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Articles & Advice > College Admission > Blog

How to Approach Tragedy and Loss in Your College Essay

You may feel compelled to write about a difficult subject for your college essay. Here are some tips to write about hard topics with respect and impact.

by Keaghan Turner, PhD Partner, Turner+Turner College Consulting

Last Updated: Mar 16, 2023

Originally Posted: Aug 5, 2019

Tragedy and loss are not easy subjects to broach in writing at all, let alone very public writing that someone else will read or hear spoken. Writing about tragedy and loss certainly won’t be for everyone, so make sure you give it some real thought before you try to dive in and put your jumbled, high-emotion thoughts to page. But if a difficult topic is the one that compels you to write a great admission essay, then it can be done—as long as it’s done the right way. Before we explore the key elements to writing about traumatic experiences the right way, here’s some perspective through a personal story of loss.

The struggles with writing about loss

One spring, there was a rash of suicide attempts at a local high school in my community. Two of them were successful; others were not. The first time I wrote about this loss was for a memorial service. This is the second time. It’ll never be “easy” to write about, just as what happened will never make sense to anyone who knew the victims. How can we use words for trauma and grief in order to make sense of what doesn’t make sense?

One student, in a mature spirit of activism, wrote an open letter to the school district office, which was posted and reposted all over social media until there was a school assembly featuring officials, professionals, and faith leaders open to the whole community. The Parent Teacher Organization gave out green ribbons to raise awareness about depression and other mental illnesses . Most immediately for the teens in my town, the words appeared via social media posts. That was how the students wrote about their loss in the weeks following the first (then six weeks later, the second) tragedy. Some students will write about it for their college essays, and they’ll need help. It’ll be important to them to do a good job, to honor the memories of their friends who passed away, to get it “right.”

To say the least, people had mixed feelings about these posts and reposts; about what should be discussed and how; and how to protect the grieving families from more suffering. It’s a small community, and these were shockingly sad events. The fact is, these tragedies have already fundamentally redefined the high school experience of the students in my town. The ripples might be subtle or pronounced, but they exist. Peers will mark time using these losses (midterms happened before , prom happened after ), and the experience will not be forgotten; it’s now part of their life stories.

Related: Mental Health: What Is It and How You Can Find Help

How to tackle writing about tragedy the right way

Difficult topics can ( and should) be broached in admission essays because they are a part of life that can’t be ignored and often play a huge part in defining who we are as people. What I told those students about handling loss with their words is summed up below, and it also applies to writers tackling any kind of special need, medical condition, or family struggle in their college essay.

Be honest and straightforward

You don’t need to have been super close to a tragedy to be affected by it or to write about it effectively. But don’t pretend you were affected in a way you weren’t; you’ll come across as phony. If you’re moved to write about a painful event, there’s a genuine reason behind that impulse. That reason is good enough; figure out what it is. That being said, powerful life events require quick-hitting, direct sentences. Be like Hemingway, my professors used to say—keep your sentences short; they have more punch that way. You don’t need lots of flowery or figurative language to convey that your subject is a big deal—but at the same time, do make sure you’re showing, not telling, in your writing . Connecting emotionally is about expressing that time through actions and events, not just thoughts and feelings.

Find your message with the right words

Superfluous language gets in the way of gravity. Be ready to prune drafts until you feel you’ve found the right semantic fit for the intention behind your words. Your essay also needs a theme, a call, a purpose. The point isn’t simply to narrate a sad story in order to show the reader how sad it is (e.g., your essay’s message is not that teen suicide is tragic); rather, the point is to connect the sad story to the essay prompt you've chosen to address. The event itself essentially takes a backseat to the points you want to make about what it means .

Be respectful

This is really the one ultimate rule, and if you do this, the other stuff can be worked out. In the context of the college essay, respect usually involves approaching your subject matter somewhat anonymously. Names aren’t necessary. If you’re engaging a serious, painful topic—and it involves others—be careful to write as circumspectly and thoughtfully as you can. When in doubt, ask someone whose judgment you trust (like a teacher or parent) to check it out for you.

Seek help for you or others

Is it easy to write about hard realities? Not at all—not in any context, not for anyone. But if you’re brave enough to try, you may find it to be transformative and therapeutic to articulate your experience as you process your grief and begin to heal. And the most important thing to remember is to take those emotions and experiences and use them to help others in the future before other tragedies strike. Writing about these situations can often shed light and inspire others to help people in need, which in the end is more crucial than anything else. If you have been affected by tragedy or are worried about a friend who is struggling, help is available. Contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 800-273-8255 or a trusted adult.

For more advice on college essays, check out our Application Essay Clinic , or if you’re in need of mental health advice, check out the tag “mental health.”

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Keaghan Turner, PhD, is Assistant Professor of Digital Writing and Humanistic Studies at Coastal Carolina University . She has taught writing and literature at small liberal arts colleges and state flagship universities for the past 20 years. As a managing partner of Turner+Turner College Consulting, LLC, Dr. Turner also counsels high school students on all aspects of their college admission portfolios, leads writing workshops, and generally tries to encourage students to believe in the power of their own writing voices. You can contact Dr. Turner on Instagram @consultingprofessors or by email at [email protected] .

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Home — Essay Samples — Life — Life Experiences — Sad Story

Essay Examples on a Sad Story

What makes a good sad story essay topics.

When it comes to writing a sad story essay, choosing the right topic is crucial. A good sad story essay topic should be thought-provoking, emotionally engaging, and unique. It should elicit empathy and evoke strong emotions in the reader. In this section, we will discuss What Makes a Good sad story essay topic and provide recommendations on how to brainstorm and choose the perfect topic.

To brainstorm and choose a sad story essay topic, it is important to consider your own experiences, emotions, and the impact you want to make on the reader. Reflect on personal experiences or observe the world around you to find inspiration. Consider the emotions you want to convey and the message you want to communicate through your essay. It is also important to think about the audience and what topics may resonate with them. A good sad story essay topic should be relatable and have a universal appeal.

When choosing a sad story essay topic, it is important to consider the depth and complexity of the subject matter. A good topic should allow for exploration of deep emotions and meaningful insights. It should also provide an opportunity for personal growth and self-reflection. Additionally, a good sad story essay topic should be original and unique. Avoid clichéd or overused topics and instead opt for something fresh and unexpected.

In summary, a good sad story essay topic should be emotionally engaging, thought-provoking, and unique. It should elicit empathy and evoke strong emotions in the reader. When brainstorming and choosing a topic, consider your own experiences, emotions, and the impact you want to make on the reader. Also, think about the depth and complexity of the subject matter, as well as the originality and uniqueness of the topic.

Best Sad Story Essay Topics

The Unspoken Grief: Coping with the Loss of a Loved One
The Heartbreak of Betrayal: A Story of Love and Deceit
The Weight of Regret: Living with Unfulfilled Dreams
The Loneliness of Longing: A Tale of Unrequited Love
The Pain of Goodbye: Navigating the End of a Relationship
The Burden of Guilt: Confronting Past Mistakes
The Despair of Isolation: A Story of Solitude and Alienation
The Anguish of Addiction: Struggling to Break Free
The Agony of Rejection: Overcoming the Sting of Disapproval
The Sorrow of Injustice: Fighting for Equality and Fairness
The Torment of Illness: Coping with the Ravages of Disease
The Melancholy of Memories: Navigating the Pain of the Past
The Desolation of Displacement: A Story of Homelessness and Displacement
The Heartache of Unfulfilled Ambition: Chasing Dreams That Never Materialize
The Misery of Loss: Coping with the Absence of Something Precious
The Desperation of Poverty: Struggling to Survive in Adversity
The Agony of Betrayal: Coping with the Pain of Deception and Disloyalty
The Grief of Unrequited Love: A Story of Longing and Heartbreak
The Despair of Failure: Confronting the Demons of Defeat
The Pain of Silence: Navigating the Emptiness of Unspoken Words

Sad Story essay topics Prompts

Write a sad story about a character who loses everything they hold dear in a natural disaster.
Craft a story about a person who discovers a long-hidden family secret that changes their life forever.
Tell a tale of unrequited love and the emotional turmoil it brings to the protagonist.
Create a story about a person who must come to terms with the consequences of a life-altering decision.
Write a sad story about a character who struggles with the burden of an unfulfilled dream and the impact it has on their life.

Choosing a good sad story essay topic is essential to creating a compelling and emotionally engaging piece of writing. By considering the emotions you want to convey, the impact you want to make, and the depth and complexity of the subject matter, you can select a topic that will resonate with your audience and evoke strong emotions. Additionally, by opting for original and unique topics, you can create a sad story essay that stands out and leaves a lasting impression on the reader.

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My Depression in My Life

Depression is something that shows itself differently for everyone. There is no one person, or one story, or one experience that can make someone universally understand truly how depression alters the lives of those of us who suffer from it. I can’t make anyone understand how it is for everyone, but I can tell you how it alters my life, and maybe that will help people understand how all-encompassing it really is.

For me there are two main ways that my depression manifests itself when it breaks through the barriers I have set with the help of years of therapy and medication. There is the gut wrenching loneliness and near constant anxiety and then there is the checking out, the feeling nothing at all, the numbness. Sometimes I don’t know which is worse, but I will try to explain both.

The Loneliness and Anxiety:

In some ways I consider this step one of when my depression spikes because it always seems to come first. But I don’t consider it step one in levels of horribleness. Like I said above I really think that both ways my depression hits me are pretty awful and I couldn’t say which is worse.

You know that feeling you have in your gut when you are about to and/or really need to cry. While that is what it is like. All the time. I could be laughing and having a great time with my friends, which I often am because my friends are great, and yet in the back of my mind I feel more alone than ever and I just want to curl up into fetal position and cry. But I never can. I can’t go home and cry and then feel better, because it’s not like there is something to cry about, or really anything to be sad about. And it isn’t really sadness. It is complete solitude. It’s when my brain tells me that I am alone, that I can’t be loved, that no one really wants me around, and worst of all that no one will understand me.

That is worst of all because at the place I am in my life, no matter what I have been through in the past, or what my depression tries to make me believe I know that I can be loved, that I’m not alone and that I am wanted. And I know that because of the hard work I have done to get to that place in my life, and because of some of the amazing people in my life who make sure that I know that they are there for me, that they love me, and that they want to spend time with me.

But the idea that no one will ever truly understand who I am, or any of that. That is a little harder to dissuade myself from believing. Because as much as I can tell people what I went, and still go through and what goes through my mind, who can really understand me other than me. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the way my depression tells me it, it is a bad thing.

So there I am surrounded by people, very possibly having some of the best experiences of my life, feeling like I need to bawl, completely unable to, and nearly having an anxiety attack because I just want it to end.

And it is here where two things happen. It is here where I wish for and welcome the numbness because I don’t want to feel the all-encompassing loneliness and anxiety. It is also where I think about cutting.

I have not cut myself in three and a half years. And I know that it doesn’t solve my problems. I know that I shouldn’t and I don’t want to. Even when I want to I don’t want to.

But here, when I am feeling the all-encompassing loneliness which is the very last thing that I want to feel, I think about cutting because it lets me feel something else.

The physical act of cutting gives me something to think about and focus on, something other than that loneliness. And when I am not physically cutting, instead of thinking about how lonely I am and how that feeling will never end I think about the next time I can cut, or the most recent time I did.

And Then The Numbness:

I don’t really know how to explain this numbness. It is simply a period of time where I feel literally nothing. I fake happiness/normal emotion around friends, not always very well, and when I am alone I just don’t care about anything.

This is when my grades often fall because I don’t care about anything, including school, and therefore school work.

And then, sometimes I just want to feel something, anything, and so that is when I think about cutting. I think about cutting because it gives me something to feel, something I can control, but still feel.

The numbness comes because I can’t handle what I’m thinking and feeling, because it is too much for me to deal with, so I shut everything off so I don’t have to feel it.

In some ways, cutting transitions me back into feeling. But again, cutting, NOT A SOLUTION, NOT HEALTHY.

And something that I no longer do.

