Admissions committee members who are reading personal statements all expect an essay to flow logically from one section to the next.
But this can be a challenge when core aspects of our lives often don’t occur to us in straightforward or linear ways. And some of those aspects may feel fundamentally disconnected: Is it even possible, for example, to write a personal statement that includes your career goals following a step by step approach in a way that is still personal?
We think so. Most stories have some kind of arc: a satisfying sense of conflict, growth and change, and resolution. The personal statement format, structure, and content tips below can help you select an approach that helps you find and express the arc in your life, whether you’re working on undergraduate college admissions, law school, medical school, or other graduate schools.
There’s no single required format for the Common App or Coalition, but we’d generally recommend keeping it simple and standard. Regarding font choice, things like Times New Roman or Georgia (what this is written in) won’t fail you. Just avoid things like Comic Sans or other informal/casual fonts that will be distracting or show poor taste.
What about size? 11- or 12-point is fine.
And color? Black.
Going with something other than the above could be a risk, possibly a big one, for fairly little gain. Things like a wacky font or text color could easily feel gimmicky to a reader.
To stand out with your writing, instead of risks with basic format, take some risks in what you write about and the connections and insights you make.
Possibly: keep in mind that if you’re pasting text into a box online, it may wipe out your formatting. So if you were hoping to rely on italics or bold for some kind of emphasis, double check whether you’ll be able to. (And as a general guideline, try to use sentence structure and phrasing to create that kind of emphasis anyway, rather than relying on bold or italics—doing so will make you a better writer.)
If you are attaching a document rather than pasting into a text box, all the above still applies. Again, we’d recommend sticking with standard fonts and sizes—Times New Roman, 12-point is a standard workhorse. You can probably go with 1.5 or double spacing. Standard one inch margins.
Basically, show them you’re ready to write in college by using the formatting you’ll normally use in college.
Fortunately, colleges and application systems usually give you specific personal statement word counts. The Common Application and Coalition Application, which are the most prevalent applications, will give you a word count of 650 words for your main personal statement, but will usually give a smaller word count for school-specific supplemental essays. Other application programs or schools will usually give the specific word count maximum—for example, the UC PIQs are 350 words max. If the application or college doesn’t specify how long your essay should be clearly in the application directors or on the site (and make sure to do your research), you can email them to ask! They don’t bite.
Some people have asked us: Should I use all of my allotted space in an essay?
As a general guideline, yes, we think it can be smart to use most of it. You likely have a lot to say about yourself, so not using all the space offered might be a missed opportunity to tell your story. While you don’t have to use every single word allowed, shoot to use most of what they give you. But fair warning: Don’t just fill space if what you’re writing doesn’t provide more insight into the story you’re telling.
There are also some applications or supplementals with recommended word counts or lengths. For example, Georgetown says things like “approx. 1 page,” and UChicago doesn’t have a limit, but recommends aiming for 650ish for the extended essay, and 250-500 for the “Why us?”
You can generally apply UChicago’s recommendations to other schools that don’t give you a limit: If it’s a “Why Major” or “Why Us” supplement, 650 is probably plenty (and shorter is generally fine), and for other supplements, 250-500 is a good target to shoot for. If you go over those, that can be ok—just be sure you’re earning that word count (as in, not rambling or being overly verbose). Your readers are humans. If you send them a tome, their attention could drift.
To clarify at the outset, your topic is always you—you’re showing the admissions readers who you are and what you value. So what we’re exploring here is how best to do so.
And because we have other posts that offer a step by step approach to writing a personal statement, we’ll give the shorter version here.
We think there are two structural approaches that can work for anyone writing a personal statement for college admissions:
Montage Structure—a series of experiences and insights that are connected thematically (so, for example, 5 pairs of socks that connect to 5 different sides of who you are).
Narrative Structure—classic western culture story structure, focusing roughly equally on a) Challenges You Faced, b) What You Did About Them, and c) What You Learned. Paragraphs and events are connected causally.
