This is the essay that I used to apply to Dartmouth. The prompt was : The lessons we take from the obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience? This essay is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to write because at the time, the topic was something so sensitive to me I couldn’t even discuss it with my parents. This piece is more than just a passage to me; it is an exploration of myself that ended up giving me more confidence through the challenges it presented. I worked on this essay for months and by it’s completion, my English teacher read it over and said it was “golden.” It’s hard to describe seventeen years of living with a disability in 650 words, but I tried my hardest.

My grandpa used to tell me:

It is what it is. Get over it.

This may seem harsh, but being born with a life-altering irregularity that affects one in thirty-thousand people means that this motto is a way of life. As a fetus, I developed Poland Syndrome, a condition that left me with no pectoralis major and underdeveloped ribs on the left side of my body. This deformity has affected all aspects of my life, whether it be athletics, academics, or character. While my grandpa taught me early on that feeling sorry for myself will get me nowhere, I have since learned that my personality has prospered as a result of my shortcomings.

I fell on my head a lot as a kid. Crawling usually ended in collapse. Early on in my seven-year gymnastics career, I couldn’t even do a handstand until I defied my coach’s instructions. Nowadays I am falling for different reasons, but I’m still held back when I bench press and tend to lean to my right side while Nordic skiing. So far, this story has been about hardships, but everybody has those; I learned long ago that life isn’t fair. What makes me unique is that I didn’t use my background as an excuse, as I didn’t even let others know that I was having a harder time performing the same skills. I pushed myself harder than everyone else because I knew I had to put in extra effort to even keep up with my fellow athletes. In the process, I decided I would trudge even further up my mountain of adversity and grit. I was walking by eight months old and now run varsity cross country. I got to the point where I was the fastest rope climber on my gymnastics team and two summers ago I came out on top in a strength competition among the fastest fifteen-year-old skiers in the nation.

Seventeen years of living in my body have taught me how to appear normal, but my disguise is not perfect and will become more erroneous as I develop. It may be an exaggeration to say I’m facing impending doom, but I know that my metaphorical outer skin is slowly shedding; currently, people can notice I’m “different,” but they can’t put their finger on it. Pretty soon, children will see me and ask their parents, “why does that lady only have one breast?” The mother will look at me embarrassed but also confused; adults have seen enough people in a wheelchair or using a support cane to know not to stare, but I am a derivative and they’ve only learned the quadratic formula. I’ve prepared myself for my metamorphosis by learning that my own approval is more important than anyone else’s. My closest friends have rolled their eyes at my ideas, some of which failed, some of which were a hit. My presentation on the United States Camel Corps. ended up on our APUSH exam in the form of a meme, and I became vegan despite my boyfriend’s occupation (meat farming of all things) and I still win races as well as diet-related debates.

I often find myself being told that I am so lucky that I am strong. Initially, I get frustrated because they aren’t acknowledging the copious amounts of effort I have invested in myself. But then, I realize that their mindset is the reason they aren’t as “lucky” as me. Because of my condition, I have learned that there are a lot of hapless people out there and I can’t use my own misfortune as an excuse. This is why when people tell me that I’m lucky, I say that all they need to do is believe that they can climb their own mountain. As Helen Keller once said,

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”