Now, for the past three and a half years, whenever I think of cutting, which I still do. It is still my first thought in either of these situations, I instead do one of the many things that I have come to know to help me cope.

For example, I force myself to spend more time with my friends, because I know that the loneliness will pass and I can talk myself out of feeling lonely when I am not physically alone.

I read/watch anything romantic. I pretend that I am one of the characters, and then I feel what they feel instead of what I am feeling (or preventing myself from feeling).

I belt along to old school Taylor Swift. Because what is more beautiful than a summer romance in a small country town with Chevy trucks and Tim McGraw?

And though my schoolwork does still sometimes fall through the cracks, I always make myself do some work.

Basically I force myself to live my life, because well, it is my life, and I refuse to live it feeling alone when I’m not, and numb when I could be great.

So even though I do feel those things far more often than I would like it is something that I live with, because I have depression.

Because depression is a disease, and I will always have it.

Because my depression is a part of who I am.

And most of all, because I only have one life, and I want to live it. Because even though when my depression spikes it makes me want to not live sometimes, I refuse.

Because I am the author of my own life and I choose to put a semicolon instead of a period at every point that my depression tells me otherwise.

So that is how my depression affects my life. That is how I deal with it. Like it or not I always will.

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The Winners of Our Personal Narrative Essay Contest

We asked students to write about a meaningful life experience. Here are the eight winning essays, as well as runners-up and honorable mentions.

By The Learning Network

Update: Join our live webinar on Oct. 8 about teaching with our Narrative Writing Contest.

In September, we challenged teenagers to write short, powerful stories about meaningful life experiences for our first-ever personal narrative essay contest .

This contest, like every new contest we start, was admittedly a bit of an experiment. Beyond a caution to write no more than 600 words, our rules were fairly open-ended, and we weren’t sure what we would get.

Well, we received over 8,000 entries from teenagers from around the world. We got stories about scoring the winning goal, losing a grandparent, learning to love one’s skin and dealing with mental illness. We got pieces that were moving, funny, introspective and honest. We got a snapshot of teenage life.

Judging a contest like this is, of course, subjective, especially with the range of content and styles of writing students submitted. But we based our criteria on the types of personal narrative essays The New York Times publishes in columns like Lives , Modern Love and Rites of Passage . We read many, many essays that were primarily reflective but, while these pieces might be well-suited for a college application, they weren’t exactly the short, powerful stories we were looking for in this contest.

The winning essays we selected were, though, and they all had a few things in common that set them apart:

They had a clear narrative arc with a conflict and a main character who changed in some way. They artfully balanced the action of the story with reflection on what it meant to the writer. They took risks, like including dialogue or playing with punctuation, sentence structure and word choice to develop a strong voice. And, perhaps most important, they focused on a specific moment or theme — a conversation, a trip to the mall, a speech tournament, a hospital visit — instead of trying to sum up the writer’s life in 600 words.

Below, you’ll find these eight winning essays, published in full. Scroll to the bottom to see the names of all 35 finalists we’re honoring — eight winners, eight runners-up and 19 honorable mentions. Congratulations, and thank you to everyone who participated!

The Winning Essays

Nothing extraordinary, pants on fire, eggs and sausage, first impressions, cracks in the pavement, sorry, wrong number, the man box.

By Jeniffer Kim

It was a Saturday. Whether it was sunny or cloudy, hot or cold, I cannot remember, but I do remember it was a Saturday because the mall was packed with people.

I was with my mom.

Mom is short. Skinny. It is easy to overlook her in a crowd simply because she is nothing extraordinary to see.

On that day we strolled down the slippery-slick tiles with soft, inconspicuous steps, peeking at window boutiques in fleeting glances because we both knew we wouldn’t be buying much, like always.

I remember I was looking up at the people we passed as we walked — at first apathetically, but then more attentively.

Ladies wore five-inch heels that clicked importantly on the floor and bright, elaborate clothing. Men strode by smelling of sharp cologne, faces clear of wrinkles — wiped away with expensive creams.

An uneasy feeling started to settle in my chest. I tried to push it out, but once it took root it refused to be yanked up and tossed away. It got more unbearable with every second until I could deny it no longer; I was ashamed of my mother.

We were in a high-class neighborhood, I knew that. We lived in a small, overpriced apartment building that hung on to the edge of our county that Mom chose to move to because she knew the schools were good.

We were in a high-class neighborhood, but as I scrutinized the passers-by and then turned accusing eyes on Mom, I realized for the first time that we didn’t belong there.

I could see the heavy lines around Mom’s eyes and mouth, etched deep into her skin without luxurious lotions to ease them away. She wore cheap, ragged clothes with the seams torn, shoes with the soles worn down. Her eyes were tired from working long hours to make ends meet and her hair too gray for her age.

I looked at her, and I was ashamed.

My mom is nothing extraordinary, yet at that moment she stood out because she was just so plain.

Mumbling I’d meet her at the clothes outlet around the corner, I hurried away to the bathroom. I didn’t want to be seen with her, although there was no one important around to see me anyway.

When I finally made my way to the outlet with grudging steps, I found that Mom wasn’t there.

With no other options, I had to scour the other stores in the area for her. I was dreading returning to her side, already feeling the secondhand embarrassment that I’d recently discovered came with being with her.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Mom was standing in the middle of a high-end store, holding a sweater that looked much too expensive.

She said, “This will look good on you. Do you want it?”

It was much too expensive. And I almost agreed, carelessly, thoughtlessly.

Then I took a closer look at the small, weary woman with a big smile stretching across her narrow face and a sweater in her hands, happy to be giving me something so nice, and my words died in my throat.

I felt like I’d been dropped into a cold lake.

Her clothes were tattered and old because she spent her money buying me new ones. She looked so tired and ragged all the time because she was busy working to provide for me. She didn’t wear jewelry or scented perfumes because she was just content with me.

Suddenly, Mother was beautiful and extraordinarily wonderful in my eyes.

I was no longer ashamed of her, but of myself.

“Do you want it?” My mom repeated.

“No thanks.”

By Varya Kluev

I never kissed the boy I liked behind the schoolyard fence that one March morning. I never had dinner with Katy Perry or lived in Kiev for two months either, but I still told my entire fourth-grade class I did.

The words slipped through my teeth effortlessly. With one flick of my tongue, I was, for all anybody knew, twenty-third in line for the throne of Monaco. “Actually?” the girls on the swings beside me would ask, wide eyes blinking with a childlike naivety. I nodded as they whispered under their breath how incredible my fable was. So incredible they bought into it without a second thought.

I lied purely for the ecstasy of it. It was narcotic. With my fabrications, I became the captain of the ship, not just a wistful passer-by, breath fogging the pane of glass that stood between me and the girls I venerated. No longer could I only see, not touch; a lie was a bullet, and the barrier shattered. My mere presence demanded attention — after all, I was the one who got a valentine from Jason, not them.

This way I became more than just the tomboyish band geek who finished her multiplication tables embarrassingly fast. My name tumbled out of their mouths and I manifested in the center of their linoleum lunch table. I became, at least temporarily, the fulcrum their world revolved around.

Not only did I lie religiously and unabashedly — I was good at it. The tedium of my everyday life vanished; I instead marched through the gates of my alcazar, strode up the steps of my concepts, and resided in my throne of deceit. I believed if I took off my fraudulent robe, I would become plebeian. The same aristocracy that finally held me in high regard would boot me out of my palace. To strip naked and exclaim, “Here’s the real me, take a look!” would lead my new circle to redraw their lines — they would take back their compliments, sit at the table with six seats instead of eight, giggle in the back of the class when I asked a question. I therefore adjusted my counterfeit diadem and continued to praise a Broadway show I had never seen.

Yet finally lounging in a lavender bedroom one long-sought-after day, after absently digesting chatter about shows I didn’t watch and boys I didn’t know, I started processing the floating conversations. One girl, who I had idolized for always having her heavy hair perfectly curled, casually shared how her parents couldn’t afford to go on their yearly trip the coming summer. I drew in an expectant breath, but nobody scoffed. Nobody exchanged a secret criticizing glance. Instead, another girl took her spoon of vanilla frosting out of her cheek and with the same air of indifference revealed how her family wasn’t traveling either. Promptly, my spun stories about swimming in crystal pools under Moroccan sun seemed to be in vain.

The following Monday, the girls on the bus to school still shared handfuls of chocolate-coated sunflower seeds with her. At lunch, she wasn’t shunned, wasn’t compelled to sit at a forgotten corner table. For that hour, instead of weaving incessant fantasies, I listened. I listened to the girls nonchalantly talk about yesterday’s soccer game where they couldn’t score a single goal. Listened about their parent’s layoff they couldn’t yet understand the significance of. I listened and I watched them listen, accepting and uncritical of one another no matter how relatively vapid their story. I then too began to talk, beginning by admitting that I wasn’t actually related to Britney Spears.

By Ryan Young Kim

When first I sat down in the small, pathetic excuse of a cafeteria the hospital had, I took a moment to reflect. I had been admitted the night before, rolled in on a stretcher like I had some sort of ailment that prevented me from walking.

But the nurses in the ward were nice to me, especially when they saw that I wasn’t going to be one of the violent ones. They started telling me something, but I paid no attention; I was trying to take in my surroundings. The tables were rounded, chairs were essentially plastic boxes with weight inside, and there was no real glass to be seen.

After they filled out the paperwork, the nurses escorted me to my room. There was someone already in there, but he was dead asleep. The two beds were plain and simple, with a cheap mattress on top of an equally cheap wooden frame. One nurse stuck around to hand me my bedsheets and a gown that I had to wear until my parents dropped off clothes.

The day had been exhausting, waiting for the psychiatric ward to tell us that there was a bed open for me and the doctors to fill out the mountains of paperwork that come with a suicide attempt.

Actually, there had been one good thing about that day. My parents had brought me Korean food for lunch — sullungtang , a fatty stew made from ox-bone broth. God, even when I was falling asleep I could still taste some of the rice kernels that had been mixed into the soup lingering around in my mouth.

For the first time, I felt genuine hunger. My mind had always been racked with a different kind of hunger — a pining for attention or just an escape from the toil of waking up and not feeling anything. But I always had everything I needed — that is, I always had food on my plate, maybe even a little too much. Now, after I had tried so hard to wrench myself away from this world, my basic human instinct was guiding me toward something that would keep me alive.

The irony was lost on me then. All I knew was that if I slept earlier, that meant less time awake being hungry. So I did exactly that. Waking up the next day, I was dismayed to see that the pangs of hunger still rumbled through my stomach. I slid off my covers and shuffled out of my room. The cafeteria door was already open, and I looked inside. There was a cart of Styrofoam containers in the middle of the room, and a couple people were eating quietly. I made my way in and stared.

I scanned the tops of the containers — they were all marked with names: Jonathan, Nathan, Kristen — and as soon as I spotted my name, my mouth began to water.

My dad would sometimes tell me about his childhood in a rural Korean village. The hardships he faced, the hunger that would come if the village harvest floundered, and how he worked so hard to get out — I never listened. But in that moment, between when I saw my container and I sat down at a seat to open it, I understood.

The eggs inside were watery, and their heat had condensated water all over, dripping onto everything and making the sausages soggy. The amount of ketchup was pitiful.

But if I hadn’t been given plastic utensils, I think I would have just shoved it all into my mouth, handful by handful.

By Isabel Hui

When I woke up on August 4, 2016, there was only one thing on my mind: what to wear. A billion thoughts raced through my brain as wooden hangers shuffled back and forth in the cramped hotel closet. I didn’t want to come off as a try-hard, but I also didn’t want to be seen as a slob. Not only was it my first day of high school, but it was my first day of school in a new state; first impressions are everything, and it was imperative for me to impress the people who I would spend the next four years with. For the first time in my life, I thought about how convenient it would be to wear the horrendous matching plaid skirts that private schools enforce.

It wasn’t insecurity driving me to madness; I was actually quite confident for a teenage girl. It was the fact that this was my third time being the new kid. Moving so many times does something to a child’s development … I struggled finding friends that I could trust would be there for me if I picked up and left again. But this time was different because my dad’s company ensured that I would start and finish high school in the same place. This meant no instant do-overs when I pick up and leave again. This time mattered, and that made me nervous.

