Dear Evan Hansen

The Tony Award®-winning Best Musical on Broadway, in London and cities all across America. We’re honored to have amazing fans who share not only their enthusiasm, but their talent and creativity as well! Use the buttons below to start exploring.

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST MAIRÉAD’S FULL ESSAY:

“Last name... O’Neill?”

“It’s Mairéad - it rhymes with parade.”

If I had a nickel for every time this conversation happened… Well, I wouldn’t be applying for scholarships right now. It’s a cycle I’ve dreaded every September since Kindergarten. The conversation usually proceeds with a follow-up question like “Is that French?” or “Could you repeat that?” or even the occasional “Oh! Do you have a nickname I could use?”

Sometimes, I’ll get something like “Wow, that’s pretty.” Perhaps my favorite response. It’s validating -- unlike the responses I get from computers that read “INVALID CHARACTERS” the second I insert the accent over the ‘e’.

I used to feel it was a nuisance to explain it all; to explain myself. I’ve spent so much time writing letters to officials begging them to pronounce my name right at ceremonies, too many awkward conversations at Starbucks spelling it out then getting my drink labeled “Merd”, long explanations of my name’s heritage (“No, it’s not French). For a while, it felt more of a burden than a point of pride; less a reminder of my heritage and more a reminder that my full name has 28 characters and people usually stop caring/listening after the fifteenth.

When I started at a new school, my little brain thought “This is it! The chance to reinvent myself, the chance to leave these conversations in the past, and start fresh!” My insecurities had outweighed the pros of having people know my name. Why would anyone care about knowing the real me? It was too much to ask for. Thus, with fierce vehemence, I declared these three nicknames would be used for me, each assigned to a different teacher:

1. “Em”, for English. Simple. Two characters, one syllable. Time saving. The sound the first letter of my name makes. No one could mess this up.

2. “Ray”, for Math. A riskier move - the sound in the middle of my name, three characters instead of two, but it had a spunk that I liked.

3. “Maggie”, for Science. The riskiest. The question-provoker. Where did it come from? It wasn’t derived from any sounds or letters in my name. The shortened version of it’s creation was that Maggie was the nickname for my grandma Margaret, who I was named after - but in the Irish-Gaelic way. Simple to spell, simple to say.

I strutted into school, ready to conduct my experiment - which nickname would be the one to stick? How would I feel without follow ups? Would my shoulders feel lighter sans the weight of defense I had to carry all day?

For a while, sure. There were significantly less moments cringing upon hearing a garbled pronunciation. No biting my lip at a corrected paper with the incorrect spelling of my name written on it. I was free from the burden of my 28 character name!

Nonetheless, guilt crept in. So much of my identity was tied into my name; I started feeling I’d erased a big part of myself. Not just myself, but my heritage. How would my Irish grandmother feel? Oh god, I had provoked the rage of my ancestors! Slowly, a sense of longing for the cringe-worthy mispronunciations appeared. With every incorrect spelling, every botched syllable, came a chance to stand up & take pride - in not just my name, but my identity. Learning a name is a sign of respect. I wanted to be respected - by others, but mostly by myself.

I rolled the experiment back. It’s scientific method was flawed -- the outcome had turned from me discovering which nickname I liked, to discovering that really, they all felt wrong. I took the time to meet with each of my teachers, re-introducing myself:

“It’s Mairéad. It rhymes with parade. Muh-rayd. It’s the gaelic version of my grandma’s name, meaning ‘pearl’ in Irish. I no longer want to go by the nickname I gave you in September.”

Mairéad O’Neill Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School New York, NY

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST LILLIAN’S FULL ESSAY:

At the beginning of eighth grade I cut my hair. Short. A pixie cut. I wanted to reinvent myself. The minute the stylist spun me around to face the mirror,  I hated how it looked, though this was not something I ever told anyone. I wanted to love it.

The first person I came out to was my mom. We were walking home from swim practice at the end of sixth grade. My hair was dripping, leaving a trail along the sidewalk as we walked to my grandmother’s house, and, with a quivering breath, I told her that I thought I might like girls. She was so supportive, but that didn’t stop me from crying then, walking with a towel wrapped around my waist. I thought because I cried it meant that I was wrong. I took it back and told her I was just overthinking.

