It feels like the end of an era.

Who among us hasn’t dressed up as Dolly for Halloween? Who hasn’t watched 9 to 5 until the lines were burned into our brains? Dolly Parton was a singular force. A country icon with decades of hits like “Jolene,” she also wrote “I Will Always Love You,” the song that would later become a global anthem for Whitney Houston.

She built Dollywood as a tribute to her East Tennessee roots. She mailed hundreds of millions of free books to children through her Imagination Library. She was a whirlwind of big blonde wigs, rhinestones, humor, generosity, and staggering business savvy. Her death this week at age 80 really does feel like the end of something.

But beneath the sequins, one of Dolly’s greatest gifts was her honesty.

She famously joked, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.” It was funny, of course, but it was also pure Dolly. She never pretended the image was effortless, and she never apologized for the intelligence and ambition underneath it. She knew exactly who she was, and she let the rest of us in on the joke.

I’ve been thinking about that honesty lately in my work with students.

We are living in an age of curated lives, especially when it comes to college applications. There is enormous pressure to present the polished version of a teenager. The perfect transcript. The perfect activities. The perfect essay. The perfect explanation for every bump along the way.

But the families I see navigate this process best are the ones who are willing to own their sh*t.

They are honest about how their child learns. They don’t hide the struggles, the heartaches, or the moments when things got messy. They celebrate the wins, but they also acknowledge the 9-to-5 grind of a student who may have to work twice as hard to get where someone else arrives more easily.

There is real power in being able to say: This is who I am. This is where I’ve struggled. This is what I’m proud of. And this is what I’ve learned along the way.

That does not mean turning a college application into a confession booth. It means resisting the temptation to manufacture a version of yourself that you think colleges want.

Because how can you find a place where you truly belong if you are applying as someone who doesn’t actually exist?

You can pile on the rhinestones. You can build the perfect activity list. You can polish every sentence until it gleams. But somewhere underneath all of that, the songwriter has to be real.

That, to me, was part of Dolly’s magic.

She could be glamorous and self-deprecating. Wildly successful and deeply rooted in where she came from. A brilliant businesswoman and an extraordinarily generous philanthropist. None of those things canceled the others out.

She seemed to understand that authenticity does not mean showing the world every part of yourself. It means being comfortable enough with who you are that you don’t have to pretend.

That is what I want for my students.

Not the perfect application. Not the most impressive version of themselves. The truest one.

Dolly spent a lifetime showing us that you can wear the wig, pile on the rhinestones, build an empire, and still tell the truth about who you are.

That may be one of the best lessons she left us.

I did it. I succumbed to the hype.

I joined the thundering herds heading to see The Odyssey. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I could not, must not, see this film on anything other than a 70mm IMAX screen. Apparently, if the screen isn’t the size of a small office building, you aren’t really experiencing the art.

This required a 45-minute pilgrimage to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, for a Saturday 4:20 PM showing. Prime time. Summer heat. Every seat was filled with people clutching buckets of popcorn the size of trash cans and “Biggie” sodas that looked like they could hydrate a small village.

I’m married to a history professor, so I went in optimistic. I figured I’d have a built-in tutorial for all my unanswered questions during the car ride home.

Here is my confession: my Lower Merion High School education somehow skipped the Greeks. My childhood was not filled with bedtime stories of Zeus or the tragedy of Icarus. I was raised by a single mother with three daughters, and we were not gathering around to discuss the curiosity of Pandora’s Box. While other kids were drinking warm milk and learning how Perseus used a mirrored shield to defeat Medusa, I was usually peeling hard-boiled eggs for my mother’s weekly bridge club egg salad.

My childhood was filled with loving memories, but they were practical ones. My epic was making sure the eggs didn’t tear when I peeled them.

So, back to the movie.

Everyone calls it a masterpiece. For me? Sheer torture.

No one likes to admit they aren’t up for violence every four minutes. No one wants to admit the music is too intense, the drama too loud, the masterpiece simply too much for a Saturday afternoon. Within 35 minutes, my nervous system was in full-blown overdrive. It felt like an electric shock.

I am not the person who cheered for Gladiator. I am the person who took the scarf I was wearing and pulled it over my eyes for much of the movie.

My husband emerged into the daylight moved, calling it one of the best movies he had ever seen. He was that kid with the warm milk, reading the myths over and over. He was built for this chaos. I was just a woman in a dark theater trying to find a mute button that did not exist.

I thought about this again today when a student told me about his college search. He had visited ten schools, from Maine to Baltimore, and then looked at me and said, “I just don’t want that chaos in my life.”

It hit me immediately.

What a profound statement of self-awareness.

We talk constantly about fit when it comes to colleges, careers, relationships, and almost every major life decision. But maybe what we should really be talking about is the Chaos Meter.

We all have a different threshold for what makes us feel alive versus what makes us feel overwhelmed.

For some people, the chaos of a massive city campus, the sirens, the crowds, the 70mm IMAX energy of a metropolis, is exactly what speaks to their soul. It is their juju.

For others, the right fit may be a smaller campus overlooking a mountain, where the loudest thing they hear is their own thoughts.

We spend so much time trying to convince ourselves that we should want the masterpieces of life, the big-name schools, the high-pressure jobs, the biggest experiences, that we forget to check our own equilibrium.

Maybe the goal is not to tolerate more chaos.

Maybe the goal is to know which kind of chaos makes you come alive and which kind makes you reach for your scarf.

That is what I want my students to understand when they visit colleges. A school can be extraordinary and still be completely wrong for you. Another school can feel quieter, less flashy, and somehow exactly right.

There is nothing lesser about choosing the place where your nervous system settles and you can actually imagine yourself belonging.

Whether you are choosing a college or a Saturday matinee, pay attention to your juju. If you find yourself pulling a scarf over your eyes, it does not mean you failed to appreciate the masterpiece.

It may simply mean that particular masterpiece was never meant for you.

As for me? I’ll take the egg salad, the bridge club, and maybe a much smaller screen.

I am currently staring into the eyes of 150 “wanna-be” consultants.

I’m back at the IECA Summer Training Institute, teaching for my 15th year. These 150 people have lived entire lifetimes before today. They’ve been CEOs, stay-at-home parents, educators, and industry leaders. They have resumes that could stop traffic. But this week, they are brand new.

And let’s be honest: being new sucks.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s sweaty. It’s filled with that nagging voice that whispers, “Do I even belong here?”

I remember that voice vividly. Fifteen years ago, when Sue and Mark asked me to teach the business side of the Institute, I was scared out of my mind. The previous teacher had a Harvard MBA. I, on the other hand, showed up with high energy, a lot of perkiness, and significantly fewer spreadsheets. I didn’t have the data analysis, but I had the passion. I had to get past the hurdle of my own “newness” to realize that my perkiness was actually my superpower.

Even now, as a veteran, life finds ways to make me the new girl again.

I’ve been a devoted barre-goer for years, but recently, all the veteran instructors at my studio slowly moved on. Suddenly, every teacher was in training mode. It was time for me to find a new groove.

There is nothing quite as humbling, or as annoying, as walking into a new fitness studio. I am no Jane Fonda, but I am committed to longevity and feeling strong for the decades to come. Still, that first day sucked. I felt awkward. I didn’t know where to stow my purse. I didn’t know the routines. I felt like I was wearing my shoes on the wrong feet.