Which approach may work best for you depends on whether you have a clear, significant challenge you’d want to write about, or not. (And to make sure it’s clear: you don’t have to write about a challenge, even if you have experienced one.) Narrative works well for challenge-based essays; montage offers a great way to demonstrate who you are without (primarily) focusing on challenges you’ve faced.
We’ve found these brainstorming exercises can be great for building content for a montage or a narrative:
We’ve seen plenty of strong essays that don’t use a hook, so don’t stress out or spend more time on this than on other, generally more important parts of your essay. But an interesting opening can be a nice way to intrigue your reader and show them that you’ve worked on your ability to write. To that end, here are three (of many) ways to start a personal statement:
Begin with information that creates certain expectations before taking us in a surprising direction.
Example:
Growing up, my world was basketball. My summers were spent between the two solid black lines. My skin was consistently tan in splotches and ridden with random scratches. My wardrobe consisted mainly of track shorts, Nike shoes, and tournament t-shirts. Gatorade and Fun Dip were my pre-game snacks. The cacophony of rowdy crowds, ref whistles, squeaky shoes, and scoreboard buzzers was a familiar sound. I was the team captain of almost every team I played on—familiar with the Xs and Os of plays, commander of the court, and the coach’s right hand girl.
But that was only me on the surface.
Deep down I was an East-Asian influenced bibliophile and a Young Adult fiction writer.
Why It Works: We’re introduced to the author as a basketball superstar, the queen of the court, a sports fanatic—and at this point the reader may even be making assumptions about this author’s identity based on her initial description of herself. However, in one sentence, the writer takes us in a completely unexpected direction. This plays with audience expectations and demonstrates that she has a good degree of self awareness about the layers of her identity. After having our expectations thrown for a loop, we can’t help but wonder more about who exactly this person is (and if you want to know like I did, read the rest of this essay here).
Another example:
I am on Oxford Academy’s Speech and Debate Team, in both the Parliamentary Debate division and the Lincoln-Douglass debate division. I write screenplays, short stories, and opinionated blogs and am a regular contributor to my school literary magazine, The Gluestick. I have accumulated over 300 community service hours that includes work at homeless shelters, libraries, and special education youth camps. I have been evaluated by the College Board and have placed within the top percentile.
But I am not any of these things. I am not a test score, nor a debater, nor a writer. I am an anti-nihilist punk rock philosopher. And I became so when I realized three things:
Why It Works: He basically tears up his (impressive) resume from the first few sentences and says, “That’s not me! Here’s the real me…” and as a result we wonder, “How does one become an anti-nihilist punk rock philosopher? And what are the three things??” (Read the rest here.)
Ask a question that you won’t (and probably can’t) answer in your essay. This gives you a chance to show how your brilliant brain works, plus keeps us hooked as you explore possible answers/solutions.
Example:
Does every life matter? Because it seems like certain lives matter more than others, especially when it comes to money.
Why it Works: This question raises a controversial and troubling idea: that we treat some lives as though they matter more than others. We wonder: “Is that true? Could it be? Say more…” Heads-up: This one can veer into the “Overly Grand Ambiguous Statement” opening if you’re not careful. Click here to read the rest of the essay mentioned above, which by the way took him a long time to refine—as this approach is not easy to pull off.
Begin by admitting something you might be judged (or judge yourself) for.
Example:
I have been pooped on many times. I mean this in the most literal sense possible. I have been pooped on by pigeons and possums, house finches and hawks, egrets and eastern grays. (Read the rest here.)
Why it Works: Shows vulnerability, but also in many cases intrigues us to learn more.
Another example:
Here is a secret that no one in my family knows: I shot my brother when I was six. Luckily, it was a BB gun. But to this day, my older brother Jonathan does not know who shot him. And I have finally promised myself to confess this eleven year old secret to him after I write this essay.
Why It Works: This is super vulnerable to admit and raises all sorts of questions for us: Why did he shoot his brother? Why hasn’t he confessed it to him? What will his brother say once he tells him? (Fun fact: This essay actually breaks the “don’t start with a quote” rule. Here’s the rest if you wanna’ read it.)