Almost a year later, I came out again. My family was sitting around the dinner table and I told them I was gay. Gay because I hated the word lesbian. My dad was the most surprised. “Really?” He asked, as if it was the last thing he expected me to say. I’ve heard a similar reaction over and over again; I’ve seen it reflected in their eyes. Really? You? I began internalizing other people’s surprise. I cut my hair because I thought I had to look a certain way to be gay. I reinvented myself so everyone would believe my queerness more.

I’ve been beyond supported by my family and friends but I still doubt myself. I haven’t had a crush in years, and sometimes it feels like I’ve gotten lost trying to figure out my sexuality. But maybe it’s the world telling me to pause. Maybe the reason I hate the word lesbian is because I don’t need to label myself as one, as anything at all. I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that, for me, sexuality is fluid, and I can still take time to get to know myself. I am not defined by what I said in seventh grade. It’s okay if my truth has changed to encompass new parts of myself - those that have emerged with slower reinvention.

Now, I see reinvention in a different light than I did many years ago. At thirteen, I believed that the immediate sort of reinvention - cutting off twelve inches of my hair - would solve all doubt, both my own and others. I changed not for myself, but for the people around me. More recently, I’ve come to believe that reinvention doesn’t have to be immediate. I’ve grown my hair out. It stretches past the middle of my back. I love it. The growth of my hair has been a slow change, but it’s one I’ve chosen for myself.

Perhaps, in a few months, amidst packing for college, I will find myself sitting in front of a mirror not unlike the one I first saw my short hair in. I will ask my hairstylist for a trim, only two or three inches, and genuinely smile when I see my reflection. I will not immediately reinvent myself, but rather continue my slow reinvention. My experience with doubt, drastic change, and even the most well meaning of “really?”s have heightened my value for acceptance, which I will carry with me into college. I will continue to seek inner acceptance and spread my values to my new peers. My hair will grow, inch by inch, and I will grow along with it.

Lillian Lemme Denver School of the Arts Denver, CO

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST SUMEDHA’S FULL ESSAY:

My biology teacher told us once in passing that every seven years, the human body's cells are fully replaced. One day, each of us will own a body that never missed that serve in volleyball, never bubbled D instead of C on that AP exam, never clenched that fist instead of opening that mouth. One day, my friend will own a body that was never pinned down against the backseat of a car on prom night. One day, I will own a body that never felt the pinch of fingernails in the girls' bathroom, that never tasted the hiss of, "terrorist," when a stranger put her lips against my ear. One day, our bodies will be clean.

At least, according to science, they will.

I, however, disagree.

I postulate that reinvention is impossible. Which is to say, there is no such thing as a clean slate. We are molded by our painful experiences, and we would be doing ourselves a disservice by denying the weight of such formative moments.

I will never have an opportunity for reinvention. Nor will my friends, my peers, my teachers, my family. We are shaped by our natures and our circumstances — sexual assault, racism, xenophobia, generational trauma. We cannot deny the crushing weight of white supremacy, the enduring legacy of colonialism, and the persistent system of gender discrimination in our world. We cannot rid ourselves of these memories and foundations, even if we rip pages from our family scrapbooks.

I do, however, advocate that we can take these forms of pain and channel them into energy. We cannot reinvent the same way phoenixes do, the same way our bodies do — we cannot rid ourselves of our former shells entirely. We can only grow into and step out of them, transcending beyond our environments and innate qualities to pursue goals bigger than ourselves.

I realize this sounds like a pretty heavy revelation to have before I can legally buy a lottery ticket. I can't pinpoint that moment when I turned from feeling pessimistic and helpless to zealous and determined about my control over my identity — but I do remember the first time we did whittling in art class.

