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DD played on a high-level club team that flew out of state every three weeks for weekend tournaments —out Thursday morning, back Sunday night. She hauled a heavy bag of athletic gear, plus her backpack with school stuff. Team practices were four times a week, involving a one-hour round trip.
She took six AP classes senior year. Chaired her school’s Conduct Committee, served as a senior mentor, volunteered as a math tutor. Applied to three SAs and for three ROTC scholarships (she was very determined to become a commissioned officer). Applied to 10 Plan B schools (yes, that’s a lot, but we all know how illogically fickle college admissions is).
I did critique her essays. I did a couple mock interviews with her, and then drove her to MOC interviews. (See what I did there? )
I never once saw any of her application portals. Never saw her email inbox. (She did show me an email from the first school to admit her, just because she was so pumped by the “fireworks” when it was opened.) I never asked. She never volunteered. I trusted her to be all over it.
An expert in SA admissions gave her great advice. To paraphrase: “Take as hard a school load as possible. Challenge yourself with leadership roles and varsity athletics. Show the SAs that you can handle big challenges, manage your time, and deal with stress. Because that’s exactly what you’ll be expected to do at an SA.” And to us parents: “Let her own the application process.”
Not a fish tale. Several times while at USNA, DD did tell us: “I’ve never been this stressed out [or this busy or this exhausted] in my life.” Now as a 2LT, I’m sure she still feels that way at times.
I’ve met enough mids (and their parents) to know that DD’s senior-year experience wasn’t that unusual. Sure, every kid and situation is a bit different. But this I know, both as a parent and as a college professor: Kids are capable of much, much more than we give them credit for — or let them be.
She took six AP classes senior year. Chaired her school’s Conduct Committee, served as a senior mentor, volunteered as a math tutor. Applied to three SAs and for three ROTC scholarships (she was very determined to become a commissioned officer). Applied to 10 Plan B schools (yes, that’s a lot, but we all know how illogically fickle college admissions is).
I did critique her essays. I did a couple mock interviews with her, and then drove her to MOC interviews. (See what I did there? )
I never once saw any of her application portals. Never saw her email inbox. (She did show me an email from the first school to admit her, just because she was so pumped by the “fireworks” when it was opened.) I never asked. She never volunteered. I trusted her to be all over it.
An expert in SA admissions gave her great advice. To paraphrase: “Take as hard a school load as possible. Challenge yourself with leadership roles and varsity athletics. Show the SAs that you can handle big challenges, manage your time, and deal with stress. Because that’s exactly what you’ll be expected to do at an SA.” And to us parents: “Let her own the application process.”
Not a fish tale. Several times while at USNA, DD did tell us: “I’ve never been this stressed out [or this busy or this exhausted] in my life.” Now as a 2LT, I’m sure she still feels that way at times.
I’ve met enough mids (and their parents) to know that DD’s senior-year experience wasn’t that unusual. Sure, every kid and situation is a bit different. But this I know, both as a parent and as a college professor: Kids are capable of much, much more than we give them credit for — or let them be.
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