After meticulously raiding my closet, I emerged proudly in a patterned dress from Target. The soft cotton was comfortable, and the ruffle shoulders added a hint of fun. Yes, this outfit was the one. An hour later, I felt just as powerful as I stepped off the bus and headed toward room 1136. But as I turned the corner into my first class, my jaw dropped to the floor.

Sitting at her desk was Mrs. Hutfilz, my English teacher, sporting the exact same dress as I. I kept my head down and tiptoed to my seat, but the first day meant introductions in front of the whole class, and soon enough it was my turn. I made it through my minute speech unscathed, until Mrs. Hutfilz stood up, jokingly adding that she liked my style. Although this was the moment I had been dreading from the moment I walked in, all the anxiety that had accumulated throughout the morning surprisingly melted away; the students who had previously been staring at their phones raised their heads to pay attention as I shared my story. My smile grew as I giggled with my peers, ending my speech with “and I am very stylish, much like my first period teacher.” After class, I stayed behind and talked to Mrs. Hutfilz, sharing my previous apprehension about coming into a new school and state. I was relieved to make a humorous and genuine connection with my first teacher, one that would continue for the remainder of the year.

This incident reminded me that it’s only high school; these are the times to have fun, work hard, and make memories, not stress about the trivial details. Looking back four years later, the ten minutes I spent dreading my speech were really not worth it. While my first period of high school may not have gone exactly the way I thought it would, it certainly made the day unforgettable in the best way, and taught me that Mrs. Hutfilz has an awesome sense of style!

By Adam Bernard Sanders

It was my third time sitting there on the middle school auditorium stage. The upper chain of braces was caught in my lip again, and my palms were sweating, and my glasses were sliding down my nose. The pencil quivered in my hands. All I had to do was answer whatever question Mrs. Crisafulli, the history teacher, was going to say into that microphone. I had answered 26 before that, and 25 of those correctly. And I was sitting in my chair, and I was tapping my foot, and the old polo shirt I was wearing was starting to constrict and choke me. I pulled pointlessly at the collar, but the air was still on the outside, only looking at the inside of my throat. I was going to die.

I could taste my tongue in my mouth shriveling up. I could feel each hard-pumping heartbeat of blood travel out of my chest, up through my neck and down my arms and legs, warming my already-perspiring forehead but leaving my ghost-white fingers cold and blue. My breathing was quick. My eyes were glassy. I hadn’t even heard the question yet.

Late-night readings of my parents’ anatomy textbooks had told me that a sense of impending doom was the hallmark of pulmonary embolism, a fact that often bubbled to the surface of my mind in times like these. Almost by instinct, I bent my ring and little fingers down, holding them with my thumb as the two remaining digits whipped to my right wrist and tried to take my pulse. Mr. Mendoza had taught us this last year in gym class. But I wasn’t in gym class that third period. I was just sitting on the metal folding chair, waiting for Mrs. Crisafulli to flip to the right page in her packet for the question.

Arabella had quizzed me in second-period French on the lakes of Latin America. Nicaragua. Atitlán. Yojoa. Lake Titicaca, that had made Raj, who sat in front of me, start giggling, and Shannon, who sat three desks up and one to the left, whip her head around and raise one fist to her lips, jab up her index finger, and silence us. Lakes were fed by rivers, the same rivers that lined the globe on my desk like the cracks in the pavement I liked to trace with my shoe on the walk home. Lake Nicaragua drains into the San Juan River, which snakes its way around the port of Granada to empty into the Caribbean Sea. I knew that.

At that moment I was only sure of those two things: the location of Lake Nicaragua and my own impending doom. And I was so busy counting my pulse and envisioning my demise that I missed Mrs. Crisafulli’s utterance of the awaited question into her microphone, as I had each year in the past as one of the two people left onstage.

“ … Coldest … on earth,” was all I heard. My pencil etched shaggy marks as my shaking hands attempted to write something in the 20 seconds remaining.

“Asia,” I scrawled.

So, for the third time in three years, I got it wrong, and for the third time, I didn’t die. I walked home that day, tracing the faults in the pavement and wondering what inside me was so cracked and broken. Something had to be fissured inside, like the ridges and rivers on my desk globe that I would throw out later that evening, but fish from the trash can when the sun rose the next day.

By Michelle Ahn

My phone buzzes. An unfamiliar number with a 512 area code — I later find out it’s from Texas. It’s a selfie of a 30-something man, smiling with his family, a strange picture to receive as I live halfway across the country.

For the past three years, I — a 14-year-old girl living in Virginia — have been getting texts meant for this man, Jared. Over the years, I’ve pieced together parts of who he is; middle-aged, Caucasian, and very popular according to the numerous messages I’ve received for him.

Throughout this time, I’ve also been discovering who I am. When I received the first text, I was a playful sixth grader, always finding sly ways to be subversive in school and with friends. With this new method of mischief in my hands, naturally, I engaged:

“My sweet momma just told me that BYU Texas Club is holding a Texas Roundup free BBQ dinner on October 10th! Thought y’all would enjoy,” came one of the texts.

After staring at the message for a while, I responded.

As time went on, the story of the mystery man deepened. I was halfway through sixth grade, for example, when I learned he was part of the “Elder’s Quorum,” a rather ominous-sounding group. Looking it up, I learned that it was not a cult, as I’d initially thought, but rather an elite inner circle within the Mormon Church.

This was around the same time my family had stopped going to church. I’d started to spend more time taking art classes and trying out various sports — tennis, basketball, even archery — and soon church fell to the side. Instead, I meddled in the Quorum’s group texts; when a message came about a member moving away, I excitedly responded, “Let me help y’all out, brother!”

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but after a while I started to feel guilty about this deception. I wondered if I’d somehow ruined Jared’s reputation, if his friends were turned off by my childish responses. I was also dealing with changes within my friend group at the time; the biggest change being letting go of a close but toxic friend; I realized that I needed friendships that were more mutually supportive.

Shortly after, I got a phone call from a strange woman. She started talking about the struggles in her life; her children, her job, even about how she wanted to leave Texas forever. In comparison, my own problems — the B minus I’d gotten, the stress of an upcoming archery tournament, the argument I had with my sister — all seemed superficial. I timidly informed her I wasn’t Jared, and her flustered response told me that I should have told her at the start of the call.

A while later, I got another text: “Congratulations on getting married!” It had never occurred to me how much Jared’s life had changed since I had received his number. But of course it did; over time, I’d outgrown my prankster middle school self, gained the confidence to build a solid friend group, and devoted myself to my primary loves of art and archery. Why wouldn’t Jared also be settling into his own life too?

Though I’ve since taken every opportunity to correct those who text Jared, it still happens every once in a while. Just last month, I got another random text; all it said was: “Endoscopy!” When I got it, I laughed, and then I wrote back.

“Hey, sorry, you have the wrong number. But I hope Jared’s doing well.”

By Maria Fernanda Benavides

“Mayfier? Marfir?” the tournament judge called squinting her eyes, trying to find the spelling error, although there was no error.

“It’s Mafer. It’s a nickname for my full name, Maria Fernanda.”

She stared at me blankly.

“My parents are creative,” I lied, and she laughed.

“O.K., Mahfeer, you’re up!”

I walk to the center and scanned the room before starting as instructed. I took a deep breath.

I reminded myself, “Use your voice.”

I spoke loudly at first, trying to hide the fact that I was overthinking every single word that came out of my mouth. As my performance continued, the artificial confidence became natural, and I started speaking from my heart as I told the story of my experience as an immigrant woman, and I described how much I missed my father who had to travel back and forth every weekend to see my mom and me, and how disconnected I felt from my family, and how I longed to have a place I could call home.

My performance came to an end, and I made my way back to my seat with newly found optimism as I reflected on how performing had consumed me.

I used my voice. Finally. I had found my home in the speech program.

Waiting for the speech tournament to post the names of the finalists was excruciating. I jumped off my seat every time a staff member passed by. I didn’t care about accumulating state points or individual recognition. I wanted the chance to speak again.

Finally, a girl walked up to the oratory postings with a paper on her hand, and the entire cafeteria surrounded her, impatiently waiting to see who the finalists were. Then, I saw it.

My name. Written in dense, black letters.

I smiled to myself.

This time, as I walked to the oratory final, I did so by myself, as I had finally acquired self-assurance needed to navigate the quiet hallways of the high school. I could only hear the heels of the two girls behind me.

“I heard that Saint Mary’s Hall freshman made it to oratory finals,” one of them said, obviously speaking about me. “She broke over me. I didn’t see her performance. Did you? Did you see her performance? What is her speech about?” she questioned the other one.

“It’s about being a Mexican immigrant.”

“Oh, so that’s why she broke.”

“It’s the same pity narrative, there’s nothing different about it.”

Suddenly, the confidence that I had acquired from the previous rounds vanished, and I found myself wishing that I had my older, more experienced teammates by my side to help me block the girls’ words. But no one was there.

I thought my narrative was what made my words matter, what made me matter.

But they didn’t matter. Not anymore. From that moment on, I knew I would be recognized around the circuit as the Mexican girl whose name no one knows how to pronounce. I didn’t even need to speak about my identity to be identified. Everyone would recognize me not for my achievement or my being, but by the peculiar way I pronounce words. I could speak about different topics, but it felt like it wouldn’t make a difference. It felt like my voice didn’t make a difference.

“Mafer, how did it feel?” my coach asked me after the round. “It felt amazing!” I lied.

I didn’t feel anything. Not anymore. Speech gave me a voice, but it also took it away.

By Gordon Lewis

We’re all average boys: hard working in school, spending every minute together in the summer, and doing our best to pretend we don’t have a worry in the world. The facts are no different as the sun is beginning to set on a warm July evening. Sam and I say goodbye to Ben, stepping out of our best friend’s house.

“My sister is going to pick me up while we’re walking, is that O.K.?” I ask.

“Actually, she can probably drive you home, too.”

“Sounds good,” says Sam, but lacking his usual upbeat, comedic energy. Neither of us says anything else, but I’m O.K. with it, we just keep walking. I look around, admiring the still, peaceful park as the warm summer breeze brushes across my face. The crickets are chirping and an owl sings along between the soft hum of cars rolling along nearby. It’s nature’s tune of serenity.

I almost forgot Sam was with me until he asked, “Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”

“Sure,” I say, expecting a joke in poor taste as per usual.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he says before asking.

More hesitantly, I say, “O.K.”

“Do you have someone that you talk to about like deeper stuff … Like more emotional stuff?” Silence hits us like a brick wall: The crickets stop chirping, the owl stops hooting, even the cars stop driving by. It’s deafening. I’m only shocked at the question because it’s Sam, one of the happiest and funniest people I know.

I’m wondering. My disappointment takes over just as quickly as my hope fades as I fail to come up with a name. In the end, the closest thing I can think of is the book I occasionally write in when I’m feeling sad or stressed.

“Huh,” I say quietly, “I’ve never really thought about that, but I guess not.”

“Yeah, I didn’t either, but at camp we did activities and had talks that led to more emotional conversations.” I’m silently both jealous and proud of him, but it’s mostly jealousy.

“It’s funny,” I say, “in English we always joked about that TED Talk guy talking about the man box, but it’s actually so true. We shouldn’t feel like we can’t talk about deeper stuff like that.”

“Yeah,” laughed Sam. Silence drapes over us again, but this time it’s more comfortable. I’m lost in my thoughts trying to think of what to say next, but there’s too much. I’ve never had an opportunity like this before. However it’s not shocking or overwhelming, even though it’s with Sam of all people — instead it’s therapeutic.

The silence is broken once again by Sam:

“Like I never told you guys that my parents got divorced.”

“I’m-I’m sorry,” I say, “That really sucks.” I’m disappointed in myself for not saying more.

“It’s O.K.,” Sam says, but I know he’s lying. I can feel his sadness.

Drowning in my thoughts, I try to pick out something to say. But there’s too much to say. There are too many options after being silent for 16 years.

