My fingers hover over the keys of the piano as I outline the lines of music in my head: extended chord, rest, hold. I take a breath and begin playing. As my fingers move swiftly across the keyboard, my voice starts to accompany it. “The more I notice the crispness of the world the more it feels like a blur,” I sing. But the second I lift my fingers off the keyboard, my mom rushes into the room. “Why don’t you include your singing in your college app?” she asks.

My friends often tell me that I hum incessantly, sometimes without even noticing. Whether I’m sitting in the Purgolatory working on an English essay, huddled in the corner of the library deciphering derivatives for Calculus, or driving home from school, a tune underlies every action. During classes, my fingers tap on everything—computer keyboards transform into black and white piano keys, and tablestops start to resemble sharps and flats.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a singer and a musician. I begged my parents for piano lessons when I was two years old.  When I finally started lessons at the age of four, it felt like coming home. 

Now I turn to the piano on difficult days, finding myself in a state of peaceful semi-somnambulance as I sit down at 11:30 p.m. to compose a little song of my own. My own poems, journal entries, and fragmented language become lyrical as I sit down to play. For 17 years, music and singing have been intrinsic parts of myself but also something I cherished entirely privately. I refuse to perform publically—or even privately for extended family—and I have never joined choir or Glee Club at school. 

And until my mom mentioned it that day, I had never even considered including singing on my college application. But another thought emerged in the back of my head: Would it help me get in?

In a world of decreasing acceptance rates and ever-more-competitive college admissions, that question nagged at me. I have often felt the need to do everything in my power to get in. That means spending hours every week on extracurriculars, working towards a near-perfect SAT score, and crafting beautiful essays. I have meticulously curated my activities lists, trying to find the perfect 150 characters to encapsulate a year of volunteering or six 40-hour weeks of research. Every part of my life must be boxed up, tied with a bow, and sent off for some counselor to spend less than eight minutes unwrapping.

It’s hard not to think that singing and music—essential parts of my identity—might be just the thing to set me apart in some way. Could it be the cherry on top that sways an admissions officer? 

When my mom asked me about including singing on my application, I genuinely considered it; however, I’ve already surrendered so much to the college admissions process. I’ve tried to distill myself into every word and character count imaginable, but I can’t bear to lose the meaning of this one thing. Some parts of myself I can’t, and don’t want to, reduce.

Because everything becomes so intrinsically commoditized with college applications, I lose the humanity in the activities themselves. What ends up being presented in my application file is a narrowly-curated version of who I am—a snapshot that inevitably crops out certain facets and intricate nuances.

This reduction of my identity for the sake of college admission feels inherently wrong. It’s as if I’m taking something important to me and manipulating it in a way that robs it of its intrinsic meaning. I want to protect the sanctity of my passions and interests and guard them against becoming mere tools for personal gain—it’s about preserving the humanity within myself.

Singing and music are an integral part of who I am, and they are special because they’re for me and me alone. Sitting at the piano at the end of a long day is often the only moment I get for myself. While there are undoubtedly other times when I explore what I love, much of my day feels dedicated to meeting external expectations.

Using my love of music for another ulterior purpose would fundamentally change its value. The pure joy I find in music would be overshadowed by the pressure to excel and meet external expectations, to convert my passion into carefully chosen words for an admissions officer. 

In a soul-crushing process that already reduces individuals to statistics and checkboxes, I refuse to keep manipulating parts of myself for college. I need something unadulterated and unexploited just for me, and I will start by preserving who I am and what I love.