Demystifying Excellence:
Fear Is For People Whose Family Didn’t Just Die
 

I vowed to turn people’s pity into admiration. I vowed to be like my older brother. I vowed to be an adventure hero. I showed up at school and turned in papers my teachers told me I didn’t have to write because they pitied me and said “I had a lot going on.” My papers weren’t just good; they were fearless and creative and awesome. I fronted two rock bands. I began recording albums full of deeply personal music I’d written, and played the songs loud and live in front of people who might hate them. They loved them. I joined the jazz band because there was a girl in it I wanted to date. I asked other captivating girls out on dates who I had no business dating. They all said yes, although some of those campaigns lasted longer than others… I played competitive soccer, and I was good. It was the moment in my life when I had zero fear and nothing to lose.
 

And an amazing, transformative event occurred. I found an entire school community rallying around me, becoming my extended family in the process. Family can be a creative word. People got it that I didn’t want to let tragic events destroy my spirit — and they wanted to help and be a part of that success story. I was elected ASB President on the craziest, wildest campaign speech ever heard at the high school. I was voted Homecoming King, and the guy who would have won it any other year was the first to run over and embrace me. I was shorter than last year’s Homecoming Queen, a gorgeous girl who since graduating had become an underwear model in local JC Penney’s ads (a fact that, as you can imagine, every boy in our high school had become familiar with). She placed the crown on my head in a rather awkward, hilarious, and thankfully brief ceremony. I think I was honored with these roles partly because my peers felt I represented the school well, and partly because they felt it would represent their own character well to give me a shot at moving not only on, but up.
 

They were right on both counts. It may sound ridiculous — we’re supposed to deride such titles in our adult life — but I took those leadership roles very seriously, and the honors they bestowed on me were transformative events in my life. They made me want to be a leader, and a good one. We had the funniest, most energetic school spirit events ever that year. We invited jocks and geeks alike to participate in crazy lunchtime activities — and they all came and participated, together.
 

I made deep friendships. I felt empowered. I felt I could use sheer willpower to make positive things happen. Taking up where my brother had left off, I was a straight-A high school student accepted to Stanford, where I went on to graduate with Distinction and Honors in Music and Political Science. I found the rigors and demands of school — even higher education at a top university — easy compared to the mental obstacles my brother and I had both overcome in high school. In fact, I viewed those demands as an unbelievable opportunity to immerse myself in positively challenging things, not as a burden.
 

I wrote about my transformative high school experience in my college application essay to Stanford. I laid my soul bare. Ten years after graduating, I saw Stanford’s Dean of Admissions in the San Francisco airport. I’d never met her before, but I walked up and introduced myself. She stunned me by relating — in amazing detail — everything I’d written in my college application essay. She told me she wished she’d met my brother. I told her she had.
 
Read the next Chapter -> Results.
Skip to individual Chapters with the Table Of Contents.