The personal statement is one of the primary ways a college gets to know who you are, through seeing the values, skills, qualities, and insights you’ll bring to that community. Both montage and narrative offer you a chance to demonstrate those aspects to your reader.
In a narrative, you’ll explore actions you took in response to the challenge you faced, and what you learned from those choices and experiences.
In a montage, you’ll explore different moments and experiences that demonstrate different core values through your actions and insights.
The in-depth guide we mentioned above can help you develop and revise those elements.
A great ending often has two qualities: surprise and inevitability. H/T Aristotle
Think about a great film ending—usually you feel some combination of “Whoa, I totally didn’t see that coming,” and “Ah, right, it probably had to end like that.”
We’re talking about The Sixth Sense, Inception, or Titanic. And totally j/k re: Titanic because that was a TERRIBLE ending—both Jack and Rose could’ve totally fit on that door. The boat sinking was a shocker, though, right?
Does every great movie have both those qualities? No. And must you have both those qualities to get into a great college? No. But these are two good qualities to keep in mind as you read this post and write your essay.
This one is one of the easiest. It basically works like this: Look back through your essay and ask yourself, “What values am I showing?”
Then don’t name those values too much in the body of your essay, but do name them explicitly in your conclusion.
Here’s an example (note the values in bold):
Upon reflection, I found that my answer didn’t exist in books or research, but somewhere very close from the beginning—my intuition. In other words, I didn’t need an elaborate and intricate reason to prove to myself that health is an inalienable right for every human being—I needed self-reflection.
So I ask again, “Does every life matter?” Yes. “Do I have solid, written proof?” No.
Paul Farmer once said, “The thing about rights is that in the end you can’t prove what is a right.” To me, global health is not merely a study. It’s an attitude—a lens I use to look at the world—and it’s a statement about my commitment to health as a fundamental quality of liberty and equity.
To read the entire Does Every Life Matter essay, click here.
Why This Ending Works:
If you read the entire essay (at link above), you’ll see the author touches on a few different themes in his essay—heritage, community, moral behavior, etc.—but he doesn’t make them super explicit until the end. Once he names them at the end, we (as readers) go, “Ah, that’s what we thought you were talking about.”
Ending with values is also a pretty good idea because a) it shows your ability to self-reflect, and b) highlights some qualities that, oh, by the way, will be useful in college and beyond.
Heads-up that this doesn’t work quite as well if you’ve already clearly named the values earlier in the essay—in fact, it can feel repetitive. So, if you’re trying this approach, a) make sure you didn’t already explicitly name the values earlier and, if you did, b) delete or rephrase those parts of your essay so that when you name the values at the end, it won’t feel as repetitive.
And by the way—did you notice how the whole paragraph above felt repetitive? That’s because, if you were reading carefully, we already wrote before the example, “Then don’t name those values too much in the body of your essay, but do name them explicitly in your conclusion.” So, to edit, we should cut that sentence (and that’s what we’d have you do in your essay).
You’ll find another example of this type of ending in the Makeup essay (check out the mentions of “scientific inquiry,” “voice,” “connect me with others,” and more in those last lines).
Bookending involves referring to something you’ve set up earlier in the essay. It’s something comedians do a lot and refer to as a “callback.” For a few examples, check out How Dave Chappelle Delivers a Callback starting at 1:05. (Trigger warning: There’s some adult language in that video. If you prefer, here’s the Wikipedia link explaining the same concept.)
Here’s an example of a callback in a personal statement:
The essay begins .
I have been pooped on many times. I mean this in the most literal sense possible. I have been pooped on by pigeons and possums, house finches and hawks, egrets and eastern grays.
And the essay ends .
The upshot is that I simply cannot walk away from injustice, however uncomfortable it is to confront it. I choose to act, taking a stand and exposing the truth in the most effective manner that I think is possible. And while I’m sure I will be dumped on many times, both literally and metaphorically, I won’t do the same to others.
