Alessia Valle -- University of Chicago

 

I’m not a climber, but Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer transported me to Mount Everest on a fatal mission to the summit. The book taught me that getting to my destination might require supplemental oxygen.  

I quickly came to understand that climbing Everest was primarily about enduring pain. 

Cotopaxi is an active volcano 56 kilometers from my home and the second-highest summit in Ecuador. Cotopaxi’s snow-capped peak is in view from my bedroom window, which is 2,850 meters above sea level. Growing up with this view inspired me to wake up an hour early even when I knew I’d studied enough to earn an A. 

Climbing was a magnificent activity, I firmly believed, not in spite of the inherent perils, but precisely because of them. 

I grew up hearing about the risk of eruption. My family kept a survival kit by the front door. This was life in Quito.

By the end of 9th grade, I was consumed with academics, the school newspaper, model UN, volunteer work, friends, and soccer. I loved the rush of being involved in everything. 

One especially crazy day, I knew I should skip soccer practice to work on two assignments due at midnight: an analysis of Romeo and Juliet and a paper for science on nature versus nurture. I was used to working under pressure, but I knew for sure even I was not capable of completing these assignments on time. I hadn’t used class time well and then procrastinated my way into this situation. But the thought of letting my teammates down propelled me to get into the car and onto the field.  

It was titillating to brush up against the enigma of mortality, to steal a glimpse across its forbidden frontier. 

Just before midnight, when I was still madly working away, the anxiety, nervousness, and impatience started to feel suffocating. I began throwing up bile and it wouldn’t stop. My stomach was torturing me. I felt I was going to die.

The next morning, I showed up to class in so much pain. When school was over, my mom brought me to the pediatrician. I was rushed to the hospital. I had appendicitis. My mom was upset with me. She said, “You could have died.”

She’d warned me a gazillion times, “You are going to get sick with all this stress.” I’d ignored her because I wanted to play for Ñañas, champions of the first division of soccer in Ecuador. I’d worked hard to get a position, and there was no way I was dropping out. “I can do it all, Mom. I promise.”

I accepted that danger was an essential component of the game -without it, climbing would be little different from a hundred other trifling diversions.

As I lay in the hospital bed, I contemplated how I got here. I’d been going from school, to soccer, to dinner, to homework, to sleep without taking breaks and refueling. My hair was falling out, and I was exhausted all the time. I didn’t see my friends, go to parties, or enjoy my family. I was focused on reaching the summit without acknowledging how exhausted I was. My mom was right. I could have died. That is the moment I understood the power of supplemental oxygen. 

At times I wondered if I had not come a long way only to find that what I really sought was something I had left behind.

As I make my way out of base camp and into my next adventure, I carry with me my passions for knowledge and excellence. I carry my failures: pushing myself too hard and not listening to my body. I carry my curiosity and desire to be involved in everything. I carry the strength to support my fellow mountaineers (new friends and students) and guides (professors and coaches), and I carry the humility to ask for oxygen when I need it.

 

University of Chicago

requires an additional essay that answers the question below in 600-1000 words.

Exponents and square roots, pencils and erasers, beta decay and electron capture. Name two things that undo each other and explain why both are necessary.
—Inspired by Emmett Cho, Class of 2027

 

Mucha Risa versus Mucha Tristeza (Laughter versus Sadness)

 

My little brother, Gianluca, was diagnosed with a rare kidney cancer. I woke up the day after his diagnosis and he was already on a plane to the United States. Suddenly my family dynamics changed. I was eleven years old and went to live with my grandmother as my parents accompanied my brother to Miami for treatment. Before this, every Sunday after dinner, we played Cogidas. My three brothers and I ran around the table laughing and trying not to get tagged. After they left, there was more tristeza (sadness) than risa (laughter).

There were times I worried my family would never be together again and other times when I wanted to be Gianluca. This made me very sad since, of course, I didn’t want cancer, but I wanted the attention my brother was getting. I was used to having my hair combed and lunches made. I remember thinking my life was perfect. I was the princess of the house and my mom doted on me. After my parents left with Gianluca, I had to find laughter in new ways like watching movies on school nights with my other brothers and staying late at soccer practice while I kicked the ball around. That is how we dealt with our sadness and tried to forget about being the family with the cancer kid. 

However, the lack of laughter in my life also brought a new sense of responsibility and independence. I didn’t want to be a burden, so I learned how to put my hair in a ponytail and started picking out my own clothes. I became more self-reliant, and I liked it. Each night before school, I made sure all my homework was done, laid out my uniform, and reviewed my schedule. I was out the door on time. This independence carried over into high school, long after Gianluca had healed. I became a planner– the one who makes her own appointments, organizes her academic and soccer schedules, and knows when she has the hour to spare on Netflix. 

Unfortunately, the new me may have forgotten the laughter that was an important part of my family. After he’d long healed, Gianluca asked me to play with him everyday after school. I always had a different version of the same answer: Later, just a few more sentences, tomorrow, in an hour, I can’t today. Until finally, he said, “Alessia, escusas, escusas y más escusas. You’re always at your desk.”

I told him to get out of my room, like I always did, but this time, something hit me. I’d lost my sense of balance. I’d forgotten how much joy I’d gotten from playing together on the soccer field, connecting in front of the TV, and sharing laughter around the dinner table. I was focused on myself and my future, and I was missing the present with my family. 

I walked into my brother’s room and said, “Cogido.” (Tag. You’re it!) Then, I ran out of his room into the living room. He chased me around the table and we both fell on the floor laughing.

“Mucha risa. Mucha risa.” That was our code to freeze until we stopped laughing and could resume the game. 

Illness had made our family stronger. It had made me stronger. I’d seen how quickly happiness could be dulled by tristeza. I’d realized there were worse things than wearing last year’s jeans or missing a party, but over the years I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten there were worse things than not getting a perfect score on an exam or not winning a scholarship. 

These days, when I start stressing over an exam, I hear our voices in my head: mucha risa, mucha risa. It’s my code, a trigger, to remember the strength our family has no matter what the distance, to take time for the laughter necessary to fill the moments between life’s challenges, and to appreciate the present in the present.

After mucha risa, I get back to work.