It was a Friday, and I was soaring through the project — I thought it might be the first time I could finish something that didn't end up looking like a platypus in a fedora — but I got distracted halfway through, and I accidentally cut the tail off my fox. For a few moments I was so furious that I had to set down my knife (lest I turned it on my neighbor's budding creation out of pure spite), but, after a few deep breaths, I set myself back to work and transformed my tailless fox into a weird looking (but rather adorable, if I do say so myself) dog. As I smoothed my new creation's legs and tried to carve a little poodle tail from what was meant to be a rich plume, I was surprised by how much calmer I felt. The distinctive snout of the fox was still there, but now it was a fox that looked like it belonged in front of the Eiffel Tower with a beret and a baguette.

Every student that is lucky enough to access higher education has the right to be excited for a variety of reasons — at long last, we can stay up past 1 am and review textbooks and gorge ourselves with Ramen, and no one can stop us! I'm looking forward to a million things about college, but most clearly, I see it as an opportunity to grow what I've built for my past sixteen years of life. I look forward to joining a community of learners, thinkers, and doers. I am eager for a new environment in which I can confront my past, grapple with my present, and further whittle a stronger, brighter, more equal future.

Sumedha Yarlagadda Sun Prairie West High School Sun Prairie, WI

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST RILEY’S FULL ESSAY:

This is just a phase. Mom misses her little girl. Dad thinks you're becoming a drug addict. Friends say you're not who they signed up for. Bathroom haircuts, baggy sweatshirts, faking your voice, covering your face. You break down in the shower, hating the body you were born with. Prayers to the god above stay unanswered. You live every day in the wrong skin.

  “This is just a phase,” grandma says as she buys you dresses and jewelry, lip gloss and nail polish. You don't recognize the person on your ID. You hate her hair, her shirt, her smile, her name. It wasn't that long ago you liked being her, liked the attention she gained. You put on the costume, faked the smile, pushed up your boobs, and the compliments flocked in. But when the world is shut out, the validation disappears. With it leaves your desire to be beautiful.

  This is just a phase. She says it reassuringly. Your biology teacher doesn't believe transgender people exist. She calls herself traditional, with old school values of a man's and woman's place. To her, you are a housewife. When you need to use the bathroom, you shove down your dignity and dysmorphia to not risk a hate crime. You repulse potential friends as if you'll infect them with tranny. Your self-hatred grows. “This is just a phase” becomes the mantra of your life.

  Except this is not a phase. You are not confused. You are not broken. You do not need to be fixed. The feeling you have always carried, of not fitting in, of not feeling right, you finally have an answer for. You are more hated than you have ever been, but you are happier. Your rights are being stripped by a new state every day, but you will not waver. They cannot change you. They cannot control you.

  Though people look at you with disdain, they can see you are not the same. True friends will say you look more like yourself than ever before. They can see the confidence you now hold yourself with. Your name feels funny on your tongue, but in a good way. A way that makes you giddy as a child. You look at the man in the mirror and smile. You see in his eyes a history of pain and fear and confusion, of a child thrown into a world not suited for him. You're proud of him. This change is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. You don’t have all the answers. You don’t know who you will be tomorrow. Today you are content and that is all you can ask for.

Riley Murphy Point Loma High School San Diego, CA

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST SHAADI’S FULL ESSAY:

It’s late May, and on my walk back home, I stumble across what would soon be the carcass of a dying cicada.

Its abdomen had been picked out by a bird, and it was squirming on the pavement below me, unable to pick itself up among the countless bodies of its predecessors. If I was on duty and this was a human mass casualty incident, I would assign this cicada a black tag - not worth saving. Not dead yet, but it won’t be long. 

If EMT class taught me anything, it is that humans are incredibly resilient beings. It takes a lot for us to reach black-tag status. 

Six months prior, I glanced down at the familiar lush grasses of the Capitol’s National Mall. It appeared a cloudless and serene afternoon from the mercy of a camera, but around me was the shrill yelling and sirens of a megaphone. In an instant, I saw my close friend lying on those same lush grasses, shaking and unable to pick herself up.

It was DC’s right-wing March on Washington, and as a counter-protester, she had just been maced at point-blank range by the police. Surrounded by a red ocean of the alt-right clad in the flags of a country that had failed her, all I recall was yelling her name before I knelt over her crumpled form. Of course, my lighter, Middle-Eastern skin had been spared the poisonous flames that now rendered her skin red. Unequipped with any medical knowledge to help her, I carried her across the vast Mall, out of breath as I heard alt-right protesters cheer the police on.

