哈佛大学申请文书来啦！速来围观Essay范文！

　　当大家实力相当的时候，Essay是可以直接决定录取结果。尤其是在今年标准多样的申请季，文书的重要性愈发明显。

　　哈佛大学校报上张贴了5篇优秀Essay范文，来自2020年秋季入学的学霸们，没有了客观标准，我们来学习他们的思维方式，给今年申请的你一些启发~

　　01

　　John

　　ESSAY正文

　　“Let’s face it, you’re slo,” my violin teacher said.

　　He as, as alays, plaining that running as detracting from my practice ti.

　　That sumd up hat running had alays ant to , ever since I as a seventh grader, choosing his sport for the first ti. I as fine and ntent, hoever. I alays had Jeffrey and Archie, classmates like ho ran sloly. We ere good friends. We laughed together; e raced together; e pushed each other, and endured tough orkouts together. But after middle school the people I trained ith ent on to do things they ere better at. I remained, even though I as not good enough to be nsidered for varsity.

　　High school running as hell. I struggled ith orkouts, most of hich I had to run alone. In the hot, dry days of autumn, I often ughed on the dust trails left by my teammates as they vanished into the distance. During the orkouts, I got passed incessantly, almost getting run over on oasion. It hurt not to be important; to be dead eight for the team. I looked forard to the next year, hen I uld hopefully run ith the ining freshn.

　　It didn’t happen that ay. Even a year later, I as still the sloest on the team. Ho uld the freshn ho had snored off the hole sumr beat , a veteran from middle school and high school ith decent sumr training? I nevertheless rensidered the effectiveness of my training, and looked forard to getting “back in shape.” It as only after my ndition had been deteriorating steadily for a fe eeks that I began to feel a ne level of humiliation. I started to have trouble keeping up ith old ladies in the park, and each day I orked frantically to prevent the disvery of that fact by my teammates, running toard the sketchy areas of the ramble, in the south, here there’s barely anybody. My mother, orried about the steady deterioration of my ndition, ntacted a doctor.

　　I as anemic.

　　The doctor prescribed a daily iron pill, and the results ere exhilarating. I joked that I as taking steroids. I sunk into endless oxygen. I got tired less. During the orkouts, I felt more machine than man. Iron therapy taught sothing fundantal. It reminded hy I as running; hy I had stuck to this damn sport for four straight years. When I as anemic, I struggled to gather hat little motivation I had for those painfully slo jogs in those parks. Putting the effort in, and seeing the dramatic results fooled my mind like a ell-administered placebo. Iron therapy as the training heels that ould jump-start my dramatic improvent.

　　It took four months—four months of iron pills, blood tests, and training—to get back to my personal best: the 5:46 mile that I had run the year before. Early February that year, the training heels ca off. I as running close to seven miles a day on my on. But I asn’t unting. I uld catch a light. I uld alk as many stairs as I anted ithout getting tired. I as even far ahead of here I as the year before. After to and a half years as a 5:50 miler, I finally had a breakthrough race. I ran a 5:30. I asked ach if I uld eventually break 5 minutes. He told to focus more on maintaining my fitness through spring break.

　　I ran the mile again, this ti outdoors. Coach had seeded at a 5:30. I ran the first lap, holding back. I didn’t ant to overextend myself. I hoped to squeeze by ith a 5:35. The euphoria as unprecedented as I realized by the send lap that I as a dozen sends ahead and still holding back. I finished ith a 5:14.

　　On the bus ride back from the et, one of my long-standing dreams ca true. I pretended to ignore Coach sitting next to , but he kept on giving glances. He as excited about my ti. We talked a lot about the race. We talked about my ntinuous and dramatic improvent. He said it as early in the season and that I ould break 5 minutes after only a fe eeks of training.

　　Six eeks later, Mr. Song, my chemistry teacher, asked if I had broken 5 minutes for the mile yet. I told him all about ho I had run in three ets over the past month and had failed to break 5:15 on every one of them. I told him that 5 minutes as no for a mirage in the distance. Mr. Song, hoever, did not sho much ncern: “You’re just overtrained. Once you ease up before the big et, you’ll drop in ti once more.”

