My college application essay was about pot roast.

I’ve always loved food (and love to write about it), but the essay wasn’t about that.

There was a pot roast in the slow cooker the night my parents told my sister and I they were divorcing.
The essay was about THAT. 💔

Twenty-four (ish?) years after the fact, I’m a little fuzzy on the details of that day. (And The Big Conversation™ itself was a teary blur by the following week.)

What I remember: All the water in the braising liquid evaporated, the roast fused to the bottom of the pan, and the entire house filled with the acrid odor of singed Lipton Beefy Onion soup mix.

That essay was the first time I’d ever turned a vulnerable moment into writing meant for other people to read.

I’d written (hideously bad) short stories before. I enjoyed writing and scored well on papers all through school.

But this was the first time I understood I was a capital-W writer.

That the essay was my ticket into six of the seven schools I applied to was icing on the cake. (Tufts waitlisted me, and I’m still not over it. 😤)

Sense memory, personal experience, and deep vulnerability — slash oversharing, if you’d prefer — have become hallmarks of my writing, both for myself and my clients.

Some folks are hesitant to share personal stories, believing no one will care or people will wonder why the hell they’re sharing *that*.

But actually? Our stories create heart-level connection. They reinforce our shared humanity. They’re where empathy is born.

Don’t be scared to make your memories part of your message.