Most vividly, I remember a rock forming in my throat, compacted from rage and alarm but conveniently forcing me to stay quiet, keeping my friend’s panic at bay. She didn’t have to know what she looked like. The following week, I signed up to become an Emergency Medical Technician and learned that the term for what I did is prevarication - hiding the truth and keeping a poker face in order to prevent someone from finding out the magnitude of what happened to them. Over the course of my 3,000-page textbook, I pledged to protect my friend, learning the skills that could have alleviated her pain on the spot. 

Throughout this pledge and without realizing it, I became hooked on the world of Emergency Medical Services (EMS). My local fire station quickly became a second home, and I frequently rode on the ambulance for hours on end, overnight, and on holidays. I bonded with others who shared the love of serving.

 As I began familiarizing myself with the culture of my station, I also shared my own Iranian culture with my co-workers - many of whom were in the military or police force  - unaware of life in the Middle East beyond limitless deserts and the outdated notion that I’d “make an old bride” in my homeland. Bringing Iranian ice cream on promotion days and sharing stories about my culture soon became an integral part of my identity at the station. Opening colleagues’ eyes to the beauty of my culture only proved to me how much more needs to be done in even a liberal city like DC, and how much more action needs to be taken before my existence - as a Queer Iranian female - in EMS isn’t seen as an anomaly.

Now, I find myself preparing for yet another protest. But this time I am equipped with six months of grueling medical knowledge and enough “fun facts” about chemical weapons to last me a lifetime. I have reinvented myself into someone with the power to voice my concerns over US policy, but also to assist fellow protesters. I am not a hopeless cicada, and will not be brushed aside and picked apart. I am a human being who is passionate, buoyant, and above all - alive.

Shaadi "Iris" Ghorbani Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School  Chevy Chase, MD

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST OREOLUWA’S FULL ESSAY:

Queen Victoria. 

The 19th century Queen of Great Britain was the first person I remember who shared my new name. When I arrived in Canada at six years old, I did not understand why I needed a new name; all I remember hearing was that it would be easier for my new friends to pronounce. So I was registered everywhere as Victoria, and everyone started calling me by this foreign name. I was a foreigner in a new country with a name I could not pronounce. It was hell.

    However, as months went on, I started appreciating this name change. As the kids in my class made fun of me for my accent, how weird my food smelled, and how long my surname was, I appreciated that at least my first name was not added to the list of my embarrassing Nigerian traits. I started reducing Nigeria’s presence in my identity, as if it were a pimple I could cover up. I often kept quiet in fear of mispronouncing another word like “papaya” or “salad,”—“It’s sa-lid, not sa-lad,” my elementary school friend told me. I asked my mom to make me sandwiches for lunch because the smell of my egusi soup or akara was too much for the kids my age whose palates only knew the chicken finger delicacies of their own country. 

    By Grade 6,  I had learned how to fit in, I had the same straight hair as my classmates, I wore the same clothes, and I spoke the same English they did. I finally belonged, but I still felt so ostracized, like no matter how hard I tried to be Canadian, I was always doomed to be Nigerian-Canadian. Throughout the rest of elementary school until the beginning of high school, my efforts became more desperate. No longer did I only wear my facade at school, but everywhere I went. I spoke perfect English to my entire family, even to my grandma, who only spoke Yoruba back. I favoured pizza and alfredo pasta over Nigerian food. I even dreaded when my mom would pick me up from school because her accent would alert everyone around that I was, in fact, not from a perfect English Canadian family, but from a foreign one. 

    However, one day changed my entire perspective on life and myself. Early one Saturday morning, my mom called me to talk to my great-grandmother. I had not called her in months if not years. I was so excited to talk to her, but I was quickly reminded that she only spoke Yoruba, and I was all of a sudden struggling to speak. The call was filled with painful awkward silence where I would try to find the Yoruba words for my English thoughts as if Yoruba were not my first language. After the call, I was humiliated, disheartened, and, most importantly, disappointed in myself. I realized that I was lost, and in the 10 years I had tried to fit into the country I moved to, I lost my footing in the only place I did fit in—home. 

