On Curiosity
A college admissions essay written at eighteen, about a year in New York City — what I learned from a rooftop conversation about faith, and what solitude on the subway taught me about how I think.
Thirteen days before my high school graduation, a shock of curiosity went down my spine as I heard the words, “A New York modeling agency wants to sign you.” I had already set plans for college, but truthfully I knew I needed a different next step. For me, curiosity is the instinct that has driven every major decision in my life. So when my heart quietly screamed “yes!” to the notion of New York, I listened.
On June 7th, I moved into a three-story brownstone with a dozen other models (and a few mice), most of whom were older than me, from different countries, and living completely different lives from mine. That apartment quickly became one of the richest classrooms I’ve ever experienced. My days were spent navigating castings across Manhattan, flying alone to new locations for shoots, and even walking Fashion Week. I felt like I was in kindergarten again, sitting cross-legged on Mrs. Brown’s rainbow carpet, shooting my tiny hand into the air with every new spark of curiosity. Looking back, my time in New York split into two distinct seasons: summer, where I learned through relationships, and fall, where I learned through solitude.
My summer in New York embodied a dream I didn’t know I had. Through the friendships I made, my curiosity found its tribe. On late summer nights my roommates and I would scale a ladder to the rooftop, dragging pillows and blankets with us, to have sleepovers under the stars. One night, my friends Ella and Ryleabeth began a conversation about spirituality that was different from my personal beliefs, yet also fascinated me. I started joining the conversation but spoke hesitantly. Then Ryleabeth turned to me and said, “You don’t have to reduce your experiences, I know I don’t have the same faith as you, but I respect the way it grounds you.” In that moment I realized I felt the same way towards her. I began to speak with clarity and then asked questions with a deep desire to learn, expanding the horizon I was functioning within. It was through dialogue like this that I learned to be both confident in my beliefs and genuinely curious about others.
Truthfully, the fall was much harder for me. Throughout September, one by one, my friends left the city for their next locations. Heartbroken on the day my final roommate left, I called my mom, broke down crying, and booked a flight home for that very night. But a week later I was back on a plane, listening to a podcast about the importance of solitude. I wrestled with the idea as I rode in my Uber and went to sleep in the empty apartment. The next two weeks were deeply uncomfortable. Without constant conversation to distract me, I was forced to sit with my own thoughts. One afternoon on the uptown R train, I felt a quiet nudge to delete social media and begin carrying books and journals instead. Intrigued, I got off at the next stop, found a bookstore, bought my materials, and cleared my phone of distractions. In that decision, I learned that curiosity isn’t only fueled by people and places — it also requires stillness. Fall taught me how to listen inward, trust my instincts, and rediscover learning as an individual.
When I reflect on the last six months, I picture a key ring crowded with well-worn keys and a hallway of open doors. Curiosity has always been my key, an invitation to step forward without certainty. Since turning that first key in my move to New York, each door I’ve opened has asked something different of me. Some rooms were filled with conversation and connection; others asked me to sit alone and listen. Together, they shaped how I learn best: engaged, reflective, and bold. This is what I will bring to college: curiosity refined by experience, ready for a new classroom.