Headlights appear in front of us, and for a split second I’m relieved, but it rapidly turns into regret.

Knowing it’s Rose, I quickly tell sam, “If you ever want to talk again just let me know.”

I say hi to Rose, masking my solemn, thoughtful mood as tiredness. The warm breeze gives my cheek one final kiss; nature resumes her number, and the cars roll by again as Sam and I reluctantly step into the car.

In alphabetical order by the writer’s last name

“Sorry, Wrong Number” by Michelle Ahn

“Speechless” by Maria Fernanda Benavides

“First Impressions” by Isabel Hui

“Nothing Extraordinary” by Jeniffer Kim

“Eggs and Sausage" by Ryan Young Kim

“Pants on Fire” by Varya Kluev

“The Man Box” by Gordon Lewis

“Cracks in the Pavement” by Adam Bernard Sanders

“The First (and Last) Time Speedy Wasn’t Speedy Enough” by Maya Berg

“Searching for Air” by Sydney Do

“Fear on My Mind” by Daytona Gerhardy

“Under the Starry Sky” by Letian Li

“Chinatown Diptych” by Jeffrey Liao

“They” by Haven Low

“The Vigil” by Beda Lundstedt

“How My Brother Taught Me to Drive” by Sarah Shapiro

Honorable Mentions

“The Six in Mid-August” by Liah Argiropoulos

“‘Those Aren’t Scratches Are They?’” by Casey Barwick

“Brown Is Beautiful” by Tiffany Borja

“I Am Ordinary, After All” by Rebecca Braxley

“Torn” by Melanie D.

“The Stupid Seven” by Madeline G.

“Speak No Evil” by Amita Goyal

“Building My Crown” by Ambar Guzman

“Me, Myself, and a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich” by Zachary Hommel

“The Tomato” by Raymond Huang

“Out” by Michael H.

“Cold Noodles With a Side of Birdballs” by Audrey Koh

“Banya in Siberia” by Arshiya Sanghi

“Traffic” by Kecia Seo

“The Power of Ambiguity” by Marcus Shallow

“Land Mine” by Geneve Thomas-Palmer

“How to Fall Asleep With the Lights On” by Caroline Wei

“The Taste of Tofu” by Amy Zhou

“The Newcomer’s Journey” by Maria Z.

Thank you to all our contest judges!

Edward Bohan, Amanda Christy Brown, Elda Cantú, Julia Carmel, Elaine Chen, Nancy Coleman, Nicole Daniels, John Dorman, Shannon Doyne, Jeremy Engle, Tracy Evans, Ross Flatt, Vivian Giang, Caroline Crosson Gilpin, Michael Gonchar, Lovia Gyarkye, Annissa Hambouz, Karen Hanley, Christine Hauser, Susan Josephs, Shira Katz, Dahlia Kozlowsky, Megan Leder, Miya Lee, Debbie Leiderman, Shauntel Lowe, Keith Meatto, Sue Mermelstein, Amelia Nierenberg, Anna Nordeen, John Otis, Ken Paul, Pia Peterson, Natalie Proulx, Nancy Redd, Kenneth Rosen, Rebecca Rufo-Tepper, Kristina Samulewski, Meghan Stoddard, Brett Vogelsinger, Bonnie Wertheim, Jack Wheeler, Lena Wilson, Sanam Yar

Essay on Saddest Day of My Life

Students are often asked to write an essay on Saddest Day of My Life in their schools and colleges. And if you’re also looking for the same, we have created 100-word, 250-word, and 500-word essays on the topic.

Let’s take a look…

100 Words Essay on Saddest Day of My Life

The unforgettable day.

One day that I will forever remember as the saddest day of my life is when I lost my pet dog, Max.

Max, My Best Friend

Max was more than just a pet, he was my best friend. We shared countless memories together.

The Heartbreaking Incident

One dreadful day, Max fell ill suddenly. Despite all the efforts, we could not save him.

Life Without Max

Losing Max left a void in my life that is hard to fill. The house seems quiet and empty without his cheerful presence.

The day we lost Max was indeed the saddest day of my life.

250 Words Essay on Saddest Day of My Life

Introduction.

Life is a mosaic of experiences, a tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow. Among these, the saddest day of my life was the day I lost my grandfather. His departure left an indelible mark on my life, forever altering my perception of mortality and love.

My grandfather was a constant presence in my life, a beacon of wisdom and warmth. His stories were my bedtime lullabies, his laughter my favorite symphony. On the fateful day of his departure, the world seemed to lose its color, the sun its warmth. The house, once filled with his resonating laughter, was now echoing with deafening silence.

The Aftermath

The pain of loss was profound. It felt as if a part of my identity had been erased, leaving behind an unfillable void. The days following his demise were filled with melancholic nostalgia, every corner of our house whispering tales of his presence. His absence was a stark reminder of the impermanence of life, a lesson learned in the harshest manner.

Resilience and Growth

Despite the sorrow, this tragic event was also a catalyst for growth. It taught me the value of cherishing moments and relationships, of living life with gratitude and grace. It was a stark reminder that life, with all its uncertainties, is a gift to be treasured.

The saddest day of my life was indeed a turning point, a poignant reminder of life’s fleeting nature. It was a day of loss, but also a day of learning and growth. It taught me that even in the face of profound sorrow, life’s beauty and worth remain undiminished.

500 Words Essay on Saddest Day of My Life

Life is a rollercoaster ride, filled with moments of joy, achievements, and hardships. Among these, there are certain instances that leave an indelible mark on our lives, shaping our personalities and perspectives. The saddest day of my life was one such day that altered my existence in ways I could never have anticipated.

The Unforeseen Loss

The day started as any other ordinary day. The sun was shining brightly, and birds were chirping, oblivious to the storm that was about to hit my life. I received a call from my mother. Her trembling voice and tear-choked words instantly filled me with dread. My beloved grandfather, my mentor, and confidante, had passed away suddenly due to a heart attack. The news hit me like a bolt from the blue.

The Emotional Turmoil

I was in a state of shock and disbelief. My grandfather was not just a family member, but a strong pillar of support in my life. His wisdom, his stories, his teachings, and his unyielding faith in me had always been my guiding light. His unexpected departure left a void in my heart that was impossible to fill. I felt as if a part of me had been brutally ripped away, leaving a gaping wound.

The Funeral

The funeral was a blur of grief-stricken faces, condolences, and profound sorrow. As I watched his lifeless body being lowered into the ground, a wave of desolation washed over me. I felt lost, confused, and incredibly lonely. The reality of his absence began to sink in, and the world seemed like a darker place without his presence.

In the days that followed, I grappled with my grief and tried to come to terms with my loss. His absence was palpable in every corner of our house, in every family gathering, and in every conversation. I was constantly reminded of him, and each memory brought a fresh wave of sorrow. The house seemed quieter, the laughter less hearty, and the joy less profound.

The saddest day of my life taught me the harsh reality of life and death, and the inevitable cycle of existence. It made me realize the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing every moment with our loved ones. It was a day of profound loss and sorrow, but it was also a day that shaped my understanding of life and its transient nature. It was a day that I will never forget, a day that left an indelible mark on my soul. It was indeed, the saddest day of my life.

The grief of losing my grandfather has lessened over time, but the void he left behind remains. However, his memories and teachings continue to guide me, and his love continues to inspire me. In his absence, I have learned to appreciate life more and to treasure every moment. The saddest day of my life was a day of loss, but it was also a day of learning and growth.

That’s it! I hope the essay helped you.

If you’re looking for more, here are essays on other interesting topics:

Essay on Role of Mother in Our Life
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Happy studying!

50.English Essay Example on: The Saddest Day of My Life

The Saddest Day of My Life

21st November, last year, was the saddest day of my life. It was bitterly cold. Gusty and chilly winds were blowing from early morning. The day was cheerless. It looked very unpleasant. The result of my Medical Entrance Examination was out that day. I had a lurking (hidden) fear of my failure. The morning paper came. I consulted it quite half-heartedly. I knew that my chances of success in the said Examination were bleak. I turned over the pages. I hurriedly saw my roll number. It was not to be found anywhere. I again saw it very minutely but to my misfortune, it was missing. I broke down with tears in my eye l. I realized my bad luck. All other room-mates of mine had cleared the Entrance Test. It saddened me. The news broke my heart. It spoiled my mood.

My future was now in the dark. Now nothing could be done. It was too late. I repented the time which I had passed in idle pursuits. I felt ashamed of myself. My prestige had been lowered. I had fallen in the eyes of my friends and relatives. I had fallen in my own estimation. I tried to hide my face in shame. I very much wished to commit suicide. It was better to finish my life with my own hands.

By noon another bad news was in store for me. I was least prepared for it. My father who was in the wholesale fruit business sustained a heavy loss to the tune of 10 lakhs. It was news for which none of us was ready to hear it. It came like a bolt from the blue. We were undone. We were badly ruined. Our prosperity was wiped out. Our very existence was meaningless.

We were now on the brink of famine. The debtors would not spare us. They would drag us to the law court. Our respect was at stake. The name of the family was drowned. The whole world appeared to be a nonentity. The mind failed to do any serious thinking. The eyes got blurred. The head began to feel giddy. Now the very question of survival was staring us. -“We will survive or die unknown” was the paramount issue. We were bewildered. This irreparable loss had broken our backbone. All the fair-weather friends had left us. In fact, we had fallen on bad days. I could not eat anything that day. I slept with a heavy heart. It was really the saddest day of my life.

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Essay, Paragraph or Speech on “The Saddest Day Of My Life” Complete Paragraph or Speech for Class 10, Class 12 and Graduation and other classes.

The Saddest Day Of My Life

4 Best Essays on ” The Saddest Day of My Life”

Essay No. 1

Life is a strange mixture of joys and sorrows. Some days are so sad that they take away all joy and peace from the life of man. I cannot forget the day that was the saddest day in my life. It was the 25 th of June in the year 2002. The night had been sleepless because of scorching heat, attack of mosquitoes, and frequent failure of electricity. Early in the morning as I was dozing off to sleep, a postman woke me up. It was a piece of sad news. My elder brother who had gone to Pune to attend a seminar on education died there in a road accident. Hardly had my parents left for Pune by a car when a police party reached our place. I lost ground under my feet. They had a warrant for my arrest in connection with a student agitation in our college. They did not listen to my entreaties and took me to the police station. I rang up my lawyer friend but he was out of the station. It was only in the evening that I was bailed out. As I reached home, I found my younger sister crying bitterly. She told me that my nephew had been admitted to the hospital because of severe pain in the stomach. I rushed to the hospital in a rickshaw. On the way, I broke my leg and had to keep my leg in plaster for over three weeks. It is rightly said that misfortunes do not come alone. Even today when I remember that day of untold miseries, my heart comes into my mouth. It was really the saddest day of my life.

Essay No. 2

Life is a mixture of laughter and tears, joys and sorrows. There are events of both lights (happiness) and shadow (sorrow) in life.

The 22 nd June 1989 is the saddest day in my life. on this day a number of sad events took place. I can never forget this day. It is the blackest spot in my memory.

I had appeared at inter Examination. Some of the papers were quite stiff. I had not fared well in Mathematics. I have never been good at Mathematics. I was waiting for the result with fear. On this day the saddest one in my life – my result was to be declared. I looked at the result. My fears only turned out to be too true. My roll number was missing from the list of successful students.

My old father was then ill. He had been suffering from high blood pressure. The news of my failure shocked him. He was almost speechless with sorrow.

I thought of my poor old man. He expected much of me. I was once the brightest boy in the school. All my teachers spoke highly to me. But mathematics had let me down.

It appears as if circumstances conspired together to undo me. Fate had turned against me. There was still another shock in store for me and the whole family. My elder brother was employed in Civil Supplies. He was the head clerk in the office. He had been suspended on the alleged charges of corruption. It was alleged that he had taken bribes from the people. He was not on good terms with the boss. He made out a false case against him on his report he was suspended.