    So I realized I had to be authentically myself, even if I did not know who that was yet. I knew that I could not keep trying to conform to the country I lived in if it meant I lost connections with the people I loved most. I knew I had to become a new person—one that embraces their culture, traditions, and languages. And so I renamed myself. Oreoluwa, gift of God—that is what my mother named me when I was born, and it is what those that I meet are going to call me. I cannot keep changing myself for those who do not change the way they see me. I am different, but I am okay with that. I am Ore. I am a gift.

Oreoluwa Adepegba Merivale High School Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

[dearevanhansenofficial]

"All that it takes is a little reinvention..."—Have you ever had the chance to reinvent yourself? As you look ahead to life after high school, will you introduce a whole new you to a fresh community, or further shape the best version of yourself?

DEAR EVAN HANSEN, Broadway Education Alliance, and Gotham Writers Workshop invite 11th-grade and 12th-grade students to write a college-application style essay (no longer than 650-words) that describes your experiences with or ideas about reinvention, at any stage of your life through our 2022 College Essay Contest. Learn more: https://bit.ly/2022EssayContest

[dearevanhansenofficial]

[dearevanhansenofficial]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Neil Patrick Harris (@nph)

[dearevanhansenofficial]

Today is going to be a good day and here’s why ! I’m at my first solo show in nyc seeing one of my most favorite pieces of art 💙💙💙 #youwillbefound @DearEvanHansen pic.twitter.com/q46xpQUpsd

— Aubrey Noel 🏝 (@aubreydye46)

February 2, 2022

[dearevanhansenofficial]

Today, the Empire State Building shines bright like a blue beacon welcoming us back to Broadway.

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST LAURA’S FULL ESSAY:

“...And happily ever after!”

The closing line of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods rang in our heads as we skipped through the streets.  My friend and I had thoroughly enjoyed his high school’s performance of the classic musical, and we laughed and talked as we walked home.  It was a warm spring night with a hint of dampness in the air. Not enough moisture to warrant a raincoat or boots, but just enough for the cool drops to gather on the tips of our ears and noses.  I can still feel the gentle breeze and see the overcast sky; spots of moonlight seeping through to graze the sidewalk.  It was a simple night, one that should’ve faded into my memory as unremarkable. But just as I waved goodbye to my friend and turned towards my front door, the piercing sound of glass shattering split through the air.  We both whirled around to see the shards of a window about half a block down hitting the sidewalk.  I don’t recall seeing the body hit the ground, but somehow, a fraction of a second later, there it was.  Looking back, I’m surprised that I wasn’t frozen in panic.  After the initial shock, I sprinted towards the body, my friend right on my tail.  The doorman of the building from which the man had fallen was there as well, but I can’t even remember his face, let alone his expression.  I dialed 911 with trembling fingers.

“911, what is your emergency?”

I’d never heard those words outside of a TV show or movie.  I never expected to.  My head felt hazy as I described the situation to the dispatcher.

“There’s a man on the ground on West End avenue between 81st and 82nd street.  He shattered his window and jumped.  I think he’s dead.”  Those were my exact words.  That description came from my own mouth, yet in my memory, I hear it as if listening from afar. The best word to describe it is “detached”; the memory somehow blurs the line between first and third person perspectives.  About seven minutes later, a team of EMTs and police officers showed up.  I had been the first responder, but they couldn’t save him in time.

I pass that same building every morning as I walk to the M79, and it took months for the ghost of the bloodstains to fade.  Not only was the event itself horrifying, but the guilt that ensued for the next few months was equally unbearable.  I was a sophomore, and hadn’t yet learned CPR.  If I had, could I have saved him?  If I were just a millisecond quicker, could I have made a difference? I’ll never know, but the questions still remain in the back of my mind.