But I kept showing up. One hundred and fifty classes later, I fit in. I found my groove. I connected with the other exercisers and grew to love every single teacher. I’m not the new girl anymore. I’m a regular.

As I watch these consultants take their first steps into entrepreneurship, I can’t help but think of my students heading off to their freshman year of college this month.

They are unpacking boxes, setting up dorm rooms, and facing the ultimate new-kid challenge: the dining hall.

There is nothing braver than walking into a cafeteria and sitting down at a random table of strangers for your first meal. But my message to them is the same one I give my consultants: Be brave.

Find one person on the first day. Then add one more every day after that. Join the clubs. Get involved. Any college will give back exactly what you put into it, but you have to make the effort. You have to be willing to be the person who doesn’t know where to stow the purse for a little while.

To the budding consultants sitting in regional groups late into the night while I’m already tucked into bed, I am in awe of you.

It takes a special kind of courage to pivot. To start over. To decide that your lifetime of experience is simply the foundation for a brand-new building.

My advice for freshmen, entrepreneurs, and barre newbies is this: Don’t ever sit back and become an old-timer.

Stay hungry. Stay a little uncomfortable. Whether you’re entering a dorm for the first time or launching your own business, cherish the discomfort of being new. It means you’re growing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have 150 future entrepreneurs to fire up. And maybe a barre class to catch afterward.

In my house, the television is usually a black mirror, unused, ignored, or nonexistent. Many members of my family do not even own one. We are readers, talkers, and doers. But when the World Cup begins, the no-TV rule does not simply bend. It shatters.

Suddenly, we are all flopped on the couch, and the ordinary rules of the house disappear with it. Snacks are no longer eaten in the kitchen. Bowls of chips migrate into the living room. Nachos become an acceptable meal. Someone is always balancing a drink on the arm of the couch, someone else is shouting at the referee, and no one seems to notice the crumbs.

We are not just watching a game. We are watching the world breathe.

The chants begin almost immediately. “Allez les Bleus!” rolls through the room whether France is playing or not. We try on accents, repeat players’ names, argue over penalties, and celebrate goals scored by countries we may never have visited. For ninety minutes, everyone becomes an expert. The room fills with noise, opinions, laughter, and the kind of emotional investment usually reserved for people we actually know.

With 48 countries represented, our living room becomes a geography lab. I wonder how many people were quietly asking AI, “Where exactly is Cape Verde?” or “What is the population of Curaçao?”

We certainly were.

My grandson developed his own World Cup ritual, filling pages with meticulous drawings of flags and turning every car ride into a game of “Guess the Country.” The rest of us became absorbed in the human details. We debated personalities, analyzed the sweat and tears, and watched the faces of players singing their national anthems. We noticed who comforted whom after a loss, which teams celebrated as one, and how quickly a crowd of strangers could become united by a single goal.

My daughter became particularly interested in the coaches’ wardrobes. In 100-degree heat, the sidelines offered their own lesson in personality. Thomas Tuchel of England was the pragmatist in a dark golf shirt, matching pants, and white sneakers, fully prepared for the Miami humidity. Carlo Ancelotti of Brazil represented old-school elegance, standing in a full suit, tie, and waistcoat, apparently unwilling to let the sun dictate his dignity. Mohamed Ouahbi of Morocco, dressed all in black, looked as though he were headed to a funeral. In a way, he was. Canada’s tournament run ended at his hands.

I felt this global heartbeat most clearly last week in Norway. I was on a flight to Oslo while Norway played England and found myself silently thanking the pilot for focusing on the cockpit rather than the 2-1 loss unfolding below us.

Later, in Bergen, I joined 1,600 cheering fans beneath a massive FIFA tent in the center of town for the England versus Argentina match. It was wholesome, loud, and joyful. A community formed almost instantly around a shared passion.

That was when the educator in me started thinking.

As an independent educational consultant, I spend much of my time talking with students about community. Lately, though, the word has been hollowed out.

Students tell me, “I completed 100 hours of community service,” or “I went to Costa Rica for a week and earned 200 hours.”

They often describe service as a transaction, something to be exchanged for a college acceptance. They count the hours but miss the process. They focus on the service without considering the community being built.

Building community is not easy, and it is not something you do simply to earn a certificate. It is what I saw beneath that tent in Bergen and on my couch with my grandson. It begins with curiosity, shared experience, and the willingness to recognize yourself in people whose flags, languages, and traditions may be different from your own.

The World Cup brings people together in a way that is both positive and visceral. I wish more students could approach service through that same lens, not as a clock to be punched, but as an opportunity to listen, participate, ask questions, and understand the people living right next door.

We do not need more hours. We need more curiosity. We need more shared experiences, more humanity, and perhaps a few more people willing to wear a waistcoat in 100-degree heat because they believe it is the right thing to do for the team.

At exactly 11:00 AM every day, I have a date with a Fireball.

It’s not a cocktail. It’s a round, fiery sphere of joy that tastes like the 1970s and leaves a slight burning sensation on the roof of my mouth. I buy them in tubs of 500. Mathematically, a tub should last me 500 days, but that calculation doesn’t account for my husband, Seth, whose sticky fingers frequently raid my stash, or the handfuls I shove into my glove compartment for long hauls.

I am a woman of rituals. Give me a bag of colorful, glass-like ribbon candy in December, and I am a happy camper through January. If we are on vacation, you can bet there is a stash of hard candy tucked between my sweaters. My family knows my quirks like they know their own names. I am drawn to the classic the way a moth is drawn to a porch light. There is safety in the golden times, a comfort in things that don’t need an upgrade.

But being classic doesn’t mean being stuck in amber. Sometimes, it means knowing exactly when to break the mold.

Take my ears, for example. For four decades, my earlobes were virgin ears. My mother and I were soulmates in this regard. In our family, we just didn’t pierce things. It was our brand. But when I was 40, my daughter, Zoe, wanted to do a mother-daughter ritual. I called my mother to break the news, and she sounded like I’d told her I was joining a traveling circus.

“We come from a family of people who do not pierce their ears,” she said, with the kind of gravity usually reserved for state funerals.

I still don’t know what that meant. Is there a genetic predisposition to being earring-averse?

Regardless, I went through with it. I changed the course of our family history with two tiny studs. My non-pierced ears were classic, sure, but it was time for a twist. I was still me, just with a little more sparkle.

However, there is a line. And that line was drawn last year on the banks of the Delaware River.

I was on a getaway with my three workout buddies. We are the kind of group that is always looking for trouble and finding it. After a picnic lunch, they spotted a new tattoo parlor. For them, this was like a candy store.

“Let’s all get tattoos!” they cheered.

I stood there, the lone holdout. I was happy to hold their hands and offer moral support, but my classic, unmarked body was not going to become a canvas for permanent ink.

I watched them whisper. I saw them wagering on whether “Classic Joan” would finally crack and be “cool.”

Spoiler alert: I am not cool.

I spent the afternoon as the designated sane person, watching a cluster of daisies bloom on the back of one arm and a peach, which, if I’m being honest, looked remarkably like a pair of buttocks, get etched onto the underside of a bicep.

I told them right then and there: “I can guarantee that I will go to my grave without a tattoo.”