An inquiry of the police into the alleged charges against my brother was held. We were sure that my brother’s innocence would be proved. There was not much evidence against him. But the police collected a mass of lies against my bother. All false evidence was cleverly put up before the magistrate. We thought that the learned magistrate would see through the game and know the truth. But no, even the magistrate was befooled by the crooked evidence of the police.

It was on this day at about 8 p.m. that we received a telegram. When I opened the envelope, my ailing father impatiently inquired of the contents. With tears in my eyes, I told my father that it was the dismissal order of my brother. My father was wild with grief. My brother was the only bread-earner in the family. We all depended on his earning for our very life.

The shock was too severe for my old sick father to bear. He died under it. The whole family wailed. My two younger brothers and a sister were beside themselves with grief. They wept bitterly./ the people of the village came to sympathies with us in our tragedy.

This indeed was the saddest day in my life.

Essay No. 3

The saddest day of my life

A death in the Family

The saddest day in my life was June 18, 1994. It was the day when my brother, Tara Singh, died.

He was working in the Central Public Works Department and was quite hale and hearty on June 17 th , 1994. He took half a day’s leave from his office to keep his appointment with Dr. Carrolli for a medical checkup in the Willingdon Hospital. The Doctors detained him overnight for a checkup and he could not even inform his family about his detention. Nor the hospital authorities took the necessary steps to inform his people so that they could attend to him or at least not feel worried about him. As he himself was tied up with various instruments, he could not even telephone his people.

At midnight I received a call from one of his co- patients about his presence in hospital and detention overnight.

The next morning I met him in the hospital and he talked normally about business and family affairs. He told me to go leave. But as I reached his office to get leave for him, I was informed by his colleagues that he was already dead. They had received this information from the hospital. I could not believe my ears till I reached the hospital and found him really dead.

We removed him in the ambulance to his house on Roshanara Road. As it was summer, we had to put slabs of ice around his body to keep him for the night at home. Early next morning we took his dead body to Nigambodh Ghat and there committed him to the flames. The memory of his death will never pass away from my mind.

Often I spend livelong nights on the banks of the Hindon River and think of his death. Why did he die? Why he had to die? What is death? Is death the end of life? I can never get these questions off my mind. I have seen many deaths but his death has left an indelible mark on my mind.

Essay No. 4

The Saddest Day of My Life

There are some days in a life of an individual that is very difficult to forget. The events of that day remain indelibly etched in his psyche forever, for they are not ordinary. Such days are often instrumental in turning the course of an individual’s life. These days could be sad or happy.

I can never forget the 30th of November, 1995, which was the saddest day of my life. The memory of that day still haunts me. It seemed that life had conspired against me.

I had taken the Supplementary Degree Examinations. We were waiting for the results. I had not done the papers well, still, I hoped to get through. The day started on a sad note. The results were declared. To my great disappointment, my name was not among the successful candidates. My failure was a great shock to my ailing father

That evening another mishap took place. My uncle, who was the only breadwinner of the family, was charged with embezzlement and misuse of funds. He was working as a cashier in a big business firm. He was removed from service. This came as a great shock. My father could not bear all this. He could not think of the fate of the family without the job of my uncle. He began to sink. He breathed his last soon after

We were anyway leading a hand to mouth existence. These events plunged my family into gloom and despair. The onslaught of so many bad events is enough to demoralize even the bravest of all people in the world.

Since that day it has been a long story of struggle and extremely hard work for my family.

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Education and Communications
Autobiographies

How to Write a Life Story Essay

Last Updated: April 14, 2024 Fact Checked

This article was co-authored by Alicia Cook . Alicia Cook is a Professional Writer based in Newark, New Jersey. With over 12 years of experience, Alicia specializes in poetry and uses her platform to advocate for families affected by addiction and to fight for breaking the stigma against addiction and mental illness. She holds a BA in English and Journalism from Georgian Court University and an MBA from Saint Peter’s University. Alicia is a bestselling poet with Andrews McMeel Publishing and her work has been featured in numerous media outlets including the NY Post, CNN, USA Today, the HuffPost, the LA Times, American Songwriter Magazine, and Bustle. She was named by Teen Vogue as one of the 10 social media poets to know and her poetry mixtape, “Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately” was a finalist in the 2016 Goodreads Choice Awards. There are 11 references cited in this article, which can be found at the bottom of the page. This article has been fact-checked, ensuring the accuracy of any cited facts and confirming the authority of its sources. This article has been viewed 101,338 times.

A life story essay involves telling the story of your life in a short, nonfiction format. It can also be called an autobiographical essay. In this essay, you will tell a factual story about some element of your life, perhaps for a college application or for a school assignment.

Preparing to Write Your Essay

Step 1 Determine the goal of your essay.

If you are writing a personal essay for a college application, it should serve to give the admissions committee a sense of who you are, beyond the basics of your application file. Your transcript, your letters of recommendation, and your resume will provide an overview of your work experience, interests, and academic record. Your essay allows you to make your application unique and individual to you, through your personal story. [2] X Research source
The essay will also show the admissions committee how well you can write and structure an essay. Your essay should show you can create a meaningful piece of writing that interests your reader, conveys a unique message, and flows well.
If you are writing a life story for a specific school assignment, such as in a composition course, ask your teacher about the assignment requirements.

Include important events, such as your birth, your childhood and upbringing, and your adolescence. If family member births, deaths, marriages, and other life moments are important to your story, write those down as well.
Focus on experiences that made a big impact on you and remain a strong memory. This may be a time where you learned an important life lesson, such as failing a test or watching someone else struggle and succeed, or where you felt an intense feeling or emotion, such as grief over someone’s death or joy over someone’s triumph.

Have you faced a challenge in your life that you overcame, such as family struggles, health issues, a learning disability, or demanding academics?
Do you have a story to tell about your cultural or ethnic background, or your family traditions?
Have you dealt with failure or life obstacles?
Do you have a unique passion or hobby?
Have you traveled outside of your community, to another country, city, or area? What did you take away from the experience and how will you carry what you learned into a college setting?

Remind yourself of your accomplishments by going through your resume. Think about any awards or experiences you would like spotlight in your essay. For example, explaining the story behind your Honor Roll status in high school, or how you worked hard to receive an internship in a prestigious program.
Remember that your resume or C.V. is there to list off your accomplishments and awards, so your life story shouldn't just rehash them. Instead, use them as a jumping-off place to explain the process behind them, or what they reflect (or do not reflect) about you as a person.

The New York Times publishes stellar examples of high school life story essays each year. You can read some of them on the NYT website. [8] X Research source

Writing Your Essay

Step 1 Structure your essay around a key experience or theme.

For example, you may look back at your time in foster care as a child or when you scored your first paying job. Consider how you handled these situations and any life lessons you learned from these lessons. Try to connect past experiences to who you are now, or who you aspire to be in the future.
Your time in foster care, for example, may have taught you resilience, perseverance and a sense of curiosity around how other families function and live. This could then tie into your application to a Journalism program, as the experience shows you have a persistent nature and a desire to investigate other people’s stories or experiences.

Certain life story essays have become cliche and familiar to admission committees. Avoid sports injuries stories, such as the time you injured your ankle in a game and had to find a way to persevere. You should also avoid using an overseas trip to a poor, foreign country as the basis for your self transformation. This is a familiar theme that many admission committees will consider cliche and not unique or authentic. [11] X Research source
Other common, cliche topics to avoid include vacations, "adversity" as an undeveloped theme, or the "journey". [12] X Research source

Try to phrase your thesis in terms of a lesson learned. For example, “Although growing up in foster care in a troubled neighborhood was challenging and difficult, it taught me that I can be more than my upbringing or my background through hard work, perseverance, and education.”
You can also phrase your thesis in terms of lessons you have yet to learn, or seek to learn through the program you are applying for. For example, “Growing up surrounded by my mother’s traditional cooking and cultural habits that have been passed down through the generations of my family, I realized I wanted to discover and honor the traditions of other, ancient cultures with a career in archaeology.”
Both of these thesis statements are good because they tell your readers exactly what to expect in clear detail.

An anecdote is a very short story that carries moral or symbolic weight. It can be a poetic or powerful way to start your essay and engage your reader right away. You may want to start directly with a retelling of a key past experience or the moment you realized a life lesson.
For example, you could start with a vivid memory, such as this from an essay that got its author into Harvard Business School: "I first considered applying to Berry College while dangling from a fifty-food Georgia pine tree, encouraging a high school classmate, literally, to make a leap of faith." [15] X Research source This opening line gives a vivid mental picture of what the author was doing at a specific, crucial moment in time and starts off the theme of "leaps of faith" that is carried through the rest of the essay.
Another great example clearly communicates the author's emotional state from the opening moments: "Through seven-year-old eyes I watched in terror as my mother grimaced in pain." This essay, by a prospective medical school student, goes on to tell about her experience being at her brother's birth and how it shaped her desire to become an OB/GYN. The opening line sets the scene and lets you know immediately what the author was feeling during this important experience. It also resists reader expectations, since it begins with pain but ends in the joy of her brother's birth.
Avoid using a quotation. This is an extremely cliche way to begin an essay and could put your reader off immediately. If you simply must use a quotation, avoid generic quotes like “Spread your wings and fly” or “There is no ‘I’ in ‘team’”. Choose a quotation that relates directly to your experience or the theme of your essay. This could be a quotation from a poem or piece of writing that speaks to you, moves you, or helped you during a rough time.

Step 5 Let your personality and voice come through.

Always use the first person in a personal essay. The essay should be coming from you and should tell the reader directly about your life experiences, with “I” statements.
For example, avoid something such as “I had a hard time growing up. I was in a bad situation.” You can expand this to be more distinct, but still carry a similar tone and voice. “When I was growing up in foster care, I had difficulties connecting with my foster parents and with my new neighborhood. At the time, I thought I was in a bad situation I would never be able to be free from.”

For example, consider this statement: "I am a good debater. I am highly motivated and have been a strong leader all through high school." This gives only the barest detail, and does not allow your reader any personal or unique information that will set you apart from the ten billion other essays she has to sift through.
In contrast, consider this one: "My mother says I'm loud. I say you have to speak up to be heard. As president of my high school's debate team for the past three years, I have learned to show courage even when my heart is pounding in my throat. I have learned to consider the views of people different than myself, and even to argue for them when I passionately disagree. I have learned to lead teams in approaching complicated issues. And, most importantly for a formerly shy young girl, I have found my voice." This example shows personality, uses parallel structure for impact, and gives concrete detail about what the author has learned from her life experience as a debater.

An example of a passive sentence is: “The cake was eaten by the dog.” The subject (the dog) is not in the expected subject position (first) and is not "doing" the expected action. This is confusing and can often be unclear.
An example of an active sentence is: “The dog ate the cake.” The subject (the dog) is in the subject position (first), and is doing the expected action. This is much more clear for the reader and is a stronger sentence.

Step 8 Apply the Into, Through, and Beyond approach.

Lead the reader INTO your story with a powerful beginning, such as an anecdote or a quote.
Take the reader THROUGH your story with the context and key parts of your experience.
End with the BEYOND message about how the experience has affected who you are now and who you want to be in college and after college.

Editing Your Essay

Step 1 Put your first draft aside for a few days.

For example, a sentence like “I struggled during my first year of college, feeling overwhelmed by new experiences and new people” is not very strong because it states the obvious and does not distinguish you are unique or singular. Most people struggle and feel overwhelmed during their first year of college. Adjust sentences like this so they appear unique to you.
For example, consider this: “During my first year of college, I struggled with meeting deadlines and assignments. My previous home life was not very structured or strict, so I had to teach myself discipline and the value of deadlines.” This relates your struggle to something personal and explains how you learned from it.

It can be difficult to proofread your own work, so reach out to a teacher, a mentor, a family member, or a friend and ask them to read over your essay. They can act as first readers and respond to any proofreading errors, as well as the essay as a whole.