But it’s not that simple.  While I do wish to forget what I saw, what I had to do and what I couldn’t do, a tiny inkling in my brain wants to remember.  Being witness to such a striking event changes you.  The very next day, I found myself intrinsically more aware of the small motions of life.  I hugged my parents a bit tighter and made sure to tell my friends just how much they meant to me.  This experience opened my eyes to how fleeting life is, and how important it is to actively protect and nurture the relationships you do have.  Life and society as we know them are defined by how we relate to other people, and how our choices create ripples that spread further from us than we could ever imagine.  I don’t know if I’ll ever completely dismiss this memory, but the comfort I found in those around me continues to remind me that, as Into the Woods tells us, “no-one is alone”.

Laura Yee Brearley School New York, NY

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST FILGEY’S FULL ESSAY:

I've always been scattered brained. I would stretch my attention between multiple tasks throughout the day and found myself not being able to focus on one item for an extensive amount of time. My mother always cautioned me of this fault and repeatedly scolded me about my inability to focus on a task long enough to complete it. As a 13-year-old I zoned out a few words into her long lectures and allowed my mind to drift elsewhere further proving her point and adding fuel to her already lit and burning fire. On top of my scatterbrained nature, the tasks that I would complete would be rushed just so I could move on and begin another. This was true for most things within my life at this period. My bed in the morning would be made in a matter of seconds by me throwing my comforter over the messy fitted and flat sheets and propping my pillows against my headboard. When it came to putting clothes away I threw handfuls of unfolded clothes into my dresser drawers and only flooded the top layer, because my mother would never be clever enough to look under the folded clothes ( or so I thought).

One Saturday morning my mother came home from running her usual weekend errands and presented me with a gift. I was thrilled when I heard she had gotten me something and instantly disappointed when she revealed to me what the gift was. She placed a plant that was in a rust-colored pot on the table and began delivering a speech on the meaning behind this plant. The plant was short and stocky, it had a few leaves coming from just two branches and the soil around the base was decorated with small multi-colored pebbles. What a terrible gift I thought to myself.

That mindset towards the plant quickly changed soon after. I was given the task of being the sole caregiver of that plant and was amazed at my ability to care for it. Knowing that this plant depended on me to survive I poured my attention and learned as much as I could about caring for the plant, which I later found out was a tomato plant once a bright yellow flower began to bloom near one of the leaves. I watered the plant daily but promptly learned that watering needed to be done in moderation so I focused on creating a watering schedule and stuck by it. I tended to that single plant and by focusing on a daily or weekly task that needed to be done for that plant it eventually produced several dime-sized tomatoes. For the first time in a long time, I was satisfied whenever I completed a task however small the task was.

One moment I remember vividly was finally being able to re-pot the plant because the roots had become rootbound. Slowly and meticulously disentangling the roots brushing off the dirt, placing the roots into a fresh pot of soil, and then watering the plant gave me gratification. The simple task of caring for a plant showed me how important completing a small task is, these small tasks will eventually produce amazing fruit.

Filgey Borgard Midwood High School Brooklyn, NY

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST LUCY’S FULL ESSAY:

By mid-May, I had stared at my computer screen so much that I could see it even when I closed my eyes. My back ached constantly from hunching over it, my fingers were sore from typing, and I left the house only once a day to walk the dogs. Friendships I had depended on since seventh grade withered without daily contact, texts coming fewer and further apart as we ran out of things to say. I berated myself for not having made friends in the neighborhood in all the years I had lived there. Every day a troop of masked and giggling girls strolled by, doing a dubious job at social distancing and enjoying themselves even more because of it. I knew them all by sight and none by name.

One such day, gazing out of my window during one of the gaping spaces between Zoom classes, I noticed someone I hadn’t seen before– a dark-haired girl emerging from a house across the street, hands stuffed in the pockets of an olive-green hoodie. Aha! I thought. Someone else who isn’t part of the neighborhood crowd. Crossing into the puddle of sunlight on the sidewalk, she sprang back and shielded her eyes with one arm, considering the brightness of the day. I know that feeling. Even better, I was pretty sure I knew her name. My mom had sent me over to make introductions when she moved in a few years back, and sheepishly I had done so, barely swallowing my embarrassment at this old-fashioned errand. Juliette. That’s what it was. Thank goodness I’d already put myself through the pains of an introduction. Hopefully she remembered who I was.  