There’s nothing wrong with being traditional with a twist. I’m not a fearful person. I live a large, loud life. But I know my non-negotiables.

When I talk to my students about stretching themselves, I tell them to get out of their comfort zones. I tell them it’s okay to be classic, but we aren’t looking for predictable. We aren’t looking for boring.

Stretching doesn’t always mean getting a butt-peach on your arm because your friends are doing it. Sometimes, stretching is having the guts to change a 40-year-old family tradition with your daughter. And sometimes, classic is simply knowing that at 11:00 AM, the world is a little bit better when it tastes like cinnamon and fire.

I’ll keep my clear skin and my 500-count tub of candy, thanks.

I’m an original. And you can’t improve on a classic.

In three days, my son is getting married.

It is a moment I’ve been waiting for, especially because the first wedding in our family was swallowed whole by the pandemic. We’ve known this date was coming for a year, but somehow it didn’t feel completely real until this week.

The moment of truth arrived by text from the bridal party:

“What size pajamas do you wear?”

My gut reaction was immediate.

XL.

That is my default pajama identity. XL is comfort. XL is lounging. XL is what I call my “sheer sloppiness” phase. XL says: I am not here to be perceived. I am here to melt into the sofa, eat something crunchy, and let the fabric do whatever it wants.

But then I stopped.

Because I am not just lounging anymore. I am entering wedding weekend. I am stepping into photos, celebration, hairspray, lipstick, nerves, joy, and the sacred ritual of pretending we are all very relaxed while someone is steaming dresses in the corner.

So I deleted XL.

I typed S/M.

This was not because I suddenly became a different person. Let’s not get carried away. I still believe deeply in elastic waistbands and strategic snacking. But it was a tiny decision to show up differently. To put aside the sloppy ways for a few days. To enter the getting-ready room with a little more intention.

It was, in its own ridiculous way, a choice to be seen.

And as I was laughing at myself, I realized how familiar this all felt.

Because I see a lot of XL pajama energy in the college planning world right now.

It’s summer. Students are hard to pin down. They want space. They want rest. They want to disappear into “I’ll do it later.” And honestly, I get it. They have worked hard. The weather is nice. Their brains are tired. Nobody is waking up in July excited to polish an activities list.

But here is the problem: the S/M runway is coming.

Fall does not ask politely if you are ready. It arrives with deadlines, supplementals, schoolwork, senior events, testing questions, recommendation follow-ups, and the sudden realization that “later” has become “now.”

The comfort of July can very quickly become the panic of October.

That is why planning matters.

Not because summer should become one long college application boot camp. Please, no. Students need to live. They need to rest. They need to be gloriously unproductive sometimes.

But a little structure now protects the peace later.

That is the part families sometimes miss. Planning is not about taking away the fun. It is about making room for the fun. It is about doing enough now so that when the big moments arrive, the student is not scrambling, the parents are not panicking, and everyone’s blood pressure has at least a fighting chance.

I have always been a planner. It is how I make sense of the world. I did not grow up with many formal traditions, so I think I have spent my adult life building my own: systems, timelines, checklists, rituals, dinner reservations, wedding spreadsheets, and yes, apparently, pajama size decisions.

There is comfort in knowing what comes next.

There is also confidence in being ready.

So as I pack for this wedding weekend, I am thinking about the difference between hiding in the XL and stepping into the S/M. Not literally, of course. Wear the pajamas that make you happy. This is not a fashion manifesto.

It is a reminder.

Enjoy the summer. Rest. Float around a little. Be a little sloppy.

But do not let the sloppiness swallow the opportunity.

At some point, we all have to get off the couch and onto the runway

There are things the pandemic took away that probably never would have ended otherwise. Many of my favorite rituals eventually returned, but there was one Thursday night tradition that had a glorious ten-year run and then, quite suddenly, took its final bow.

It was Quizzo.

It always started the same way: after a long day in my home office, the team huddled over student essays. That particular afternoon, we were deep in the weeds of the “Why Michigan” and “Why Indiana” prompts.

For the uninitiated, the “Why Michigan” essay is a nuanced masterpiece of research where you must explain exactly why you are a soulmate for the Wolverines. The “Why Indiana” essay was more straightforward, and, within a few years, quietly disappeared from the application.

Drained from a day of narrative architecture, a few of us decided we needed a midweek reward: a local microbrew and a burger. Our destination was The Greeks in Narberth.

When we arrived, the MC was assembling the Thursday night teams. John ran the room like a seasoned performer: part trivia host, part stand-up comic, part ringmaster. With his Kenny Rogers look and effortless charm, he had an uncanny ability to make every team feel like they were part of something bigger. He didn’t just read questions; he created an atmosphere. You wanted to be there because John made it feel like the place to be.

Ten other groups were already there, eager to prove to their friends just how much random knowledge they carried around. When he asked for our team name, it was obvious.

“Why Michigan, Why Indiana?” was born.

That first night mattered. The original group that showed up to The Greeks shifted, and something clicked. We became a team.

For a decade, we were a Fab Six squeezed into a booth, each of us falling naturally into a role.

One of us was the Jeopardy-level brain who seemed to know everything and carefully wrote down our answers while sipping obscure beers. Another could identify a song after a single note and had a deep appreciation for jumbo Diet Cokes with unlimited refills. Someone covered sci-fi, anime, and anything remotely tech-adjacent. Another filled in the gaps with knowledge that never overlapped with the rest of ours, which made it invaluable.

Then there was me and my husband. We were thirty years older than the rest of the group, but we held our own. He would soar in with hyper-specific historical facts. I was, frankly, terrible at Quizzo, but I lived for the occasional question about Betty Crocker or 70s pop culture.

My order never changed: a Heineken Light and a Greek salad with a Gandhi burger on top.

Now, the game started at 9:00 PM. For those who know me, that is roughly 45 minutes after I am usually asleep. But for Why Michigan, Why Indiana, I found the energy.

We were a family. We watched the other teams, the hyper-competitive professionals and the brilliant Narberth regulars, battle it out. We won some weeks; we completely collapsed on others.

Life unfolded in that booth. Relationships formed and ended. Careers shifted. One unforgettable night, a proposal happened right there during a round of Quizzo.

We even won the 30-team fundraising championship at the Narberth Fire House. Our name is on plaques across the Main Line.

And then, the pandemic hit.

The world went quiet. Suddenly, on Thursday nights, I was in bed at 8:00 PM. Our ritual ended, and it never quite came back in the same way.

We’re not as connected as we once were. Life moved on, as it does. But the memories of that run? They’re fixed. Complete. Untouchable.

I think about this often when I’m talking to my students. I’ll meet someone who has done something for years, dance, a sport, a club, and now, in 11th grade, they’re just… done. They feel guilty. They feel like they’re losing a piece of themselves.

I tell them: it’s okay to turn the page.

The rituals we love at a certain moment in our lives are often temporary. That’s what makes them meaningful. You built the memories. You made the friendships. You developed the discipline. And then, sometimes, you move on.

Why Michigan, Why Indiana may not be winning plaques in Narberth anymore, but the Fab Six still exists in the way that matters. The puzzle we built together is still complete. We’ve just changed the game we’re playing.

Honor the run. Don’t be afraid of the ending.