　　Even though these nsoling ords ere from the man ho had baffled my nutritionist hen he had guessed that I as anemic, I still doubted his isdom. On Sunday, I ould run the mile once. My last mile of the year. This as it. Using my tried-and-true racing strategy, I finished ith a 5:02, a 12- send drop in ti. Mr. Song’s predictions had again turned out to be rrect.

　　Before I as anemic, the rrelation beteen hard ork and suess as sothing that only appeared in the cliché suess stories of the talented fe. No, I am running more mileage than I ever have before. And my violin teacher still plains.

　　But I smile. I kno it’s going sohere.

　　02

　　Winnie

　　ESSAY正文

　　Soft Wooden Heart

　　The backbone of my life is my riting desk. I like to describe its surface as an anized ss (despite my parents’ overdramatized description of a bomb site), a state of positive entropy and minimum energy. Math exercises overlap an anizer, set next to almost-empty tubes of paint and overdue library books. A nstantly filled bottle of ater sits behind a glasses’ case full of guitar picks, and carved into a mountain of paper, right in the middle, is a space reserved for my lap—on days hen I am slouching, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare needs to be slid under it. An eclectic desk shos an eclectic personality; mine has had the honor of being the training grounds prior to the Great (final) Battle (exam) of Chemistry, the peaceful ado of relaxed reading afternoons, and all in all the pristine-turned-lorful canvas of an inquisitive mind.

　　I rember buying it ith my mother five years ago, hen my bruised knees protested against the tiny hite-paint-gone-yello one I had used since childhood. My ne desk as made of native Rimu heartood—solid, resilient, dependable—a perfect role model for to gro into. Over the years, its material beca representative of my Ne Zealand identity, its surface sloly ated in quirky personality, and its partnts filled ith treasured mories; the heartood desk echoed my heart.

　　At first, it did not fit ith the der of the rest of my room, hich even no appears boxy and stark next to my grandiosely elegant riting desk, but its quiet strength is unafraid of individuality, just as I have learned to bee. It has atched as I gre stronger branches, a straighter trunk, firr roots; hereas I had once been but a shy young seedling, I sprouted leaves and ith them the ability and yearning to provide shade for others. I have certainly physically gron into it, but although I ould like to think that I have bee pletely independent, I remain human; in inevitable tis of need, it is still my steadfast, sturdy desk that offers its support.

　　I sit here and, ell, I rite: joyfully, desolately, irately, istfully—at tis paralyzed by excitent, at others crippled by fear. I scral notes in my anizer (hich is, naturally, not in the least anized), ords overflo my blog, overemotional oranges and blues plague my illustrations; shallo scratch marks indent the ood from here I have pressed too passionately into paper. It may be solid, but it is elastic enough to be shaped, resilient enough to adapt: This is my soft ooden heart.

　　It can take it. My desk remains nstant despite scars of experience—unassuming, stoic, ever atchful. Even hen I dismbered dying cell phones, their frail key tones pleading for rcy, the desk stood there, nonchalant. Regardless of hat fervor goes on from ti to ti, it knos there ill eventually be a nstant calm; my lively nest of rebuilt mobiles still calls this place ho. Sotis, I rest my uncertain head on its reassuring solid surface and the ood presses back into my heartbeat, municating in Morse: “Don’t orry. So things ill never change.”

　　And, like a mother, it alays turns out to be right. Beneath my seemingly chaotic at of papers and objects; beneath the superfluous, temporary things that define my present life, my desk and my heart remain still—solid, stable, and evergreen, ready to be ritten onto and scratched into by experience.

　　03

　　Octav

　　ESSAY正文

　　A light breeze caressing the rnfield makes it look like a gentle saying sea of gold under the ginger sun of late sumr. A child’s chi-like laughter echoes. As I rush through the rnfield, I hear the rustling of leaves and the murmur of life hidden among the stems that toer over .

