Rate (out of 10) my common app essay and evaluate it (650 word limit):

Fifteen wooden pieces slide beneath my fingers—left, right, up, down. Click. Wrong sequence. Reset.


In Nairobi's City Market, amidst crowds and Maasai vendors, my mother bought me this puzzle box, teaching me to find patterns within chaos. Each piece moved in sync, affecting the others in a dance of cause and effect. The box reflected my own life, with each move between countries—Britain, Kenya, Uganda, Angola—adding pieces to my puzzle, each reset a step toward completion.


Britain was my first piece, one of gratitude and routine.
It’s 6 AM, torrential rain pounds outside, yet my mother is out fetching us a “cuppa” before school. This was our ritual, no matter which borough we called home, her way of creating stability in an ever-shifting world. I tried to return her devotion: drawing crayon portraits, and spinning bedtime stories to ease her stress. Part of me longed to understand it all, why I saw my father only twice a year, why others seemed so different from us. But…before I could  piece it together, we moved—Reset.


Kenya was my piece of independence and opportunity.
My friends and I would sneak out to local markets, clutching handmade calendars we’d crafted, each page meticulously planned, reflecting my desire for structure. Amid the vendors' shouts and jostling crowds, we pitched our calendars to passersby. With each sale, I grew more confident, finding a sense of belonging in creating and sharing something of my own. This sense evolved into Journey Home, my first story about a boy’s search for such belonging, inspired by friends I’d left and landscapes of memory. Selling copies, I realized, for the first time, I was in control of shaping my story. But… as I settled into this new rhythm, the pieces shifted again—Reset.


Uganda was my piece of expression and reflection.
In an empty music room, I searched for sounds on my trombone that could articulate emotions too complex for words. At home, I’d layer YouTube beats, voicing lyrics that turned noise into rhythm and pattern. My verses became my diary, a conversation between the pieces I’d left behind and the ones to come. At dawn, I’d meditate, serenaded by birds and roosters, absorbing their anthems as they intertwined with my own. These rituals became practices of insight, teaching me to focus on what I could influence while letting the rest go. My reflections and music evolved from questions about identity to celebrations of complexity, and opportunities for building new pieces. 


Angola was my piece of fitness and community.

“Passa a bola, passa!” The basketball thuds against hot concrete as I maneuver through local kids on my estate’s makeshift court. I relied on broken Portuguese, yet our connection was unspoken through the game. Each evening, under an amber sky, we’d play until darkness forced us home. Fitness became my constant, a piece I carried wherever I went: from leading community calisthenics deep in the favelas of Luanda, to sprinting up my village’s “killer hill” in training for my newfound love of basketball. This piece taught me that growth isn’t found in stability alone but in pushing past comfortable limits, and building connections through shared experiences.


Through years of solving my puzzle box, I’ve learned that each piece—London’s habits, Luanda’s community, and all in between—has shaped me, not despite their chaotic arrangement but because of it. Like the wooden pieces that slide beneath my fingers, my experiences across continents taught me that solutions don’t come from forcing pieces into place but from understanding how they move together, and create new patterns. Each reset wasn’t an end but a step forward, letting me build on the foundations of what came before.
As I move into college, I carry this wooden box as a reminder: the most meaningful challenges aren’t about finding single solutions but about embracing the complex dance of pieces that make us whole—and I’m ready to keep sliding new pieces into place.