Expert Q&A

↑ http://education.seattlepi.com/write-thesis-statement-autobiographical-essay-1686.html
↑ https://study.com/learn/lesson/autobiography-essay-examples-steps.html
↑ https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/fulfillment-any-age/201101/writing-compelling-life-story-in-500-words-or-less
↑ Alicia Cook. Professional Writer. Expert Interview. 11 December 2020.
↑ https://mycustomessay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-autobiography-essay.html
↑ https://www.ahwatukee.com/community_focus/article_c79b33da-09a5-11e3-95a8-001a4bcf887a.html
↑ http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/10/your-money/four-stand-out-college-essays-about-money.html
↑ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY9AdFx0L4s
↑ https://www.medina-esc.org/Downloads/Practical%20Advice%20Writing%20College%20App%20Essay.pdf
↑ http://www.businessinsider.com/successful-harvard-business-school-essays-2012-11?op=1
↑ http://www.grammar-monster.com/glossary/passive_sentences.htm

About This Article

A life story essay is an essay that tells the story of your life in a short, nonfiction format. Start by coming up with a thesis statement, which will help you structure your essay. For example, your thesis could be about the influence of your family's culture on your life or how you've grown from overcoming challenging circumstances. You can include important life events that link to your thesis, like jobs you’ve worked, friendships that have influenced you, or sports competitions you’ve won. Consider starting your essay with an anecdote that introduces your thesis. For instance, if you're writing about your family's culture, you could start by talking about the first festival you went to and how it inspired you. Finish by writing about how the experiences have affected you and who you want to be in the future. For more tips from our Education co-author, including how to edit your essay effectively, read on! Did this summary help you? Yes No

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The most powerful way to engage your reader is to invoke strong emotion .

Readers who quickly empathize are more likely to keep reading a story that invites them to do just that.

We’ve rounded up 101 heartbreaking, sad writing prompts to make your job easier.

And since sad prompts aren’t always enough, we’ve thrown in some story ideas to show how you can spin a few words into a story your reader can’t put down.

#1 — She never slept in this late…

#2 — “what would you say if i asked you… “, #3 — the folks at work call me a “cat lady.”, #4 — she took her time choosing the perfect stone for this one. , #5 — he had that luxury., 101 sad writing prompts to inspire your next heart-wrenching story , what are some sad story ideas .

Check out these five sad book ideas, each based on a prompt but taking it a step further.

As you move on to the prompts list, pay attention to those that start developing in your mind into story ideas. Then set a timer for a writing sprint and see what happens.

But as he rolled out of bed that morning, he seized upon the idea of surprising her with breakfast in bed. It took longer than he expected, and for a moment, he feared she would wake before he brought it to her.

He needn’t have worried.

The eggs and toast were cold now on the breakfast tray. He hadn’t noticed the folded letter on the bedside table, which the officer held in her hand as she read it. Then, she looked up at him, her mouth closed and her eyes unreadable behind the reflective lenses.

“Can I read it, now?” he asked.

“Asked me to what?” He visibly stiffened in his chair. She took a deep breath.

“I want you to empty one of the two rooms you’ve filled with your things — and I mean completely empty it, closet and all — by the beginning of summer… Or I’m out.”

girl sad while reading sad writing prompts

He turned away, but she saw him swallow, heard him clear his throat, and take a deep, noisy breath through his nose.

Without looking at her, he nodded briefly and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

I have two of them. And while my mother had earned a reputation for trapping strays in her house and taking them to the vet to be spayed or neutered, I was nowhere near that ambitious.

Mischa and Cal just got me. Both were spayed. Both patrolled the apartment with the confidence of creatures whose mere will sustained the universe.

Right now, they mutually shunned my guest, yowling every time the smell assaulted their nostrils.

“Patience, kitties. Wait ‘til the embalming fluid does its work. It’s a special recipe. You’ll warm up to him no time.”

They’d switched to cremation after she lost the first baby. Six more followed, and this one — the one she’d named Hope — had almost survived the ordeal of childbirth. It had started normally, but her doctor had urged an emergency C-section. She hadn’t argued.

No time for anesthesia. No time to say goodbye to her husband, who told her he would be in there as soon as he could.

Hope was silent. They tried reviving her, and she… lying on the table with her abdomen cut open, waited, afraid to breathe.

The door opened then to let her husband in.

The luxury of agreeing to work whatever hours he chose. Not being the family chauffeur gave him a freedom he’d gotten used to. He couldn’t see why none of her interviews resulted in a job offer.

He was about to learn.

“Jax and Lily finish school at 2:00. Ben’s done at 3. Then Lily starts her shift at 4 and is done by 7. Jax doesn’t work today, but they do tomorrow. And no, neither of them can cancel last minute.”

“Why not? How am I supposed to get anything done if I’m constantly heading out the door to get them from something?” he asked.

“Oh… Sorry, does your boss not know you have kids?”

Read through these sad story prompts until you find one you’d like to use, either for a new story contest or for your own creative journaling .

Develop at least one of them into an idea today. Which of these will get you started on your next writing sprint?

1. The lone survivor of an advanced race tells the story of their family’s mission to Earth and what it cost them.

2. The main character receives a devastating diagnosis and decides to track down and try to reconnect with their estranged daughter and son.

3. She asked him a question she wished she’d asked him years ago. He reacted much as she’d expected.

4. One look at his face, and she knew he’d been through a lifetime’s worth of pain but hadn’t been beaten by it.

5. Whose idea was it to add “‘Till death do us part” to the wedding vows? And did only one kind of death matter to them?

6. “How did I not see it in my own daughter? She was dying right in front of me!”

7. He teased her for not being a “detail person.” But she noticed well enough how he looked at her best friend.

woman focused on reading book sad writing prompts

8. “A hero would sacrifice you to save the world. I’m not a hero.”

9. They were playing hide-and-seek. She never found him. Until now.

10. “You’ve had 15 years to notice… It just didn’t bother you enough to do something about it.”

11. “I was hoping you’d prove me wrong. Being right is the last thing I want to be right now.”

12. “She gave me one last look before walking out into the storm. No one has seen her since.”

13. He had no idea how much she already knew. He walked in the door, ready to tell her everything.

14. “You were angry with me … because I made you look bad to your family. What am I, then?”

15. I was old enough to remember the day I became an orphan.

16. “You honestly think this is the first time he’s done this? Where have you been?”

17. “It gets worse at night. We can’t allow anyone into that room with her.“

18. She wanted to marry her best friend. He wanted an idea she couldn’t live up to.

19. She emptied the hope chest, filled it with potting soil, and, planting it full of cacti, left it behind his car before she drove off.

20. Being depressed is hard enough. Trying to hide it is what led to this moment.

21. “You have no idea how messed up it is that you’re fine with the way things are.”

22. Most of my nightmares are about things that happen when the sun is shining.

23. “I know I need to grieve what I thought I would have with him. But right now, I’m just relieved.”

24. She gave him her house key and the garage door button with a small smile and nod before walking to her car.

25. “I was a different woman when I married him. And I’ve never been enough. But good Catholic husbands don’t give up, right?”

26. “I was waiting in the car when the rain started. He stepped out onto the covered porch, looked at me, and shook his head.”

27. “What kind of retreat was this anyway?” she thought. But then she saw it: the perfect stone, worn smooth and darker than its neighbors.

28. She spent the week in bed, unable to do more than sleep between small sips of water. He wasn’t there when she recovered.

29. It was the best part of their usual cycle, but even then, she saw the beginnings of the next stage. Nothing had changed.

30. “It’s not that I’m not motivated to put in the effort to become a saint. It’s that I’d rather be anything else.”

31. His voice brought back memories she wasn’t ready for.

32. “Don’t wait until you’re ready. No one’s really ready until they have nothing left to lose — and not enough time to enjoy winning.”

33. “One day, when he grows up and tells the church to piss off, he’ll find someone else, and they’ll be happy together. I hope.”

34. Maybe I’m ready for a job that requires me to shower on a daily basis. Maybe I need that now.

35. This was the song that was playing when we met. It hits differently, now.

36. He wasn’t a stranger for long. Something he said within those first few minutes flipped a switch. And just like that, he was my home.

37. “You seriously overestimate my need for certainty.”

38. All anyone can guess is that she took the wrong prescription by mistake. It was right next to hers. No one knew about the allergy.

39. One day at a time, she sorted through her things, boxed them up, hauled donations out the door. This time was different. She was ready.

40. That cat was the only creature who brought a smile to her face. No one’s seen her leave the house since.

41. He sent her a bouquet of pink Gerbera daisies with a note. She bit her lip as she read it, sighing deeply before looking up.

42. She was the only one putting up signs when the child went missing. No one knew why until the police arrived at her door.

43. The flowers he bought meant something. The ones she bought for herself meant something else.

44. She never needed the alcohol to numb herself. It just made it easier to stay.

45. Retirement was finally just a week away. The cardiac wing of the hospital wasn’t the vacation spot he had in mind.

46. She listed every item in the donation box, making sure to add a value estimate to every gift she’d kept.

47. He left a note on the kitchen countertop: “I ate the cake you made for book club. It was dry.” Terrible last words.

48. “You have no idea how little those words mean right now.”

49. He’d forgotten how nice it was when people showed up when they said they would.

50. The last teddy bear sat on top of the pile, his head bowed.

51. The best thing about the property was the trees. One by one, they started dying.

135+ Sad Writing Prompts to Stir Deep Emotions in Readers

By: Author Hiuyan Lam

Posted on Last updated: October 20, 2023

Categories Writing Prompts

135+ Sad Writing Prompts to Stir Deep Emotions in Readers

The benefits of using sad writing prompts

Unlocking creative depths.

man looking at wall colorful sketch formulae creativity flowing

Enhancing writing skills

Young female writer writing sad articles in cafe

Exploring emotions and improving mental health

Man lying sofa Psychological Session with Psychologist counsellor

Sad writing prompts to unleash creative depths

Exploring health challenges and personal struggles.

Man stressed hold nose in front of computer working struggling

Tackling social challenges and environmental crises

Male Beggar Lying On Street homeless and hungry cardboard

Delving into personal relationships and trust issues

Young Couple Quarreling at Home. Jealousy in Relationship dont talk

Artistic expressions of emotions

musician Playing Brown Acoustic Guitar composing sad song

Sad writing prompts to develop students’ writing skills

Addressing academic pressure and anxiety.

$Teen girl in math class overwhelmed anxiety stressed$

Understanding family dynamics and common issues

Quarrelled Mother and teen Daughter at Home

Confronting bullying and peer pressure

Young female student turning down alcohol peer pressure

Navigating friendship and unexpected setbacks

teen friends hugging saying good byes in sadness

Sad writing prompts to facilitate emotional expressions and personal growth

Facing anxiety and fear.

Examining loneliness and isolation

Anxious woman crying in bed anxious mental health issues

Reflecting on regrets and mistakes

Dealing with loss and heartbreak

man writing my mistakes in a note self reflection

Unraveling betrayal, conflict, and misunderstandings

woman upset crying lost heartbroken comforted by a friend

Do sad writing prompts have to be with a sad or tragic ending?

Unhappy Couple Having Argument at Home misunderstanding

Conclusion: Gateways to emotional depth, imagination, and transformation

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The saddest day of my life Essay Example

Pages: 2 (389 words)
Published: January 31, 2017
Type: Essay

The saddest day of my life was probably the day my grandpa passed away. Not only was he my grandfather, but he was my best friend, and with whom I shared the happiest moments of my life. Everything was great and I lived in a peaceful world. Until a horrible thing happened and everything changed.

I was in another room when I heard my grandma yell for me. When I came into the room my grandpa was lying in the floor. I laid down beside him and held his hand. I didn’t know what was going on, my grandma and parents explained it to me and in that moment I felt an immense sadness in my heart, that moment was when I could understand everything and knew what was going on, and I knew that I wo

uld never again see my grandpa.

After I tried to understand what had happened, my family and some friends met us at the church for the funeral to give one last good bye to my best friend. It was the first funeral of my life. I didn’t know what to expect or do I just knew we had to dress nice and wear black. I will never forget it because it was a really sad day, it was my first funeral and everyone was crying and hugging each other. I will never forget him or all the memories we had together.