I recently got off the phone with a potential new client, or, as my son-in-law calls it, a “sales call.” During the conversation, the family kept mentioning how much they valued that Academic Access is a female-founded and female-owned company.

Truthfully, I’ve never spent much time thinking about that label. But after that call, I found myself looking back at my own path. My entrepreneurial fingerprint didn’t start when I launched a business.

If I’m honest, it wasn’t a fingerprint at all.

It was a bear paw.

My path as a founder started at age 10 in the lobby of my apartment building. While other kids were asking for toys, my birthday and Chanukah wish lists were oddly specific: KIWI Instant Shine & Protect, horsehair brushes, and that brown liquid polish with the sponge applicator.

I had a wooden kit with a tilted footrest and set up shop offering shoe shines for $1. The profits were modest, but the networking was elite. I became best friends with the doormen. Who needed a babysitter when you had three doormen on rotation watching your startup grow?

By 11, I had moved on to delivering the Main Line Times. I was the CFO, the delivery driver, and the collections department all in one. Each month, I knocked on doors to collect the 80-cent fee, handing out little paper receipts like I’d been doing it for years.

At 16, I became a certified Water Safety Instructor. Every Saturday morning from 7 to 1, I was in the pool teaching toddlers how to blow bubbles and older kids how to swim laps. My mother would hand me the keys to her Buick LeSabre, and off I went.

At 1 PM, I had a ritual. I’d pull into a McDonald’s in West Philly, order a cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake, and sit in the empty parking lot listening to WMGK.

Just me, my paycheck, and a growing bank account.

I wasn’t spending that money at the mall. I was babysitting every Saturday night from 6 to 11. By junior year, one family trusted me enough to leave me in charge of their house and two children for an entire week.

Different times.

But the real shift came after 11th grade. I earned $400 working as a junior counselor at Friends’ Central Day Camp. Most kids would have bought clothes.

I bought stock.

Canada Dry.

Why? Because I liked ginger ale and it seemed stable. No spreadsheets. No metrics. Just instinct.

It was my first lesson in ownership.

When families tell me they value working with a female founder, I think this is what they’re actually responding to. Not the label, but the pattern. Starting early. Figuring it out. Taking responsibility before anyone asked.

That same pattern is what I look for in students.

Not “I want to major in business.”

But: Where have you taken initiative? Where have you made something yours?

You don’t need a shoe shine kit or a stock purchase. But you do need something that shows you’ve stepped in, leaned in, and followed through.

That’s the real test.

And it has very little to do with what you plan to major in.

When I log onto Zoom for a meeting these days, I’ve decided I am officially done with empty icebreakers.

“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“What’s new?”
“Nothing.”

I can’t do it anymore. This time of year, I’ve started pivoting. I want the real stuff.

“Show me a picture of your prom dress,” I’ll say. “How many did you order before you found the one? Where are the cool places to get statement earrings? My son is getting married in two months, and I need your suggestions!”

It’s fun. It’s light. It breaks the “admissions consultant” wall.

But the truth is, while I love seeing their dresses and hearing about their plans, I am secretly an impostor in the prom world.

I never went to my prom.

I just wasn’t the type. I couldn’t imagine myself in one of those long polyester dresses. I had unpierced ears and never wore shoes that weren’t ready for something active. In high school, my uniform was overalls.

Instead of planning my prom entrance, I was a teenage recycling maven. My entire locker was filled with tin foil I collected from everyone I knew. I spent my free time running to Suburban Square, where Trader Joe’s sits today, with bags of foil to drop off at the recycling center.

My weekend nights were the best, but they weren’t big. I was well-known and held leadership roles, but I always preferred a one-on-one with a bestie. We would gorge on rolls of Nestlé Toll House unbaked cookie dough and Hawaiian Punch. My mother had a refrigerator filled with food for her bridge club, and we would make tiny, almost undetectable holes in the dough rolls, squeezing out the deliciousness like it was a heist.

The thought of that combination now, raw dough and Hawaiian Punch, is absolutely revolting. But at sixteen, in front of a good movie, it was perfect.

The biggest party I ever attended was a fancy Sweet 16 that required a date. For a sixteen-year-old who spent more time trying to repair the world than thinking about boys, this was a tall order.

I found one of the most popular, handsome kids in school. We had every class together. We were study buddies who called each other on our landlines to do homework.

He was the perfect date. No strings attached, just a genuine friendship built on authenticity and ease. I wore a long skirt and a halter top. I can’t believe I did that, but looking back, I looked pretty great.

The party favor was a photograph of you and your date. I was so excited to finally have physical evidence that I had a date at a fancy party.

But the birthday girl had a crush on my date.

And would you believe I never got my photograph? They “lost” it.

I’m still a little pissed about that one.

I tell these stories because I talk to so many students today who say, “Joan, prom just isn’t for me.” Or, “I don’t want to do the ‘normal’ high school thing.”

To those students, I say: I honor you.

Knowing who you are, what you think, and how you feel, and refusing to deviate from that just because it “looks good,” is rare. In many ways, it’s the most valuable asset you have.

In the college process, everyone is trying to look a certain way. They are wearing the metaphorical polyester dress because they think they have to. But the students who stand out are the ones in the overalls. The ones who know their values. The ones who are authentic even when it’s not popular.

You don’t need to do anything just because it’s the “done” thing. Honor your values. Trust your fingerprint.

And if you’re staying home with some cookie dough and a best friend this weekend, save a squeeze for me.

I am, unapologetically, a camp person.
If such a category exists, and I am fairly certain it does, I am its chairperson.

My origin story did not begin with a high-stakes internship or an $8,000 pre-college program at an Ivy League. It began in 1966 at Camp Eastbrook, along the Neshannock Creek.

Eastbrook had history. It was founded in 1915 by a steel company manager named Howard Beck, a man with a vision for sending kids from poor families into the fresh air. By the time I arrived as a six-year-old, it was a YWCA girls’ camp. It was forty acres of cabins, a recreation hall, and a swimming pool that I am fairly certain was 40 percent chlorine and 60 percent grit.

But the memory burned into my brain is the post-lunch ritual.

Every single girl lined up to meet the camp nurse. She sat there, formidable with a clipboard, checking off one very specific box: Did you move your bowels today?

God bless the 1960s. Nothing says character building like reporting your digestive transit to a stranger in a white cap before you are allowed to go to arts and crafts.

And yet, oddly enough, Eastbrook was the foundation. It was the place where I first flexed the muscles of my personhood. It became the foundation for my values, my morals, and my identity.

By the time I was nine, I graduated to the big leagues: Camp Fernwood in Oxford, Maine.

I remember departure day vividly. I arrived at the Philadelphia airport to meet the regional campers, a sea of girls buzzing with that specific brand of pre-camp electricity. We flew together to Boston’s Logan Airport, and from there piled onto buses for the long trek up to Oxford.

I was a sight to behold: bangs, a high ponytail, and a green-and-white uniform ordered from Hanold’s that was three sizes too large. My mother’s logic was that I would grow into it. I did not.

Under one arm, I carried a jar with four holes punched into the metal lid. Inside was my traveling companion: a pet ladybug.

Growing up as the youngest of three in a divorced family, sharing a room with our fifty-five-year-old housekeeper, camp was my natural habitat. I already knew how to make my way.

