Creator shares personal college essayfrom @sloanealex_

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• Vulnerability
• Responsibility
• Personal Growth
• The Power of Words
• Mental Health

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• Narrative Arc
• Juxtaposition

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not perfect!! but it means a lot to me. *Name changed for privacy

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  finally sharing my college essay about rap battles, tiktok, and responsibility:

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  “Your face looking like a sour lime, your raps aren’t worth a rusted dirty old cold dime.” Those lines won’t appear in any Norton anthology, but they’re carved into my origin story nonetheless. They came from my fifth-grade nemesis, Gideon, during one of our legendary cafeteria rap battles. Even compared to citrus, 10-year-old me felt anything but sour. These battles were the highlight of my day. I lived for Gideon’s begrudging smile when he knew I had him, for the percussion of lunch trays as drums, for the collective “ooh” that filled the room after I delivered verbal checkmate. Two scrawny, brace-faced fifth-graders commanded even eighth-grade royalty, armed with nothing but nerve and words. At first, words meant winning. After my fourth consecutive victory, my mom created @sloanetherapper, an Instagram shrine to my rhythmless freestyles. My future in hip-hop seemed about as likely as Gideon admitting defeat, but I was pleased 139 users followed.

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  I was playing with matches then, mistaking burns for illumination. The first fire came two years later, when a spoken-word poet visited my middle school. She didn’t perform so much as excavate, digging up truths we’d buried under pre-teen bravado. The gymnasium went cathedral-quiet when she bowed; Gideon and I were dethroned. For the first time, I understood how collectors surrendered millions for art, how Neruda made women weep, how words could be weapons or wings. The 20-minute ride home that afternoon felt like hours, my fingers already twitching through phantom pen strokes. Silly raps turned into notebooks bursting with poems. Cafeterias turned into open-mic nights, speech tournaments, and pageant stages. I lived to practice poetry and oral performance, to string words into art. I was no longer satisfied by decimating Gideon. I wanted to move entire audiences, to devastate them with tenderness.

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  After one pageant, a judge approached me and recommended I leverage social media to grow my voice. I explained my online stardom had peaked with @sloanetherapper, but decided to try again. By sophomore year, TikTok was my stage. I shared “Get Ready With Me” videos, relatable rants, and funny stories. Suddenly, my words weren’t just echoing across cafeterias. They were spilling through the algorithm, reaching bedrooms I’d never seen and girls I’d never met. Brands saw value in my voice. Trends rolled off my tongue.

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  Still, I underestimated words’ reach. *sally was twelve, bright, and a devoted fan. When she took her life, I told myself expected truths: depression is incredibly complex, I couldn’t have known, a 15-year-old isn’t equipped to rescue anyone. But logic felt hollow against the heavy reality: hundreds of my videos she’d watched, thousands of empty calories of content produced, and not one moment where I’d looked directly into the camera and said words that someone like *sally might have needed to hear. What good was a poet if their voice could stir crowds but not steady a single soul? What good was an influencer if their messages could sell but not save? I’ve devoted the past two years to addressing what haunts my generation: perfectionism that paralyzes, comparison that ruins, anxiety that convinces you everyone else received clearer instructions for being human. I share, online and in classrooms, my framework for yielding one’s own words to uplift.

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  The verbal craft I live to perfect? Balancing authenticity with awareness that a casual Tuesday post might be someone’s reason to reach Wednesday. When the pressure of receiving messages like “Sloane’s why I made it to 16” feels overwhelming, I remember Gideon’s training. Every cafeteria battle was preparation for sharing words with power and responsibility. Venues expanded, stakes heightened, and 139 followers became millions. Yet I keep showing up, armed with nerve and words, hoping they land where needed, when needed, for whoever needs them most. While he was a wonderful sparring partner, Gideon was wrong: my raps, and all they’re becoming, are worth infinitely more than a “rusted dirty old cold dime.”