When the funeral had finished, all people went together to the cemetery. Some men had already prepared everything for it. When we arrived, the men who carried my grandfather, let us see hi

for the last time, when I got close to my grandfather I couldn`t believe that the person that was always happy and laughing, now was quiet. In that moment, I felt confusion and loneliness. My grandfather and my best friend would never be with me again.

I knew that I would have an angel watching over me and my family, but I had lost my best friend. Since that moment until now, I only have memories of my grandpa of whom I spent great times in my life with. That day was the saddest in my life although I knew that in that moment I would have a great angel for the rest of my life.

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What You See in the Dark

Rudy Gobert

Minnesota Timberwolves

I have a few things I want to get off my chest, before the playoffs start. I’m a relatively private person, and it’s not the most natural thing for me to talk about myself if I don’t really know you. But I don’t think you’ll understand me unless you understand a bit of my history, and everything in my life that’s brought me here. So here we go. I hope you will listen with an open mind.

When our season ended last summer, I went up to the woods in Southern Oregon and I spent three days at a darkness retreat. No phones, no books, no distractions. Just me and my thoughts for 64 hours. It was really powerful.

When you blow out that little candle on the first night and it’s just you and your own mind, it’s real. All of the crutches that you rely on to distract you and to feed your ego aren’t there anymore. There’s a little slot in the door of your room that they slide a tray of food through for breakfast and dinner, and that’s it. It’s basically meditation times 1,000.

More than anything, you realize how much of your life, and your dreams, and your fears, and everything that you care about, gets covered up by the daily grind. The darkness shows you everything. Even the things that you thought you had buried. For me, there were a lot of beautiful memories. But there were some painful ones, too.

I’m always a bit reluctant to talk about my own personal journey. I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing or just my own personal nature. But I think maybe it has made me a bit of a misunderstood person. When I came into the league, I just chalked it up to me being French. But the last few years, after the COVID situation, and my trade to Minnesota, and the incident against the Warriors this season, I feel like people make their own stories about me without knowing much about who I am.

If you want to stop at the surface with me, that’s fine.

But if you actually want to get to know me on a deeper level, then I will let you know about a few things that came to me when I was reflecting on my life in the dark….

Beautiful things. Painful things. A lot of things……..

“We don’t want that baby in our house.”

Before I was even conscious, when I was just a child coming into the world in Northern France, some people didn’t want me around because of who I am. And not just people. My own people. Very close family, actually.

It’s a painful memory, but one that I need to share. You see, every year, my mom’s side of the family had this big Christmas dinner at a certain person’s house. My mom is white. My dad is Black. He’s from Guadeloupe, and he was playing basketball professionally in France when they met. My mom already had two white children from her previous relationship, and then I came into the world….

And for some people, that was a problem.

After I was born, certain relatives made it very clear to her that she wasn’t welcome to come to Christmas dinner if she brought me along.

She could come on her own. But she couldn’t bring “ that child .” She couldn’t bring Rudy.

She was devastated. And obviously, she spent Christmas with me instead. She told them, “If that’s the way you think, then you’re not going to see me anymore. Not at Christmas. Not ever. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

My mom.... What would I be without her?

From day one, before I could protect myself, my mom was protecting me. The things she did for me and my siblings … it’s incredible. Financially, we didn’t have a lot. My dad went back to Guadeloupe when I was two, and my mom had to handle a lot of responsibilities. We lived in what we call HLM. Social housing. Immigrants from all different places. Lots going on, it was an interesting place. No matter what was going on, I always felt grateful and happy for everything I had. I never complained, never asked my mom for things we couldn’t afford.

One of my earliest memories is going with my mom to a little shop that this charity ran on the weekend. For whatever reason, it was a less abundant time for us, and you could get free groceries and stuff like that. During the holidays, they had a whole table of toys that were donated for all the kids.

My mom told me that I could pick anything I wanted for my Christmas gift. I remember choosing this really cool toy, and I was maybe six or seven years old. That's when I started to realize what my life back then was like compared to other kids, and having that feeling of happiness, mixed with sadness, mixed with hunger…. As I was playing with this new toy, I remembered thinking “One day, we won’t have to worry about anything.”

It wasn’t really about money or material things. It was about feeling at ease. In control.

That little memory came back to me in the dark. It was like it was happening right in front of me. It was so vivid.

And it’s not a sad memory. That’s the thing that’s important to realize. It’s not sad at all. It’s beautiful.

At the time, I had never even picked up a basketball yet. But I knew — I really knew — that somehow all of this was going to happen. I had an iron belief. Not necessarily that I was going to play in the NBA. But that I was going to be successful — whatever that meant for me. Science, law, accounting, whatever. It didn’t matter. I was going to make it. For us .

By the time I was 12, I had become obsessed with basketball. I used to get every magazine I could get my hands on. Remember those posters in the middle of every issue? I’d tear them out and tape them to my bedroom wall. I put up so many of them that after a while you couldn’t even see the walls underneath. It was wall-to-wall NBA posters with my graffiti tags sprayed over them. I would close my eyes and imagine myself on an NBA floor — dunking the ball, guarding legends like Kobe, Tony, Dirk, STAT … this was the place I would go to. In my head, in my room, in France. If you saw a picture of me at that age, you might not believe it. But I believed it with all my heart and soul.

A few months after I turned 13, I had the opportunity to join a basketball academy in a town called Amiens, a little further away from my hometown, Saint-Quentin. In my mind, this opportunity was the way I was going to chase my dream and put myself in a situation where I could get better every day. We had two or three practices a day, plus school. Because Amiens was far from home, I would only come home on the weekends. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I felt it was necessary, and I made my decision. I would take the 6:20 a.m. train on Monday morning, and return home on Friday evening. My siblings had left for university already, and I was the only kid in the house with Mom. Not until years later, did I realize how hard it was for my mom to have her youngest kid leave home at that time.

At the time, all she told me was, “Go after your dreams. I’ll be fine.”

When you are focused on the day-to-day grind, all of these memories can be a blur. There is always noise. But when I was sitting in the darkness, it was like a time machine. You are literally on the train again at six in the morning. You can smell the seats. You remember all the things you had to go through. You remember the kids who called you a n***** in elementary school. You remember the coaches who thought you sucked and had zero chance to become a pro. You remember how desperate you were to make your dream a reality for you and your family. You remember sitting in the living room so angry and disappointed, crying with your mom when at 15 years old you received that letter that said you weren’t accepted to the best basketball academy in France. You remember your mom telling you to keep believing, that it was meant to be.

You remember it all.

You remember shooting around in the gym with some of your teammates when you were 17, a nobody even in France, and telling them, “I don’t want to just make it to the NBA. I want to be an All-Star. No, I’m going to be an All-Star.”

And all of them laughing at you, like, “Bro. What???? ”

And you saying, “You’ll see. Watch me. Just watch.”

You remember showing your mom that first mock draft with your name on it. Her name. Our name. Gobert.

Thinking about it still makes me smile to this day. What a journey.… I am so grateful for all of it.

I left my home at 13 to be on this basketball journey, and until I went to the darkness retreat this past summer, I hadn’t ever zoomed out and appreciated the arc of my life like this. It felt like when you’re playing one of those old Playstation RPG games, and you make it to the quiet room to save your game to the memory card. It’s like I put the controller down for a second, zoomed out, and felt that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be on my journey.… And appreciated the beauty of it all.

It made me understand how other people see me, too.

You know … of all the shit I’ve gotten in my career, a lot of it was deserved. I’ve made mistakes, like everybody. But the one moment that really bothers me is when I was asked about missing out on the All-Star Game in 2019, and I broke down in tears.

I think that moment, more than anything, defines how people see me in America vs. who I really am.

When it happened, I was caught off guard. I had a bunch of cameras in front of me after our practice. I got asked about not making the team, so I started telling the reporters how my mom was the one to call me to tell me the news. And how she started crying on the phone with me.

For some reason, I just lost it.

It’s something that I think happens to everyone when they talk about their mom…. Like, I would never show emotion in front of my mom. I’m always a rock. I have to act like everything is cool. But in that moment, when I thought of her in front of all the reporters and the cameras, it’s like I turned into a kid again. It just tapped into something really raw inside of me, and it’s like everything came back to me in a surge of emotions — all the memories, and everything she did to help me live my dreams — and I just got choked up.

I wasn’t emotional because I missed out on one All-Star Game. It was way deeper than that. I was crying because of the deeper meaning. How much my mom means to me. How much this game of basketball means to me. Everything that we have lived through together.

Of course, social media went crazy. It was turned into a meme, and everyone had their jokes, because that’s the way the world works now. But honestly, you know what? I would never take it back. That was one of the most real moments that I’ve ever had in front of a TV camera.

I wish for everyone on this planet to have something in their life that they give everything to — all their passion and their heart and emotion — the way that I pour my whole soul into the game of basketball.

I hope kids watch that video and they see how passionate that person on their screen is. Someone that’s fighting for his dreams.

No one should be afraid to fail, especially kids. Showing your emotions…. It’s not weakness. It’s just being real .

That’s a message that I wish we’d tell kids a lot more. I’ve seen how toxic it is for kids now on social media. It’s relentless. If you’re a teenager growing up in this world right now, you need the truth, not a fairytale. And the truth is that there is a lot of shit that is going to happen in your life, and you are going to be tested. You are going to have a lot of moments in your life when the easiest thing to do is to snap. I have done it myself! I am not perfect. I have made my fair share of mistakes, but if I have any wisdom that I can share from working on myself the past few years, it would be this…..

A lot of satisfaction can come from being yourself, even when you know that some people will make fun of you for it. To me, the highest form of strength is when you stay true to yourself even if the world will mock you for it. That’s when you show your true colors.

You will always have haters. Some people will always try to bring you down. But they’re human like you. Same problems as you. Same frustrations. Sometimes, they’re the ones who are hurting the most.

The social media machine will never rest. It will always try to pour gasoline on every beef, and try to pit us against each other in the name of entertainment. Especially if it’s two Black men. That’s just the reality of it. But the truth is, I don’t look at anybody in the NBA — past or present — as my enemy. There are only 450 of us now who are blessed to play in this league, and I consider every one of those guys as my brothers. No matter where you were born, or what language you speak, if you have made it this far, then you have been through things that the average person wouldn’t believe, and you have my ultimate respect.

This brotherhood should be way bigger than basketball.

All the memes and the jokes and the social media drama…. That’s good for clicks. For business. For entertainment.

As grown men, as human beings, we should pride ourselves on standing for something bigger. In this crazy world, with all its real problems, it’s just basketball at the end of the day. I love it more than I love anything. I’ve given my life to this game. But it’s still just basketball. More than anything, I wish we could have more understanding and empathy for one another. Even for our biggest rivals. Especially for them.

At the end of the day, when the battle is over, I wanna be able to reach out my hand and say, “I see you. It’s just basketball. We’re good. I see you.”

…. I hope we beat your ass tonight, but I still see you.

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I’m Still Here

John Wall shares his story: “I was this close to taking my own life. That’s a hard thing to tell the world. But if you can say one thing about me, it’s that I’ve always been real, and that’s not going to change today.”

Life Goes On

Tyrese Haliburton on leaving Sacramento and going to Indiana: “Even though I’m sad about leaving a team and city I love, I’m also excited for what comes next.”

Opinion It’s not so ‘terribly strange to be 70’

I turned 70 today, a young age for an older person to be, but it is the oldest I have ever been by a long shot. It has been well over six decades since I learned in arithmetic how to carry the one, and the rest has sped by like microfiche.

One big juicy, messy, hard, joyful, quiet life. That’s what my 70 years have bequeathed me.

In my teens, already drinking and drugging, I didn’t expect to see 21, and at 21, out of control, I didn’t expect to see 30. At 30, I had published three books but, as a sober friend put it, was deteriorating faster than I could lower my standards.

Then at 32, I got clean and sober, the miracle of my life from which all other blessings flow. My son was born three years later. The apple fell close to the tree: My son went off the rails, too. He and his partner had a baby at 19, which had not been in my specific plans for him, but you know the old line: If you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans.