　　I rember the joy of the day hen I solved one of my first difficult binatorics problems at my parents’ house in the untryside. I felt so exhilarated that I ran outside and into the rnfield. As I as passing ro after ro of stems, I realized the rnfield as actually a giant matrix ith thousands of binations of possible pathays, just like the binatorics problem I had just solved. I looked at the sky and I thought about the great mathematicians of the past that ntributed so much to this field and about ho I have added yet another dinsion to my matrix. Suddenly, mathematics appeared to as a 3D live map here staggering arrays of ideas nnect each other by steady flos of sheer isdom.

　　Suddenly a loud laughter from the next room akes up from my reverie. I am back in my room in the drab dormitory here I lived since I as fifteen. The dim sunset barely lightens up my room, hile the ld November ind rushes from the broken-and-nded-ith-tape indo on the hallay, histling beneath my door. My roommates haven’t returned yet, and I feel alone and isolated.

　　In monts such as these I alays take out the ultimate eapon against gloominess: the picture of my family. I look at myself, my parents, my little sister, and my grandfather at the untryside, under a clear blue sky, hugging, sharing the joy of being together. It reminds of the old tis, hen life as simpler, but it also reminds of hy I ca to Bucharest to live in a dormitory. It as because mathematics fascinated ith its beautiful and intricate theories and nfigurations, and my parents and my family supported 150 percent. They put in long hours at ork to pay for school sts and they selflessly aepted my long absences. I decided then to honor their support, follo our mon dream, and bee an acplished mathematician.

　　Finally today I nsider I matched at least an infinitesimal part of my parents’ ork. After untless Olympiad stages and fierce selection programs, I managed to in a gold dal at the International Mathematical Olympiad, along ith sring hat is called “an ace”: getting gold dals in the National Olympiad, the Balkan Olympiad, and the International Olympiad.

　　Math, for , is a vast map of knoledge here theories intersect each other like pathays in a rnfield, and that explains the las of nature and the universe itself. Hoever, no matter hat mathematical sphere shall I soar in, I ill alays have my family ith and the joy of that day hen I as running freely in the rnfield.

　　04

　　Lucien

　　ESSAY正文

　　I sat under the table, burying my head tightly in my folded arms, hile the other children sat on the carpet, listening to the teacher’s story. The language barrier as like a tsunami, gurgling ith strange and indistinguishable vocalizations. Elentary school asn’t as fun as I expected at all.

　　“Hello?”

　　Hearing a hisper, I raised my head up, only to notice a boy’s face rely inches aay. I bolted up in surprise, my head lliding gracefully ith the underside of the table. Yelping in pain, I noticed that the entire class as staring at .

　　That as the story of ho I t my first friend in Canada.

　　That boy, Jack, ca to visit during my lonely recesses. It as rather akard at first—I uld only stare at him as he rambled on in English. But it as forting to have so pany.

　　From there, our friendship blossod. Our initial nversations must have been hilarious to the hapless bystander. Jack ould speak in fluent English hile I spurted sentence after sentence of Mandarin. It as like atching tennis—rallies of English and Mandarin back and forth. But I learned quickly, and in no ti I as fluent.

　　Jack also shoed the ropes of Western culture. Heaven knos ho embarrassing my birthday party ould’ve been if he hadn’t told about those so-called “loot-bags” beforehand.

　　Today, I volunteer at a munity service agency for ne immigrants here I ork ith children. I do it because I understand the nfusion and frustration of dealing ith a strange and sotis hostile environnt; I rember ho it feels to be tangled up in an amalgam of unfamiliar ords and sounds. And so I teach them; I give seminars on reading, riting, and speaking skills as ell as Western culture, history, and sotis, a bit of social studies.

　　But I strive to do more than just that. I try to be a friend—because I rember ho Jack helped . I anize field trips to the science center, the museum, and the symphony: double-hammy trips here children can have fun hile improving their literacy skills.