What We Like about This Ending/Why It Works:
This one is great because, on the one hand, the ending catches the reader by surprise (we didn’t see that coming!). But it also feels inevitable (because she’s calling back to something she set up at the start). That’s that surprise + inevitability we mentioned a minute ago. (Thanks, Aristotle.)
One thing that’s cool about this tactic is that you can do this once the rest of your essay is already written. And, if you do it well, it’ll feel like you planned it all along.
Learn about 8 other ways to end your personal statement.
Sprinting home from school and bursting through the door, I exclaimed, “Want to solve a puzzle today, Pati?” My grandmother looked up from her favorite TV show, saying in reluctant Tamil and broken English, “Maybe just one. You must have homework today. I heard fourth grade is quite demanding.” I yanked the thousand-page crossword book off the shelf and sat beside her. While shopping the day before, the book had caught my eye; it seemed like the perfect way for me to teach her English. Slowly, we solved the first problem, and came across one clue that read “Person who cuts men’s hair.” I taught her how to pronounce the word “barber” and described what the typical American barbershop looked like. She paused, committing the definition to memory, and once again reminded me to not cut my hair at night. When I asked why, she responded, “you never know where pieces of your hair might fall. It may even fall into your food!” As we continued day after day with these crossword puzzles, I came to understand that the meaning behind our time together was much deeper than my desire to teach her. It was about exchange. I taught her English; she taught me about my heritage. With every crossword, our shared sense of joy and belonging grew. The two-way street of teaching and learning brought us closer and deepened our respect for one another.
Six years later, I was teaching advanced math to a third-grade class. I took great care to explain new principles, and all of my students were doing well; I felt proud of them and of myself. Then, we reached the long division section. Despite my methodical descriptions, one student often stared back at me with a glazed-over look of confusion. I took her aside, trying yet again to explain the steps of long division, to no avail. Exasperated, I thought to myself, “This is my last try before kicking her out of the advanced class.” Taking a deep breath, I asked myself if I really was describing it in the best way. Realizing that mere repetition was futile, this time I explained it to her by connecting division to the basics of addition and subtraction. The glaze over her eyes disappeared, and in a small voice she exclaimed, “Oh!” My student mastered long division and scored excellently on the test - and I witnessed how patience allowed me to learn from my student and become a better teacher. While crosswords with my grandma illuminated the two-way nature of teaching and learning, this experience enriched my understanding of exchange with patience. This young girl also changed my view of patience: it isn’t only about waiting quietly for something to happen out of the blue, but can also be an act of service that I do for others.
Now, I mentor elementary and middle schoolers in robotics and lead the programming committee on my high school’s robotics team. I’m constantly answering questions from both the younger students and my peers like, “How do I code a follow-the-line program?” or “How do I get data from an accelerometer?” Rather than simply answering, I contextualize their questions in the relevant theory and explain how the hardware and software bring that theory to life. Although it would be faster to explain the steps, I practice patience and engage them in an exchange. This way, they arrive at an answer on their own, allowing them to ingrain the new information in their memory.
Mentoring robotics has solidified my notion that teaching is an exchange, and that patience is an integral part of that exchange. But most significantly, I understand that the dynamic pair of teaching and learning must come hand in hand for it to be effective. And the only way to have this kind of relationship is by helping each other solve our respective crossword puzzles.
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We think a strong personal statement demonstrates values, insight, vulnerability, and craft, so those are the aspects of these two sample essays we’ll focus on.
Values—This montage allows the author to illustrate many of the values that have shaped her: family, growth (her own and others’), heritage, connection, teaching, patience, curiosity…
Insight—There are several moments that show the author has worked on the ability to reflect. For example, “The two-way street of teaching and learning brought us closer and deepened our respect for one another.” demonstrates insight she has gained into how to develop strong supportive relationships
Vulnerability—Moments like “I asked myself if I really was describing it in the best way” in which we acknowledge when we may have failed at something or lacked understanding can be a nice way to demonstrate maturity
Craft—The author has clearly spent several drafts revising and thinking through their choices. The clarity of phrasing and sentence structure demonstrate that this author is ready to write in college.