The baby, soon to get his learner’s permit, turned out to be the gift of a lifetime. My son got clean and sober 13 years ago, and the three of us grew up together. Then after a long search, I met this brilliant, kind writer guy and, three days after I started getting Social Security, I married him. Yesterday, I published my 20th book, called “Somehow.” Today, when I woke up, I was 70. Seventy!

I think that I am only 57, but the paperwork does not back this up. I don’t feel old, because your inside self doesn’t age. When younger people ask me when I graduated from high school and I say 1971, there’s a moment’s pause, as if this is inconceivable and I might as well have said 20 B.C. That’s when I feel my age. But I smile winsomely because, while I would like to have their skin, hearing, vision, memory, balance, stamina and focus, I would not go back even one year.

My older friends and I know a thing or two.

In general, though, I know how little I know. This is a big relief.

I know that my lifelong belief, that to be beyond reproach offers shelter and protection, is a lie. Shelter is an inside job, protection an illusion. We are as vulnerable as kittens. Love fends off the worst of it.

I know now that everyone is screwed up to some degree, and that everyone screws up. Phew. I thought for decades it was just me, that all of you had been issued owner’s manuals in second grade, the day I was home with measles. We are all figuring it out as we go. Aging is grad school.

I know a very little bit about God, or goodness, or good orderly direction. I am a believer, but I don’t trouble myself about ultimate reality, the triune nature of the deity or who shot the Holy Ghost. I say help a lot, and thanks, and are You kidding me??? Have You been drinking again, Friend?

I know about something I will call cloak hope, most obvious to me in the people who swooped in and helped me get sober in 1986, and swooped down again in 2012 for my child. In my case, an elderly sober woman named Ruby saw me in my utter, trembly hopelessness — afraid, smelly and arrogant; she swept in and took me under her wing. She wrapped her cloak around me and was the counternarrative to all I believed at 32, i.e., that I needed to figure things out, especially myself, and who to blame.

I know the beauty of shadows. Shadows show us how life can gleam in contrast. Sunshine might be dancing outside the window, but the wonder is in the variegation, with fat white clouds bunched up on the right casting shadows on the hills and gardens, and brushstrokes of gray clouds on the left and — most magical — the long narrow shawl of fog right across the top of the ridge. The day is saying, Who knows how the weather will morph, but meanwhile so much is possible. And that is life asserting itself.

I know life will assert itself. Knowing this means I have a shot at some measure of pliability, like a willow tree that is maybe having an iffy day.

I know everything is in flux, that all things will turn into other things. I am uncomfortable with this but less so than in younger years. Michael Pollan wrote, “Look into a flower, and what do you see? Into the very heart of nature’s double nature — that is, the contending energies of creation and dissolution, the spiring toward complex form and the tidal pull away from it.” So I don’t sweat feeling a little disoriented some days.

I have grown mostly unafraid of my own death, except late at night when I head to WebMD and learn that my symptoms are probably cancer.

I know and am constantly aware of how much we have all lost and are in danger of losing — I am not going to name names — and am awash with gratitude for lovely, funny things that are still here and still work.

I know how to let go now, mostly, although it is not a lovely Hallmark process, and when well-wishers from my spiritual community exhort me to let go and let God, I want to Taser them. But I know that when I finally tell a best friend of my thistly stuckness, the telling is the beginning of release. You have to learn to let go. Otherwise, you get dragged, or you become George Costanza’s father pounding the table and shouting, “Serenity now!”

I know that people and pets I adore will keep dying, and it will never be okay, and then it will, sort of, mostly. I know the cycle is life, death, new life, and I think this is a bad system, but it is the one currently in place.

I know I will space out and screw up right and left as I head out on this book tour, say things I wish I could take back, forget things, sometimes onstage, and lose things. I just will.

I recently went to Costa Rica, where my husband was giving a spiritual retreat, and I forgot my pants. My pants! And last month, I went to give a talk at a theater two states away and forgot to bring any makeup. I am quite pale, almost light blue in some places — think of someone from “Game of Thrones” with a head cold — and ghostly under bright lights. When I discovered this omission, I was wearing only tinted moisturizer, powder on my nose and light pink lip gloss.

I gave myself an inspiring pep talk on my inner beauty, the light within. And then I had a moment of clarity: I asked the person driving me to the venue to stop at CVS, where I bought blush and a lipstick that was accidentally brighter and glossier than I usually wear. I looked fabulous. Age is just a number when you still know how to shine. And I shone.

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The Saddest Moment of My life: Narrative Essay
Download. It was about 2015, and everything was normal. I was living in Clarkston, Michigan with my parents, siblings, and my dog, Denali. My dog was my best friend besides the ones at school, she would comfort me when I was sad, and she always made me happy. I came home from school, it was a good day, and I was excited to see my family.
How to Approach Tragedy and Loss in Your College Essay
Your essay also needs a theme, a call, a purpose. The point isn't simply to narrate a sad story in order to show the reader how sad it is (e.g., your essay's message is not that teen suicide is tragic); rather, the point is to connect the sad story to the essay prompt you've chosen to address.
9190+ Best Sad Short Stories to Read Online for Free
Either way, a good sad short story (especially a sad love story!) can be balm for the soul. You've come to the right place. On this page, you can read all the sad short stories submitted to our weekly writing contest — and we've put winning or shortlisted stories up top for your convenience. They're written by a diverse group of writers ...
Essay Examples on a Sad Story
Sad Story essay topics Prompts . Write a sad story about a character who loses everything they hold dear in a natural disaster. Craft a story about a person who discovers a long-hidden family secret that changes their life forever. Tell a tale of unrequited love and the emotional turmoil it brings to the protagonist.
My Depression in My Life
Share your story, message, poem, quote, photo or video of hope, struggle or recovery. By sharing your experience, you can let others know that they are not alone. NAMI HelpLine is available M-F 10 am - 10 pm, ET. Connect by phone 800-950-6264 or text "Helpline". to 62640, or chat. In a crisis call or text 988.*.
The Winners of Our Personal Narrative Essay Contest
Here are the eight winning essays, as well as runners-up and honorable mentions. 72. Our main inspiration for this contest was the long-running New York Times Magazine Lives column. All of the ...
Essay on Saddest Day of My Life
The day we lost Max was indeed the saddest day of my life. 250 Words Essay on Saddest Day of My Life ... My grandfather was not just a family member, but a strong pillar of support in my life. His wisdom, his stories, his teachings, and his unyielding faith in me had always been my guiding light. His unexpected departure left a void in my heart ...
Short Essay on A Sad Day in My Life
Outlines for A Sad Day in My Life. "Last days are always sad, but some last days are memorably sad.". It was in April this very year that I had my last day in college. I reached college early in the morning. There was silence in the atmosphere, and I felt the sadness on the faces of my dear friends. The first class was, as usual, that of ...
Explore Sad Story Essay Examples for Free at StudyMoose
Sad Story - Free Essay Examples And Topic Ideas . Table of contents 📘 Free essay examples for your ideas about Sad Story; Essay examples. guide. FAQ. 1. ... and become the worst memory of your life. I also have a very sad moment in life that makes me cry, whenever I recall it. In 2015, I used to work at Axis Bank Ltd. I was posted in a very ...
50.English Essay Example on: The Saddest Day of My Life
The Saddest Day of My Life. 21st November, last year, was the saddest day of my life. It was bitterly cold. Gusty and chilly winds were blowing from early morning. The day was cheerless. It looked very unpleasant. The result of my Medical Entrance Examination was out that day. I had a lurking (hidden) fear of my failure.
The Saddest Day of My Life Free Essay Example
The Saddest Day of My Life. Categories: Free Essays. Download. Essay, Pages 2 (489 words) Views. 64315. Human life is a paradox, composed of joys and sorrows. If today we are happy, tomorrow we may be sad and vice versa. There are times when life seems to be radiating wit the splendor of success, everything seems to be dressed in sprinkling joy ...
4 Best Essays on " The Saddest Day of My Life"
The Saddest Day Of My Life. 4 Best Essays on " The Saddest Day of My Life" Essay No. 1. Life is a strange mixture of joys and sorrows. Some days are so sad that they take away all joy and peace from the life of man. I cannot forget the day that was the saddest day in my life. It was the 25 th of June in the year 2002. The night had been ...
Sad Story Essays at WritingBros
Essay Samples on Sad Story. Essay Examples. Essay Topics. ... Sad Story About Dog in My Life. 2. The Sad and Tearful Story of Christ. 3. The Great Power of the Flawed Song. 4. Katherine's Call for Help in the Deafening Silence. 5. The Tragic Story of Teenagers with Issues in The Breakfast Club.
How to Write a Life Story Essay (with Pictures)
1. Determine the goal of your essay. An autobiographical essay, also called a personal narrative essay, should tell the reader about your life, personality, values and goals. The essay should tell the reader what is important to you, what your values are, and any life experiences that influenced the way you experience the world. [1]
A Narrative of the Saddest Moment in My Life and Its Long ...
There were many moments in my life that has had a lasting effect on me, but only one that left me breathless and completely and utterly heartbroken. My father was murdered in March of 1982, seven months and 9 days before I was born. The horrific details of my father's murder and the agony m...
Personal Narrative Essay: A Sad Time In My Life
Personal Narrative Essay: A Sad Time In My Life. A sad time in my life made me realize how ungrateful and unwitting we as people can really be. It was a bright and sunny Sunday; the wind was flowing and keeping it cool. My family and I decided to go to a flea market to look around and see some livestock.
How to Write a Sad Story: 6 Tips for Evoking Emotion in Writing
5. Use backstories to add weight. If you show your character's history, that can help build up to an emotional reaction to minor-seeming actions, language, or even body language. Foreshadowing a sad event with a backstory can make the climax feel more intense. 6. Use sad moments to further character development.
101 Sad Writing Prompts For Your Next Heart-Wrenching Story
12. "She gave me one last look before walking out into the storm. No one has seen her since.". 13. He had no idea how much she already knew. He walked in the door, ready to tell her everything. 14. "You were angry with me … because I made you look bad to your family.
135+ Sad Writing Prompts to Stir Deep Emotions in Readers
2. Compose a poem that encapsulates a moment of profound self-reflection, shedding light on the transformative power of introspection and self-awareness. 3. Create an artwork or song that conveys the concept of "survivor's guilt," shedding light on the complex emotions related to surviving a tragedy others did not. 4.
101 Sad Story Ideas That Will Make Your Audience Cry
7. Homeless Heart: A homeless man receives a job, but his past mistakes haunt him. The sad story unfolds as he tries to rebuild his life, offering a message of redemption. 8. The Writer's Block: A writer struggling with their craft receives writing advice from an unlikely source, their late mother's letters.
The saddest day of my life Essay Example
The saddest day of my life Essay Example. The saddest day of my life was probably the day my grandpa passed away. Not only was he my grandfather, but he was my best friend, and with whom I shared the happiest moments of my life. Everything was great and I lived in a peaceful world. Until a horrible thing happened and everything changed.
An Event That Changed My Life Essay
An Event That Changed My Life Essay. This essay sample was donated by a student to help the academic community. Papers provided by EduBirdie writers usually outdo students' samples. Life is like a roller coaster ride with several ups and downs, bad and good incidents, and happy and sad phases. Though, everything that happens brings some kind of ...
Sad Story About Dog in My Life [Free Essay Sample], 860 words
Sad Story About Dog in My Life. We take many good things in our life for granted and only realize the significance of them when they are gone. I still remember that day, a lovely fall day, with a clear sky and bright sun, and seemed that nothing can interrupt its tranquility and peacefulness. My mom, my dog Leo and I went for a morning walk, as ...
What You See in the Dark by Rudy Gobert
Thinking about it still makes me smile to this day. What a journey.… I am so grateful for all of it. I left my home at 13 to be on this basketball journey, and until I went to the darkness retreat this past summer, I hadn't ever zoomed out and appreciated the arc of my life like this.
It's not so 'terribly strange to be 70'
Then at 32, I got clean and sober, the miracle of my life from which all other blessings flow. My son was born three years later. The apple fell close to the tree: My son went off the rails, too.

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