How Lying Got Me Into Columbia University

The following essay explores my self-editing process for the personal statement that got me into Columbia University.

But getting in wasn’t the hardest part—telling the truth was.

The first draft of this essay was everything a “strong” application should be: polished, impressive, safe. It also erased my queerness completely. I wrote it with my father in mind, knowing he’d be my proofreader. And so I edited myself out of my own story.

What follows is the introductory passage from that original version, along with a candid reflection on how I rewrote the entire piece—starting with the sentence I was most afraid to write: “I am a liar.”

This isn’t just about reworking a personal statement. It’s about confronting silence, reclaiming my voice, and learning that the riskiest sentence is often the one that sets you free.

Introductory Excerpt from the Original Essay

Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, the age-old joke was that the cows outnumbered people three to one. It’s certainly different than the environment I will experience in New York City (unless we perhaps replace “cows” with “pigeons”), but my ventures beyond the cows and cornfields—including my experience as a transfer student and teaching at Walt Disney World’s Animal Kingdom—give me a competitive edge for thoughtful dialogue and collaboration at Columbia.

At just five years old, I had my whole life planned out. Witnessing my sister’s battle with childhood cancer, I decided I would become a pediatric oncologist. It wasn’t until much later that I allowed myself to explore my deepening passion for wildlife conservation and admit that my dreams were shifting. The pressure to become who my family expected me to be, and the quiet voice inside me that wanted something different created tension shaped me both as a student and a scientist.

Self-Edit & Reflection

Part I: The Version I Wrote for My Father

That first version didn’t allude to my queerness. It didn’t “subtly explore” identity. It didn’t take creative risks.

It avoided them.

I wrote it knowing my dad would read it. I edited every sentence with him in mind—not as an imaginary reader, but as the man I’d always handed drafts to, hoping for his praise and critiques. And in his eyes, I was still straight.

So I left that part of myself out entirely.

The result was an essay that told a coherent, competent story. It walked readers through my pivot from medicine to conservation. It highlighted my academic record, my travels, my research on capuchins and frogs. It even had a few light jokes about pigeons, cows, and cornfields.

But when I finished writing it, I didn’t feel proud. I felt small. Like I had just put together a glossy brochure for a life I no longer lived.

What made it worse was that I knew exactly what I wasn’t saying. I wasn’t saying that growing up queer in rural Pennsylvania shaped how I understood safety, voice, and space. I wasn’t saying that I’d spent my high school and college years hiding from my peers and my family. I wasn’t saying that being closeted had shaped the very way I moved through the world—including how I approached science, community, and leadership.

I didn’t forget to say those things. I purposely chose not to. And that omission—conscious, calculated, protective—was the biggest lie I’d ever written.

Part II: The Drafts That Didn’t Work

I wasn't proud of my first draft. It lacked depth. It wasn't compelling. I wanted to make the reader want to continue reading with just the first line. So I reworked the opening five or six times, hoping to land on something punchier, more emotional, more “unique.” But I still wasn't ready to be honest. Here are a few of the versions I attempted:

• “I’ve always felt like I’m standing in two places at once.” (Vague. Felt too poetic for no reason. Didn’t really say anything.)
• “If frogs taught me one thing, it’s how to jump when the ground gets hot.” (Cute, but too metaphor-driven. It wouldn't make sense to the reader until much later in the essay when I explained my research on frogs and how warming temperatures impact their jumping performance.)
• “The most important lessons I’ve learned didn’t come from the classroom, they came from a theme park—Disney’s Animal Kingdom.” (Meant to be unexpected. Just felt… off. Not dishonest, and it was clever, but it didn't feel grounded.)

With each version, I tried to create depth or surprise or intrigue. But all of them danced around the truth I still didn’t want to touch. They failed not because they were bad sentences, but because they were built on the wrong foundation: fear.

I kept searching for a way to sound real without being real.

But eventually, I stopped trying.

Part III: The Sentence That Split Me Open

“I am a liar.”

That line changed everything.

I wrote it out of frustration—at myself, at the process, at the silence I kept feeding. I stared at it for hours. I knew it could be misread. I knew it was risky. But I also knew it was true.

That sentence cracked the whole essay open. What was once an essay I wasn't happy with and knew was impossible to turn into something great before the application deadline in two days, became an essay that poured out of me and was finished within just three hours.

I stopped building a narrative and started telling the truth: that I had been closeted for over two decades; that my queerness shaped my scholarship, my advocacy, my voice; that I had, until then, been writing to be accepted—not just into a university, but into someone else's idea of me.

From that point on, I let queerness sit at the center. I restructured the essay so identity wasn’t a side note but a core driver. I cut lines I had loved to make space for the ones I had once been afraid to write. The final version wasn’t comfortable, and I wasn't certain that it would lead to a positive admissions decision. It was messy and risky, but I no longer cared. Because it was finally mine.

The New Introduction

I am a liar.

That is probably not a confession you desire from a Columbia applicant. Fear not. I do not truly mean that. But that is how I felt when applying to universities as a transfer student.

“As a straight, white female, I am relatively close to the top of the social privilege pyramid.” That is how I opened a response to an essay prompt that stated a university’s belief that diversity makes their campus community stronger and asked me to share unique perspectives I would bring. I discussed my involvement in advocating for safe spaces for LGBTQ+ students, writing policy memos to Congress demanding reductions in sentencing disparities that disproportionately affect people of color, and engaging in open conversations with peers.

But I withheld my full truth.

While everything I wrote about my proactive involvement was and remains true, I felt like a liar. Because I wanted to discuss growing up as a closeted queer woman in a small, rural, conservative hometown—an experience that fostered resilience. I wanted to talk about my excitement to express myself authentically in college but witnessing bigotry against the queer community and feeling afraid and unsafe to do so. Those feelings fueled my advocacy. I wanted to discuss the unique perspective I would bring as a queer woman in STEM—how that identity allows me to approach science with a heightened knack for representation, inclusivity, and innovation.

But I couldn’t delve into my queer experience in that essay. Because to my dad, my go-to proofreader, I was his straight, perfect daughter. To him, and the rest of the world for 21 years, I was a liar.

The truth is, the profile of me as a person, student, and scientist is incomplete without discussing my queerness. Now, as an out queer woman in STEM, I can empower future generations of queer scientists and my peers at Columbia.

I continued the essay by delving into my pre-medical experiences, research endeavors that fueled my desire to pursue a career in conservation, the challenges of being a transfer student, and the uniqueness of my gap year spent teaching at Disney's Animal Kingdom. But now, I did so as me. The full, real me.

Final Thoughts

This wasn’t just a self-edit. It was a reckoning—with fear, with silence, with the need to be “appropriate” and "perfect."

The original draft was carefully built. The final draft was riskier, messier, and truer. It got me into Columbia. But more importantly, it reintroduced me to my own voice—a voice I now trust enough to be honest, even when honesty is the harder choice.

Working through this personal statement taught me that strong writing doesn’t come from sounding smart. It comes from saying what only you can say, in the way only you can say it.

And sometimes, that starts with the sentence you’re most afraid to write.