"Perfect as the wing of a bird may be, it will never enable the bird to fly if unsupported by the air." —Ivan Pavlov
Upon graduation, I will be able to analyze medieval Spanish poems using literary terms and cultural context, describe the electronegativity trends on the periodic table, and identify when to use logarithmic differentiation to simplify a derivative problem. Despite knowing how to execute these very particular tasks, I currently fail to understand how to change a tire, how to do my taxes efficiently, or how to obtain a good insurance policy. A factory-model school system that has been left essentially unchanged for nearly a century has been the driving force in my educational development.
I have been conditioned to complete tasks quickly, efficiently, and with an advanced understanding. I measured my self-worth as my ability to outdo my peers academically, thinking my scores were the only aspect that defined me; and they were. I was getting everything right. Then, I ran for Student Government and failed. Rejection. I didn’t even make it past the first round of cuts. How could that be? I was statistically a smart kid with a good head on my shoulders, right? Surely someone had to have made a mistake. Little did I know, this was my first exposure to meaning beyond numbers.
As I was rejected from StuGo for the second year in a row, I discovered I had been wrongfully measuring my life through numbers--my football statistics, my test scores, my age, my height (I’m short). I had the epiphany that oh wait, maybe it was my fault that I had never prioritized communication skills, or open-mindedness (qualities my fellow candidates possessed). Maybe it was me. That must be why I always had to be the one to approach people during my volunteer hours at the public library to offer help--no one ever asked me for it. I resolved to alter my mindset, taking a new approach to the way I lived. From now on I would emphasize qualitative experiences over quantitative skills.
I had never been more uncomfortable. I forced myself to learn to be vulnerable by asking questions even if I was terrified of being wrong. My proficiency in using data evidence could not teach me how to communicate with young children at church, nor could my test scores show me how to be more open to criticism. The key to all of these skills, I was to discover, happened to be learning from those around me. Turns out, I couldn’t do everything by myself.
The process of achieving this new mindset came through the cultivation of relationships. I became fascinated by the new perspectives each person in my life could offer if I really took the time to connect. Not only did I improve my listening skills, but I began to consider the big-picture consequences my engagements could have. People interpret situations differently due to their own cultural contexts, so I had to learn to pay more attention to detail to understand every point of view. I took on the state of what I like to call collaborative independence, and to my delight, I was elected to StuGo after my third year of trying.
Not long ago, I would have fallen apart at the presence of any uncertainty. As I further accept and advance new life skills, the more I realize how much remains uncertain in the world. After all, it is quite possible my future job doesn’t exist yet, and that’s okay. I can’t conceivably plan out my entire life at the age of 17, but what I can do is prepare myself to take on the unknown, doing my best to accompany others. Hopefully, my wings continue enabling me to fly, but it is going to take more than just me and my wings; I have to continue putting my faith in the air around me.
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Values—Again, we get a bunch of core values threaded throughout the essay: intellectual curiosity, perspective, growth, relationships…
Insight—There are several nice moments of reflection in here. One example: “I discovered I had been wrongfully measuring my life through numbers--my football statistics, my test scores, my age, my height (I’m short). I had the epiphany that oh wait, maybe it was my fault that I had never prioritized communication skills, or open-mindedness (qualities my fellow candidates possessed).” demonstrates an ability to step back and reflect, to understand where he may have gone wrong, and to grow.
Vulnerability—Moments like “I currently fail to understand how to change a tire, how to do my taxes efficiently, or how to obtain a good insurance policy” add a bit of humor to the essay while also being vulnerable—it can be a little scary to acknowledge what others might perceive as weakness or shortcomings. But doing so actually demonstrates strength on the author’s part.
And there are a few of these: losing the election, realizing they had been measuring their life incorrectly, “Maybe it was me”…
Craft—The author does a nice job demonstrating their ability to write. The hook is interesting and effective, and is bookended nicely at the end. There’s a clear structure and flow to the essay. And there are nice little metaphorical turns of phrase like “I have to continue putting my faith in the air around me.”
Special thanks to Andy for contributing to this post.