Fernwood, founded in 1921, was not about networking or building a résumé. It was about the art of simplicity. No tech. Just woods, water, and the complex, beautiful, sometimes brutal machinery of female friendship.

I spent eight years there as a camper and two years as a counselor. And yet today, I sit across from students and parents who are terrified of what I think of as the Camp Trap.

They say: I want to go back to camp, but how does it look to colleges? Doesn’t it send the wrong message for a competitive applicant? Shouldn’t I be doing a two-week research program on a campus instead?

Here is my honest, witty, and slightly exhausted take:

We are trading the cement of life for the wallpaper of life.

That $8,000 two-week program on a college campus? Fine. It is a nice line on a PDF. But does it teach you how to resolve a conflict with a cabinmate who has not showered in four days? Does it teach you the resilience required to find joy when it has been raining for a week and your socks are permanently damp? Does it teach you the independence of being away from your parents and realizing you are the person in charge of your own happiness?

Camp is the pause we all need. It is the place where you learn to know yourself when no one is watching your stats.

The shared sisterhood of eight years at camp, and the two years I spent as a counselor after college, outweighs a two-week “global experience” every single time in my book. Why? Because the camp kid knows how to navigate a room. They know how to lead without a title. They have the soft skills that are actually the hardest ones to learn: empathy, tolerance, and the ability to laugh at themselves when they realize their shorts are still three sizes too big.

If you are a rising senior and your heart is in the Maine woods, or by the creek in Pennsylvania, go. Go back. Be the counselor. Be the mentor. Be the person who helps a six-year-old navigate the bowel movement check-in.

Because when you sit down to write that college essay, I do not want to hear about the lecture you attended in a wood-paneled hall. I want to hear about the ladybug in the jar. I want to hear about the girl who learned how to be herself in the woods.

That is the foundation.
Everything else is just decoration.

During a recent team training for our college essay season, I sat down to do the same exercise we give our students. The prompt is simple: “I come from…”

I closed my eyes, and the first image that came to mind was not a lullaby or a homemade pie. It was my mother, her ice-green Infiniti J30, and a deli parking lot.

When I later told the story to a friend, she looked at me and said, “Joan, your mother was a total gangster.”

I had never used that word to describe a woman born in 1925 to a proper Philadelphia family. My mother may have belonged to the Greatest Generation, but what defined her was style, nerve, and a complete refusal to be stopped.

My mother was the youngest of three daughters, raised by a meek woman who gave them one unforgettable piece of advice: “If you never learn to cook, you’ll never have to cook.” All three sisters took that guidance to heart. My mother’s version of a home-cooked meal was a bowl of sour cream and caviar dip with Wise ripple chips. It was high-brow, low-brow, and perfectly efficient.

She did not spend her life hovering over a stove. She spent it mastering the things that mattered to her: tennis, golf, and Bridge. She was a club champion with a 5 handicap, and she did not just play Bridge. She became a Master. She understood something early that would define the way she moved through the world: life is not just about the hand you are dealt. It is about how you play it.

In her twenties, she traveled with her parents on their annual six-week trip to the Hollywood Beach Hotel in Florida. There she met a handsome Cornell Hotel School student named Joe. Six weeks later, they were engaged.

Only days before the wedding did she learn that “Joe” was actually Forrest—my father.

Did she panic? Reconsider? Question the entire enterprise? No. She liked him, she liked the plan, and she moved to New Castle, Pennsylvania, to start her life. In a town that could not have been more different from Philadelphia, she landed on her feet immediately. Before long, she was president of the Sisterhood at the town’s only synagogue and local golf champion.

Early in the marriage, money was tight. She told Forrest she wanted a housekeeper, and he told her, “Now is not the time.”

My mother did not argue. She did not complain. She went to the garage, found a hammer and nails, and mounted a blackboard on the living room wall.

“I will teach Bridge,” she announced, “and I will make the money for the housekeeper.”

The next Thursday, four couples were sitting in her living room learning the difference between a minor suit and a major suit. The housekeeper started on Friday.

Fast forward to her seventies. She had just bought a brand-new, ice-green Infiniti J30. Within the first week, she managed to lose the keys somewhere inside the car. Fortunately, it was a fob-start, so as long as the keys were still somewhere inside the car, it would run.

One afternoon, after finishing Bridge, she walked out to the parking lot and discovered the car was gone.

Most people would have panicked and called the police on the spot. My mother went home, poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, turned on the evening news, and waited. She was certain the car would turn up.

Two weeks later, at a local deli, she saw it sitting in the parking lot: her distinct ice-green Infiniti.

She did not call 911. She did not wait for anyone to help her.

She went home, got her spare keys, drove back to the deli, and stole her own car back.

That was my mother. No drama, no speech, no need for applause. She simply retrieved what was hers.

We talk a lot now about authenticity and identity, especially with young people. But my mother’s generation had a different kind of edge. It was not curated, discussed, or performed. It was forged.

She lived through the Depression and World War II. She endured divorce, raised three daughters alone, and lost her leg in her eighties. Through all of it, she carried the same attitude: nothing stands in my way.

She did not process her feelings in the way we talk about now. She acted. She figured it out. She made the money. She found the car. She kept moving, preferably with caviar on a ripple chip.

So when I sit with students today and ask them to think about where they come from, I find myself listening for that same quality. Not bravado, but initiative. Resourcefulness. The quiet confidence that when something needs to be done, you will find a way.

I come from a mother who made things happen. That may be why I now spend my days helping young people believe they can do the same.

There are some things you simply cannot unhear.

They do not just fade into the background noise of life. They anchor themselves in your brain like a tattoo. You know the ones, the sentences that, years later, still have the power to make your stomach drop or your heart swell.

I remember my son coming home from a particularly fraught day in seventh grade. Ah, seventh grade: that beautifully dark, hormone-soaked middle school wilderness. My son was an out-of-the-box thinker, creative, non-traditional, and clever, navigating a very traditional school life.

He had just handed in a dialogue assignment. He had pulled out all the stops, pushing the boundaries of seventh-grade wit. I waited for the news, expecting the A his creativity deserved.

“I got a C-minus,” he said.

I was stunned. “Was it the dialogue? The grammar?”

“No,” he said. “It was the Panda.”

In his classroom, the students were divided into clusters named after endangered animals. My son was a Giant Panda. The rule, the absolute, non-negotiable, seventh-grade law, was that the Giant Panda heading had to be written in the upper left-hand corner. My son, in a fit of creative rebellion, had written his name, the date, and Giant Panda in the upper right-hand corner.

A C-minus for the wrong corner.

But it was not just the grade that stayed with us. When the teacher handed it back, she looked at this thirteen-year-old boy, a kid brimming with untapped promise, and said: “Repeat after me: ‘Do you want fries with your Big Mac?’ because that is where you are headed.”

I have spent years trying to unhear that.

I have also tried to unhear the soccer coach who told my other son, “The defender might as well use your purse to kick the ball next time. It would be better than what you just did with your feet.”

These are the Soul-Crushers. The mentors who look at a budding spirit and see a drive-thru window or a handbag instead of a human being.

But then, there are the Soul-Builders.

