College applications can turn us into GPA-obsessed, resume-building robots. But what if the real flex is chasing what we actually love — whether that’s performing on stage, making a difference in social or environmental causes, turning wanderlust into travel documentaries … or yes, becoming a doctor or lawyer because you truly want to—not because of expectations imposed upon you?
(AI-generated image, via DALL-E)
As I approach the end of my junior year, I admit to sensing a lingering nagging feeling in the background—one that spikes in intensity during every calculus test and every car ride to a competition. Spooky, right? Sometimes, I even wake up in the middle of the night, the air suddenly chilly, hearing a low rumble: “What is your GPA…?”
OK, maybe I’m being a little melodramatic. But in the life of a high schooler, the season of college acceptances means stress-filled nights and hopeful prayers that somehow you have landed an internship with Neil deGrasse Tyson. It’s that time when all your senior friends are casually getting into Yale or MIT, and all your classmates seem to have amazing opportunities lined up for the summer.
And while, of course, you’re happy for them, in moments like those, it’s hard not to start picking apart your own life. I mean, I doubt Harvard would be impressed by my summer plans to binge-watch Marvel movies.
Yet, in all seriousness, college has always been a big thing that has lived in the back of our minds— I mean, we have Indian parents! Ever since I started high school, the lingering pressure of preparing for college admissions has morphed from something that could be defused with nervous laughter into something more serious and real. I’ve certainly had my share of late nights worrying about the monster under my bed—that monster being my college resume.
For high school seniors, time is no longer measured in months but in deadlines: when the Common App opens, when internship applications go live, when submissions are due. Each passing day feels as though we’re hurtling closer to some ominous doomsday. It’s only natural for insecurity to creep in at a time like this: Am I good enough for my dream college? Am I special enough for them to pick me out of hundreds of applicants?
When we give our resumes that much power, the lines begin to blur. Looking in the mirror, it can be hard to tell which parts of us are truly us and which are simply bullet points listing our accolades.
When We All Become Performative
Let’s be honest: we all hate show-offs. The last thing we enjoy is someone constantly bragging about their stellar GPA (we heard you the first 99 times, Arjun).
And yet, the prospect of college seems to bring out that performative side in all of us. We become the biggest braggers we know, contorting our interests to fit some exemplary narrative we’re trying to sell. Our every action seems to have an ulterior motive: to improve our chances of getting into college.
So we join a chorus not because we love to sing, but because it’s a way to “demonstrate leadership.” We volunteer at food banks not because we’re passionate about fighting food insecurity, but because colleges admire “well-rounded students.” Who cares if you hate debate? Colleges love it.
Soon, a herd mentality sets in around certain activities. Take debate, for example. The word itself carries prestige in college admissions. Compare that with extracurriculars like theater. Instinctively, many of us assume the student in theater is less driven or less “smart.”
These implicit biases push us to tough it out in activities we may not even enjoy, just because everyone else seems to be doing them, or, more accurately, because that’s what “successful” high schoolers seem to be doing. We convince ourselves that for something to be impressive, we must sacrifice our joy, as if passion and achievement cannot possibly coexist.
But that kind of toughing it out is the very opposite of what a hobby is supposed to be—something that builds on the passions and interests we already have. By forcing ourselves into activities we don’t enjoy, we may actually hurt ourselves more than we help ourselves.
Simply put, I don’t think we can truly excel at something we don’t love. There’s a twisted notion that STEM fields or traditionally “prestigious” activities automatically add more value to our resumes. But what if the real value lies in the passion we bring to what we do?
Authenticity goes a long way, and it’s always evident in our work. When we focus on what we genuinely love, we naturally excel and open doors for ourselves. So yes, in a slightly cheesy way, being true to ourselves might actually be the best strategy for creating opportunities, even in the tough college admissions process.
It’s also worth asking whether all the resume building we do solely for college acceptance truly defines long-term success. Twenty years from now, what do we gain if we’re all carbon copies of one another? If we’re all debaters and Model U.N. delegates, are we really successful?
Redefining Success
For a long time, I envisioned success as an acceptance letter from an Ivy League school. But now I see it differently.
Success, to me, means being a kind, curious, well traveled person. It means bringing something unique to the table—maybe even shocking the aunties and uncles who have never met anyone quite like you. In other words, success is about changing how the people around you think and view their lives.
And the first step toward that goal is making the scary, intimidating choice to be different — to be defined by what you love, not by what Arjun from third period says looks good on a resume.
So if I love art, why not join the art club? If I want to be in a band—not as the leader, but as a proud trombone enthusiast—why not? If I want to spend the summer watching Marvel movies, why not? Maybe I’m an artist at heart. Or a musician. Or a filmmaker in the making.
So, as I go through this process for myself and learn, here is my advice to everyone in the same boat as me: when you see that resume monster under your bed or in your closet, face it head-on. Grab your paintbrush, your camera, your trombone—and whack it on the head. Never give a piece of paper more importance than you give yourself. Know your power. And more importantly, know who you are.
Column host Gia Agarwal is an 11th- grader who, when not crushing it in her advanced writing classes, is out there living every book lover’s dream. She can be reached at TeenTalk@Khabar.com.