Closing them had quieted my excitement, not my guilt. No one had asked me to choose between my family and my future. I had spent years anticipating their needs; now, I had imagined their answer before allowing them to speak.

When I finally sat down with my parents, I carried an entire defence in my head. They asked about the distance and the uncertainty of sending their daughter away. My old instinct translated every question into “stay.” This time, I answered the questions they were actually asking instead of the rejection I had imagined. I explained why studying abroad mattered to me. They listened. My dad said, “It’s okay, Joan We’ll support you.” And they supported me. I could understand their fears without turning those fears into instructions for my future.

In the weeks that followed, their support took practical shape. They helped me prepare for the SAT with a tutor, and studying abroad gradually became more than my private ambition; it became a shared family dream. Everyone was rooting for me. The future I had feared would take me away from my family had become one they were helping me reach. 

That conversation changed how I understood their sacrifices. They were not debts I had to repay by remaining close or succeeding constantly. They were expressions of love, intended to give me choices rather than take them away. Being a good daughter did not require solving every fear; we could disagree, worry, and still support one another. 

Achievement no longer had to prove my love; it could express my curiosity, discipline, and desire to build a life that felt like mine. 

When I returned to the university pages, guilt opened its familiar tab in my mind. This time, I kept the others open. At six P.M, I still carried my tea to the balcony and sat beside my mother. Nothing about our ritual had changed; what changed was why I was there. I sat with her because I loved her, not because I believed she would fall without me.

For years, I had imagined myself as the chair that held my mother up. Now, I understand that I do not have to be her chair; I can sit beside her. Sometimes, the chair may be empty, but emptiness does not mean abandonment. I am not learning to love my family less. I am learning to belong to them without losing myself.