Liz Mastrangelo
Writing Coach
TUTORING, CONSULTING, AND EDITING SERVICES
College Essays Written by Clients
Enjoy these model essays, lovingly crafted by students who worked with me.
To read a third student essay, complete with annotations that identify successful storytelling components, please click here: We Were Boundless
Trigger
Caroline
Quinnipiac University
From the top floor of Children’s Hospital, I challenged the Boston skyline to a staring contest. “When you’re anxious,” my therapist had said, “note three things you can see and three things you can hear, and move three parts of your body.” I looked at my mom, her tight lips, her wide eyes. I transitioned to the skyscrapers. The city had always made me feel free, alive...but now I was stuck here. I didn’t have time to find a third thing to note before my doctor walked in.
I felt nauseated. Nothing could have prepared me for the news that I, at 15 years old, had rheumatoid arthritis.
One morning that summer, I had lingered in bed, contemplating my upcoming junior year. I was a social body, and loved moving from one pursuit to the next, from basketball, to class car washes, to babysitting. I stretched my arms and noticed that my middle finger was bent. I pushed it up to its normal position and heard a snap. Google claimed it was “stenosing tenosynovitis,” also known as “trigger finger.”
The hand surgeon and occupational therapist agreed. Gradually, the pain snaked its way to my other fingers. I avoided basketball because sinking the ball shot pain through my wrists. Off to the pediatrician I went, then to the rheumatologist. My life felt like a never-ending circle. When the rheumatologist finally diagnosed me, I felt even worse.
The humidity at the beach tortured my body. Writing essays left me in tears. When my friends invited me to go bowling, I shrugged: “My mom said no.” My doctor suggested arthritis conventions, support groups, and coping therapists, but I refused.
Rheumatoid arthritis has no cure, and this knowledge prevented me from moving on. I woke up each morning with a reminder that I was different -- a reminder that I had to get a shot, or get my blood drawn to make sure the medication wasn’t killing my liver. I didn’t share my condition with my friends, and confided in only my mom, uncle, and cousins. The summer before senior year, I had to get my shot while visiting my cousins in Newburyport. As my mom iced and cleaned my leg, my uncle sang to me: “RA, don’t let it make you sad/ RA don’t let it make you mad/ RA it can’t keep you down because it is strength that you have found.” Later that summer, my cousin Olivia came to the Cape. Sitting with her by the crashing waves took the humidity, and my pain, to the next level. Graciously, she offered to massage my fingers. Little did I know that these moments were shifting my mindset.
One day, about a year after my diagnosis, I awoke to the negative thoughts that I knew so well, and immediately shut them down. Before rheumatoid arthritis, I had been a positive person. I could no longer wait for action: I needed to pull the trigger myself.
My once-immobilizing diagnosis propelled me forward. In an elective course named Eard, I learned the severity of human trafficking. This cause, and potential career, has inspired passion in me. Now, all the pain and anxiety disappear when I imagine freeing others from entrapment.
Attending college worries me because I will have to manage my arthritis in new surroundings, but if moving forward were easy, anyone would just do it. During my diagnosis, when I was using the 3-3-3 method to calm my anxiety, I didn’t have time to focus on a third thing before hearing the shocking news. That third thing would have been my hands.
I once looked at my hands with disdain. But now I think of the essays and stories my hands have written, the doors they have opened, the basketballs they have shot. I am going to use my hands to pull the victims of human trafficking back into the momentum of life.
The Golden Beauty
Nate
UMass Amherst
“My dream car! Parked right downtown!”
I scramble to pull out my phone to share this find with my friends. The third-generation 2002 Toyota Soarer is a sleek coupe with a legendary 2jz-gte engine, known to make 600 horsepower. I’ve been working extra shifts at Sauce, a burger place, in order to save up for a project car like this one.
I can trace my love for cars back to creating elaborate Lego vehicles, but when my friend Tyler started an RC Car Club in middle school, thereby introducing speed and power to design, I was hooked. As I learned how to change gear ratios and torque, our yard filled with ramps I built to launch vehicles far beyond their initial capability. The hours that our club spent racing and inevitably repairing vehicles led to my learning about all kinds of cars. My Uncle Eddie and I started exchanging texts: “Nate, I found a 2011 Porsche Cayman S with 125K miles. What do you think?” He understood my passion for cars better than anyone.
One spring morning, my mother woke me up and led me downstairs, filming the whole procession. As my excitement rose, I saw the Camry, a grandma car, sitting in the driveway. “Uncle Eddie bought it for you,” I vaguely heard my mother say. This Camry wasn’t powerful like a Nissan 350Z, a car that my uncle and I had discussed. I couldn’t mod it with aftermarket suspension. It wasn’t red and fast. It was slow, old, and gold.
I felt guilty knowing that my uncle didn’t have a lot of spare money, and that he’d bought this car for me out of love. So in the following weeks, I made updates. I installed an Apple CarPlay Stereo and repaired wiring issues. I removed the front seats to ensure no French fry, coin, or little-old-lady earring remained. No more boring floor mats: I custom-cut bright green turf. And finally, with the toss of my pineapple bucket hat onto the passenger headrest, I lightheartedly christened the Camry "The Golden Beauty.”
That summer, as I drove around my friends who happily complied with Car Rule #1: Passengers must wear the pineapple bucket hat, I learned that a car can summon a joyous shared experience. I would laugh as Matthew inevitably reached over to change songs and initiated a debate over the virtues of Ariana Grande vs Lil Tjay, drowning out any stresses from our busy schedules. Other days, Jack and I would load the car with our mountain bikes and escape to explore trails. We joked about how, when our engineering teacher let us use CAD to be creative, I designed user-friendly chopsticks and he built a better grip for his hockey stick. We also opened up about struggles with Miss Rainer, our disorganized math teacher who constantly made us worry that we were missing an assignment or quiz. Never before had I discussed with a friend strategies for managing the demands of schoolwork. The car even encouraged a whole new dynamic with my brother James. We started to bond without our parents engaging in our conversations. Impromptu excursions to Donna’s Donuts or DQ left us arguing less, and his teasing lost its edge. That summer I grew to appreciate the privilege of driving beyond 0-60 stats or flashy exteriors. At last, I felt fully thankful for my uncle’s most generous gift.
As Matthew and I stopped by Haggetts Pond one summer evening, the golden hue of the sunset washed through the cabin and left us quiet. It occurred to me that the seclusion of a cabin lends itself to developing communication and friendship. Temporarily withdrawing from the outside fosters growth inside. While I will continue to search for my dream project car and to appreciate the mechanics of a well-built vehicle, my gratitude to the Golden Beauty will persist as a reminder of all that is truly important.