When my daughter was in fifth grade, she was a classic introvert-extrovert. She had a massive book report due on The Golden Compass, which required standing in front of the class to speak. When her turn came, the extrovert stayed home and the introvert crumbled. She simply could not do it.

Her teacher was a woman of legend. She had extremely long, curly-cue nails painted in neon, brilliant colors. She was a Soul-Builder.

She did not hand my daughter a C-minus and a lecture on her future at McDonald’s. Instead, she looked at her and said, “Pick one friend. Go into the bathroom. Give the report to her. She will grade you. Next month, pick two friends. When you are ready to come out of the bathroom, it is your call. Do what makes you feel best.”

That is a fork in the road.

As I age, I find myself looking for the people who offer the bathroom stall instead of the Big Mac. I am looking for the mentors and friends who see the Giant Panda in the wrong corner and realize that the corner does not matter, but the Panda does.

In education, in business, and in friendship, we are constantly choosing which voice to be. We can be the ones whose words people spend a lifetime trying to unhear, or we can be the ones who provide the Golden Compass when someone is lost.

I am surrounding myself with the Curly-Cue Nail people. I am listening for the voices that build souls.

Because at the end of the day, I would much rather be wrong in the upper right-hand corner than right and soul-crushing in the left.

Our friend Rick came over for dinner last Saturday night. A night with Rick is like the best drug, no ingestion required.

Rick lives by one rule: PMA. Positive Mental Attitude.

Do you have a motto? Rick does. And it shows up in everything.

My husband, Seth, met Rick at a bar on a Sunday night this past summer in Hankins, New York. A tiny town, a converted house, a local spot where you go for good grub and, apparently, to meet your next great friend.

The kind of place where you order Pelkey’s Signature Chicken Sandwich: cornflake-battered boneless chicken breast, dunked in house hot sauce, layered with blue cheese dressing, lettuce, tomato, red onions, and pickles, served with fries and a Dr Pepper shot, that ridiculous little party trick of a drink with no actual Dr Pepper in it that somehow tastes exactly like it. The menu alone tells you this is not a place for the faint of heart. It is for people who have been on the front lines of life.

Rick is full of what I now think of as Rick-isms. And they stick.

“There’s a beaver chewing holes in your boat all day long.”

That one is about the thing, or person, quietly causing damage while you are busy looking elsewhere. The boat is whatever you are trying to keep afloat. The beaver is the persistent problem slowly undermining it from the inside.

“There are only so many molecules of paint.”

This one means your energy, time, and attention are finite. You can only spread yourself so thin before the coverage gets weak. Stop trying to paint every wall when you only have enough paint for one room. Do fewer things well instead of everything poorly.

“The perfect wine is the glass you drink every day.”

I love that one. Stop chasing perfection. The best choice is not some elusive ideal. It is the one that works for you, the one you actually enjoy, the one you come back to again and again.

And then there is PMA.

Rick believes you can be the kind of person who finds a problem in everything, or the kind of person who reframes it. Bad boss? You are lucky to have a job. Leaky faucet? You are lucky to have a home with a roof over your head. It is not denial. It is perspective.

I subscribe deeply to this.

Years ago, there was a UNC supplemental essay prompt that asked: What is your biggest little worry? I think about that question all the time. To me, it is another way of saying: don’t sweat the small stuff. Or at least, know what is actually small.

Right now, as college decisions are coming out, that mindset feels especially important. There are disappointments this season. Some expected. Some completely unexpected. And still, the question remains:

Who are you in those moments?

Are you the person who spirals, or the person who steadies?

Rick would say: choose PMA.

It is simple. Not always easy, but simple.

And like any good Rick-ism, once you hear it, you do not really forget it.

If you’ve looked at my hands lately, you’ll notice they are missing a certain chunky piece of tech, but I am officially Oura Ring curious.

In the last week alone, three people in my orbit were sporting the ring, and their stories have me thinking.

Alex, my aesthetician, was telling me about her Christmas gift from her boyfriend, Joe. She described the early phase as “dating the ring.” It needs a runway to get to know you before it starts offering real insight. She loves how it identifies her anxiety spikes, like during a family gathering with her divorced parents. Do I need a smart ring to identify that stressor? Maybe.

Then there is my student, Sophie. She wore her ring proudly during our last Zoom session, completely taken with the sleep feature. She shared her screen to show me the graphics, the spiky lines of a great night and the looming shadow of sleep debt.

I first learned about sleep debt from my daughter, who is essentially the CFO of Sleep Debt. She manages the metrics for her two- and four-year-old children, tracking those non-negotiable 13 hours growing bodies need. She is in charge of the payback plan. If the debt gets too high, it’s a 6:15 PM bedtime. Immediate recovery.

And then Nicole at Pure Barre told me her ring flagged her flu before she felt a thing, noting a rise in body temperature before she even realized she was getting sick.

Knowledge Is the Foundation

What does all of this mean for me? I’m not entirely sure. I’m already in bed by 9:00 PM. Does a deeper sleep debt mean an 8:00 PM bedtime? I’m past the stage of tracking cycles, and I generally stay low on the anxiety scale.

But here is what I know: knowledge is the foundation. Self-knowledge is power.

In the world of Academic Access, I see high school students tracking their own metrics every single day. Instead of rings, they have Blackboard, Canvas, and Infinite Campus. They are constantly checking their stats.

But there is a difference between tracking your data and using it.

Are You Tracking or Acting?

It’s important to know where you stand. You should be on top of your grades and the trajectory of your coursework. But just like Sophie’s spiky sleep lines, a red grade on a dashboard is just data until you act on it.

If your academic debt is piling up, ask yourself:

Is it time to attend a Lunch and Learn for extra help?
Should you form a study group to really master the content?
Is it time to speak directly with your teacher?
Do you need a tutor to help bridge the gap?

Master the Content, Not the Portal

Checking your grades ten times a day won’t change the numbers. Self-knowledge only becomes power when it leads to a strategic move.

Whether you’re tracking your REM cycle or your pre-calculus average, the goal is the same: identify the stressor, pay back the debt, and master the content.

I might not be ready to date a smart ring just yet, but I am always ready to help my students look at their metrics and say, Now, what’s the move?

If not now, when? Let’s get to work.

Admit it. You have one. We all do.

It’s the Purgatory Chair.

It’s that one spot in the bedroom where clothes go to wait. They aren’t dirty enough for the laundry basket, but they aren’t clean enough to go back into the closet. Maybe you’ll wear that sweater again tomorrow, or maybe next Saturday. Or maybe the chair is currently buried under a mountain of clean laundry that you haven’t quite summoned the energy to fold in ten days.

We all have some kind of purgatory. It is a place where things live when we aren’t quite ready to deal with them.

The Many Faces of Purgatory

In my house, purgatory has expanded. My husband has managed to claim an entire room and a car as his personal limbo zones. The spare room has become his cave. It is a sacred space filled with stacks of files, ancient books, and a collection of random pens from Meineke Muffler. He has pencils that haven’t been sharpened in a decade. On second thought, they’ve been sharpened so many times they are barely six inches long.

Then there is his car, which we call the “Moving House.” Since he works 90 miles from home, he’s prepared for an apocalypse or a sudden picnic. The trunk is a treasure trove of plates, cutlery, three changes of clothes, kids’ clothes that need to be returned or donated, towels, and blankets. There is even a TJ Maxx bag he’s been meaning to return for nine months. You can also find potting soil from old plants and a rotating selection of snack bars.