　　Through these experiences, I try to understand each of them as unique individuals—their likes, dislikes, pet peeves, background.

　　Everyone needs a guiding light through the loneso process of adaptation, a friendly bump to lift them from the dark shroud of isolation. That’s hat Jack did for —ith a rather painful bump to the head—and it’s also hat I do for these immigrant children.

　　My hope is that, one day, these children ill also feel pelled to do the sa, helping others adapt to an unfamiliar environnt. With this, e can truly create a caring and hesive ork of support for the children of our society.

　　05

　　Josh

　　ESSAY正文

　　I look over at the digital clock at the front of the bus just as the ti changes to 8:30. The engine begins to rumble, the seat begins to shake, and the bus sloly pulls onto Route 6 and heads toard JPA—the Jay Pritzker Academy—near Siem Reap, Cambodia. The bus is alive ith chatter. Peace Corps volunteers trade stories about their experiences in their assigned villages; international schoolteachers discuss their plans for the day’s lessons. I overhear one of the Peace Corps volunteers, Deidre, say, “I have to say, the Peace Corps offers incredible health care. They devaced to Bangkok hen I got dengue fever.”

　　Today, I find myself unable to join the nversation. I stare blankly at the blue cloth seat in front of , trying to gently ax my knotted stomach out of my throat. All I can think about is the empty seat beside and the unfortable feeling of entering uncertain territory alone.

　　My friend and -teacher, Shahriyar, is in the Angkor Hospital revering from a serious bout of amoebic dysentery. I visited him yesterday. He as lying in bed ith his sumr reading in his right hand and an IV in his left. Looking pale and exhausted, he eakly lifted his head and greeted . “I don’t kno if you kno this yet,” he said, “but I’m flying ho tomorro. Are you ing ith ?” Though the nes didn’t surprise , the question caught off guard. As I left the hospital room, I uldn’t help but think ho easily this uld have been in his situation.

　　The bus drives over a speed bump faster than it should have, and I’m jolted back to the present. I try to take my mind off Shahriyar and look out the indo at the orld around . Everything is so much different than it is in Deerfield, yet it all soho feels very natural to . To my left I see an elderly oman earing a mask seeping dust off the street; I smile at her, but she doesn’t notice. As the bus gets closer and closer to JPA, the fact that I ill have to teach today’s lessons by myself begins to set in.

　　I onder if I’m physically capable of teaching three hours of class by myself in the niydegree heat and 90 percent humidity. In the past,

　　Shahriyar and I had alays taken turns leading the class, giving each other a fe monts to rest and rehydrate hile the other taught. A part of is afraid to do it. I’ve never had to lead the class ithout the fort and support of having Shahriyar by my side. As I think about the challenges I ill face, I realize ho easy it ould be to turn back. I only have to call Sokun—a local tuk-tuk driver and he’d take to the airport. Knoing my -teacher has bee seriously ill, nobody ould think less of if I ent ho today.

　　As I sit in my seat, planning my trip ho, the bus slos nearly to a s and then turns onto a narro red dirt road. I’ve suddenly plunged into a ne orld. The ss of orn-don ncrete buildings and mopeds gives ay to miles of flooded rice paddies stretching as far as I can see. Every fe hundred yards I see boys and young n orking barefoot in the fields. The bamboo huts that dot the landscape make think back to my visit to the house of one of my students, Dari. I rember looking into his room and seeing a ooden table on his dirt floor. Close by, a bamboo shelf as filled ith books. The globe he had on for being on the Honor Roll as proudly displayed on the bookshelf among his prized possessions. Smiling ear to ear, he told us that JPA as the best thing in his life. I realize that it really is too late to go ho. I’ve already fallen in love ith my students.

　　As the bus pulls into JPA’s driveay, the rest of the teachers begin gathering their materials. I remain seated, deep in thought. “Are you ing?” I hear a familiar voice ask . I look up and see Deidre looking at .

　　“Of urse I am.”