Even my kids in New York have their own version. Since space is tight, they don’t have a chair. Instead, they have the FreshDirect Purgatory Bag. These grocery bags are stuffed with kids’ clothes that are now too small, laundry they are currently living out of because it’s easier than using drawers, and toys destined for the third floor. There are even Halloween decorations that really need to go to the basement.

Does Mess Mean Stress?

Organization is tricky, and everyone has their own method. My great friend Susie always tells the story of her parents looking at her messy childhood room in horror. They were convinced she couldn’t possibly think straight amidst the chaos. Susie proved them wrong by parlaying her organized mess into an Ivy League degree.

She knew exactly where everything was.

However, here is the catch: while Susie could find a notebook under a pile of sweaters, the college application process isn’t quite as forgiving.

Why College Apps Can’t Live on the Chair

When you are applying to college, there is simply no room for a Purgatory Chair.

The process has too many moving parts to let things sit in limbo. You have teacher and counselor recommendations, brag sheets for every recommender, and the endless thank-you notes that need to be sent before and after. You have the Common App, school-specific supplements, portfolios, and SlideRoom. You have to decide whether to send test scores, apply test-optional, or suppress scores. You have maker spaces, résumés, and the Additional Information section.

If any of those pieces end up in a metaphorical FreshDirect bag or stuffed in a trunk next to a nine-month-old TJ Maxx return, the whole system breaks down.

Organization with a Human Touch

At Academic Access, you won’t find a Purgatory Chair.

We know that the secret to a successful, stress-free application season is high-touch organization. We keep the moving parts moving so nothing gets lost in the shuffle. More importantly, we do it without stripping away the student’s individuality.

We provide the structure so that your child’s voice, personality, and Susie-style brilliance can shine through. We handle the Meineke pens and six-inch pencils of the application world to ensure every deadline is met and every brag sheet is polished.

Ready to clear off the chair? Let’s turn that purgatory into a finished application.

Every year at the IECA annual conference, we host a late-night event called School Days. It’s a takeoff on The Moth, the storytelling series dedicated to true, personal stories told live without notes. Last year, I saw The Moth when it came through Philadelphia, and I was completely taken with the authenticity and raw truth of the evening.

Each year during School Days, I feel like I have a story to tell. I have so much to say. But the truth is, I’m a bit of a chicken.

On paper, I run heavily extroverted. I was captain of the White Team at Camp Fernwood, if you know, you know. I was vice president of my class at Skidmore. I spent two years as editor of the college yearbook. The list goes on. But in reality, I love the life of an introvert. The thought of standing in front of a crowd at 9 p.m. on a Friday night is terrifying. It is clearly past my bedtime. While everyone else eats popcorn, my palms sweat.

So instead of the stage, I am putting my story here on paper.

The Apartment at Green Hill

My parents divorced when I was seven. At the time, we were living in New Castle, Pennsylvania. It was the quintessential small town. It had everything you could want. It felt like Mayberry.

After the split, my mother and my two older sisters packed up and moved to Philadelphia. That was where my mother had been raised. She thought coming home and beginning anew would provide a strong anchor for a single mother of three. We also moved with our housekeeper, Mrs. Fletcher, whom we all called Flell. My mother met her at a county agricultural fair one afternoon. They struck up a conversation, and before long she was living with us. She was a fifty-year-old woman with three grown sons and a husband she had buried a decade earlier.

When we arrived in Philadelphia, my mother found a three-bedroom, three-bath apartment at Green Hill in Lower Merion. She thought it would be a fresh start. There was no grass to mow, and it felt safe and secure for her three daughters.

The math of five people in a three-bedroom apartment meant that Flell and I shared a small walk-through bedroom. We were best friends. Each night, she covered her face in Nozema and left it on until morning. She read TV Guide, smoked cigarettes in the bedroom, and watched television all evening. The television was enormous. It felt the size of a Dodge Caravan.

We were each other’s companions. I was starting fourth grade at Penn Wynne Elementary. We learned to manage our small walk-through room, and nothing seemed to bother us. When I think about all the secondhand smoke I inhaled at such a young age, it’s remarkable that I’m as healthy as I am today.

The Discovery Under the Stairs

About ten years ago, I was cleaning out the crawl space under my basement stairs when I found my fourth-grade report card tucked inside a box. It was from Mrs. Fisher’s class.

As someone who prides herself on hard work and academic achievement, and as someone whose career revolves around guiding young people toward higher education, I opened it with curiosity.

I had mostly Cs and Ds.

I was stunned. I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? What kind of mother did I have who didn’t become despondent over those grades?

I had a good childhood. It had flaws, and my parents did the best they could. But that piece of paper felt unsettling. It took me years to fully shake off the knowledge of those grades.

The Long Game

Today, I give my mother tremendous credit. She took each day as it came. She understood that I was learning life lessons in that small bedroom with Flell that no textbook could teach. She grasped a truth I now share with families every day: education is a long game.

In my line of work, I see parents hitting the panic button over every minor setback, every B-minus, every missed opportunity. That panic button needs calibration.

If I had been judged solely on my fourth-grade performance, I would not be where I am today. My mother’s refusal to panic gave me space to grow into the student, and eventually the professional, I became.

So if you are staring at a report card that doesn’t look the way you hoped, take a breath. Turn off the giant television. Remember that growth is rarely linear. We are all just walking through our own versions of that small bedroom, trying to find our way to the next chapter.

I may not be ready for the stage at 9 p.m., but I am absolutely ready to tell you this: it is going to be okay.

For a solid ten years, starting back in my college days, I was the undisputed Queen of General Foods Suisse Mocha. You know the one: the General Foods International Coffee in the blue tin with the red lid. It was my daily pause. My father-in-law would buy it by the case when it went on sale. It was more than a drink. It was a ritual of deliciousness. But then I started to read the ingredients on the back of the tin. And just like that, the heaven felt a lot like a chemistry project. I moved on.

Then came the Diet Coke era. Just one, right at lunch. I lived for the moment I popped open the can and delighted in the flavor and the ritual. But I can break a habit on a dime. I read an article that explained how people use Diet Coke to clean the carburetors of cars. That habit stopped the next day. When I have enough of something, whether it’s a soda or even chewing gum, I just say that’s over, and it is.

For the last five years, my friends have called me their matcha bitch. It was my after-lunch drink made with oat milk. I loved the earthy color and taste, my bamboo whisk and scoop, and the hunt for the finest matcha shipped to me from overseas. I even had a specific cup that provided the elegance the drink deserved, complete with a wavy-shaped glass straw. I loved my matcha.

Then, one day, I realized oat milk was very high in sugar. I also decided I wanted to give up caffeine entirely, which meant even the low levels in green tea weren’t going to fly. So, I moved on again.

What does this have to do with my work in college counseling?

You might think I’m just a serial beverage shifter. But there is a method to my obsessions, and it’s the exact same philosophy I bring to my students when we sit down to talk about their futures.

In the world of college admissions, there is a massive temptation to be a serial joiner.

Students come to me with résumés that are five miles wide and a half inch deep. They are in the French club, the chess club, the varsity soccer team, and the local bake sale committee. They think more is better. They think a long list proves they are well rounded.

I stop them right there.

I tell them to go 3 feet wide and 10 feet deep.

But I stand my ground. Why? Because it’s zero points.

Twenty-five years ago, three of my best friends from my book club, which is now in its 36th year, decided it was time for a January reset. We joined Weight Watchers, and every Monday night I would pick everyone up in my Toyota Previa, affectionately dubbed “the fatty wagon.”

The energy was collective. At the weigh-in, we rooted for one another. We consoled each other during inevitable plateaus or the weeks when the scale moved in the wrong direction. In an era before the Notes app, we kept meticulous logs on scraps of paper, counting our points.

The winners of the game were the zero-point foods. The MVP was The Soup: a massive pot filled with every vegetable imaginable, spices, and tomato paste. You could eat it until you were full. Other heroes of the era included those little triangles of light La Vache qui Rit cheese, pickles, cabbage, egg whites, and nearly every fruit under the sun.

We loved our Monday nights. We each emerged with a 20-pound reset, but more importantly, we emerged with a bond we still talk about today. We weren’t just losing weight. We were building a community around a shared goal.

The Needlepoint Nest

Yesterday, I was working with one of my students, a deep crafter. She told me about a club she founded called the “Needlepoint Nest.” She wanted to list it as her lead activity on her Common Application.

I asked her, “What exactly do you do in the Needlepoint Nest?”

She smiled and said, “We just sit and needlepoint together and talk. It’s the highlight of everyone’s week.”

Because needlepointing is surprisingly expensive, she even raised money to ensure all students could afford the supplies to join the circle. What struck me most was that while she holds powerful leadership roles in prominent, high-status clubs, the Nest was her most authentic self. It was her zero point passion.

Making the Soup

I absolutely love this about her. And here is the strategic truth: colleges love it, too.

Admissions officers at schools like Michigan, Villanova, or Skidmore aren’t just looking for a list of titles. They are looking for community builders. They want to know who will add warmth and connection to their campus.

They are looking for students who know how to make the soup and are willing to share it.

Often, students think they need to lead with the high-point activities, the ones that sound impressive but feel like a uniform. But the zero-point activities, the ones you pursue purely for love of the craft and the company, often reveal your true character.

What’s in Your Pot?

Whether it’s a needlepoint circle, a book club that lasts 36 years, or a Toyota Previa full of friends heading toward a reset, the goal is the same: creating a space where people feel seen, supported, and fed, even if it’s just vegetable soup.

When we look at your Common App, we are not just counting points. We are looking for the authentic you who brings people together.

So do not be afraid to lead with your Needlepoint Nest. At the end of the day, a campus is simply a collection of people. And every person wants to belong to a community that knows how to fold in the ingredients and make something meaningful.

Let’s find your soup. The rest is just data

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I’ve moved to Substack because the college process, and life itself, deserve more than a static blog post. They deserve a conversation.

Why am I here?

I’m a Certified Educational Planner and a La Varenne Paris alumna. You might wonder what a woman who once spent four months immersed in a French kitchen is doing running a college counseling practice, but the logic is simple. Whether you’re preparing a dish with care or crafting a personal statement for a reach school, the secret is in the ingredients. You have to know when to be bold, when to be precise, and, as Moira Rose would say, exactly when to fold in the cheese.

What to expect in your inbox

We are going 10 feet deep. This will not be a uniform experience. We’re going to talk about:

The Strategy
How to find the bling in a Common App and why “12 equals 1” is a losing strategy for an individual.

The Metrics
From tracking Oura Ring sleep debt to mastering the Canvas grade portal.

The Lifestyle
Reflections from the road, from snowmobiling Icelandic glaciers to hunting for vintage Americana treasures.

Self-knowledge is the foundation of power. I’m firing on all cylinders in my go-go years, and I want to help your students do the same. High school is the rare window when you have the fewest responsibilities and the most energy. So if not now, when?

Subscribe, pull up a chair, and let’s make it a go-go year. Finn the Wheaten Terrier has already approved the guest list.

Let’s get submerged

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With the recent passing of the legendary Catherine O’Hara, the world hasn’t just lost a brilliant actress; we’ve lost a masterclass in agility.

Most of us fell in love with her all over again as Moira Rose in Schitt’s Creek. Moira was a woman who took life—and herself—with a level of dramatic seriousness that was both exhausting and aspirational. But beneath the designer wigs and the eccentric vocabulary was a woman who knew how to make lemonade out of the most bitter of lemons.

As I work with students at Academic Access, I’ve realized that the “Moira-isms” we laughed at are actually exactly what a teenager needs to survive the college admissions roller coaster.

Here is why every college applicant needs a little bit of Moira Rose in their corner:

1. The Gift of Agility

Moira Rose arrived in a run-down motel with nothing but her “bebes” (her wigs) and her dignity. She thought her life was over, but instead, she became the most agile person in the room.

In the college process, things rarely go exactly as planned. You might get deferred from your dream school, or you might realize mid-journey that the big university you wanted feels like a cold mansion. Being agile means being able to pivot. It’s about looking at a “motel” situation—an unexpected school choice or a waitlist—and realizing you have the power to make it fabulous.

2. Taking Life “Seriously,” but Staying Flexible

Moira was nothing if not dramatic. She felt every setback deeply (usually while retreating to a dark closet). And let’s be real: the college process is a bit of a drama. It feels high-stakes because it is.

But Moira never stayed in the closet for long. She’d emerge with a new outfit and a new plan. I tell my students: it’s okay to feel the “drama” of a rejection. It’s okay to take your future seriously. But like Moira, you have to be able to “fold in the cheese”—to take the ingredients you’ve been given and figure out how to make a masterpiece, even if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing yet.

3. Owning Your Authenticity (Even the Quirky Parts)

Moira Rose never tried to “fit in” to Schitt’s Creek. She brought her full, eccentric, un-diluted self to every Town Council meeting.

This is the “human hook” I look for in every personal statement. Too often, students try to sound like what they think a college wants—they try to be the “motel” version of themselves. But the essays that actually work are the ones that are unashamedly authentic. Admissions officers at Michigan, UVA, or Duke don’t want a generic student; they want the student who brings their own unique “vocabulary” and perspective to campus.

4. The “Lemonade” Factor

Ultimately, Moira’s story was about resilience. She was a “people magnet” not because she was rich, but because she was interesting. She took a situation that looked like a “No” and turned it into a triumphant “Yes.”

When a student faces a deferral or a setback, I want them to tap into that Moira energy. I want them to realize that their value doesn’t come from the mansion they used to live in (or the “top 10” school they didn’t get into)—it comes from their ability to thrive wherever they land.

The Bottom Line

At Academic Access, we help students find their “perfect spot,” even if it isn’t the one they originally pictured. Whether we are navigating the “fall crunch” or brainstorming an essay about a “flame-painted school bus,” we are looking for that Moira-inspired agility.

Catherine O’Hara taught us that life is unpredictable, frequently ridiculous, and occasionally very stressful. But if you keep your sense of humor, stay agile, and learn how to “fold in the cheese,” you’ll always find your way home.

So, to all my students heading into the “spring sprint”: Be bold, be authentic, and as Moira would say, “Don’t let the crows win!”