When I put pen to paper, the words flowed out so easily that I wondered if I had been subconsciously drafting this note since the beginning of quarantine. I re-introduced myself, expounded on the monotony of isolation, and asked if she’d like to hang out while trying to sound chill, covering up my desperation for human contact with wry jokes and smiley-faces. ‘Love’ was too personal and ‘sincerely’ too stiff, so I signed with just my name, hoping that didn’t make me seem boring. I found a YouTube video demonstrating how to fold the paper into its own little envelope the size of a MetroCard with triangular embellishments at each corner. I filled the blank space with her name, ‘Juliette,’ in my very best cursive.

Turning the packet over and over in my fingers by the door, I was shot through with doubts. She’d definitely think it was weird, this note. And what if she saw my desperation for a friend? What if she did know the neighborhood girls? I could picture them passing my note between them as they walked by the next day, surreptitiously pointing out my house to the ones who didn’t know. That’s where she lives. The one with no friends. But it was already written, and in my hand at the open door, ready to be delivered. It felt far too late to back out. Crossing my fingers that no-one was near the door, I darted across the street and slipped it into the mailslot before I could freeze up, turning right around to sprint back to the safe claustrophobia of my house.

All day I avoided the window, scared to catch a glimpse of Juliette sneering as she sorted through the mail and found this odd scrap of paper from the weirdo across the street. But when I finally went downstairs, there was a piece of looseleaf stuck in the mail slot, folded into a different type of origami envelope than mine. You have no idea how glad I was to get your note, it started. I’ve been thinking of reaching out to you since quarantine started, but I never would have been brave enough.

Lucy Meola Hunter College High School New York, NY

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST ORLA GRACE’S FULL ESSAY:

People are a lot like trees. Independent, yet part of a greater whole; strong but not invincible. Some might seem like they will stay upright forever, but one day a storm may be too strong-- and it crashes. The roots upend and the ground breaks. The beetles come and take refuge in its cracks. The weeds begin to grow over the fallen trunk. The tree has perished.

When I first heard the song “You Will Be Found” I was taken by it. Then I listened to it again. And again. And a couple more times. Even writing this right now I have it on repeat. I keep trying to find a specific lyric that speaks to me the most, but I can’t. I can’t because each lyric reminds me of a different part of quarantine, high school, or the last couple of months. Each lyric gives my tree the radiant sunlight it needs to grow again.

I am an empath: I feel everyone's emotions around me in a heightened way. Everyone’s pain, laughs, and tears make me feel as if they are my own. Covid brought isolation and loneliness with it; the way trees are close but unable to touch. And I felt the loneliness of others. I felt it and suddenly I realized I was also feeling my own lack of connection. This song helped me find it again.

A tree can appear strong on the outside, but be barely able to withstand the cold and wind on the interior. In November of 2020, I was sexually assaulted by my supposed best friend and when the dark was crashing in, I felt alone and so far away from being okay. While my exterior seemed grounded, inside I was lost. I couldn’t possibly think of a reason to feel okay. My tree had fallen. But when I heard: “maybe there’s a reason to believe you’ll be okay”, I realized not all hope was lost. I didn’t think it was possible to just reach out a hand and let people in. I didn’t think that in reaching out, I would be found. That I would be able to start healing or finding myself again.

I reached out to my brother, who introduced me to a friend that had been assaulted by the same person. When I met the friend, it was like I had been found. Found in my vulnerability and found as myself. Like someone finally understood what I had gone through; that their tree had fallen right next to mine.

Every time I let someone in and tell my story, I am a little less alone. People turn out to be less judgy than I made them out to be. “And every time you call out, you’re a little less alone.” People will listen if I let them. And that is the reason I am telling you this. I simultaneously found comfort for myself and provided comfort for someone with similar trauma. My assaulter knocked down my tree but the experience taught me the strength and courage in being alone. It taught me how to find myself, by myself, and for myself when I was lost; how to stand my tree back up on my own. And most importantly, it taught me the significance of family, the people that are by my side forever.

   At the conclusion of this essay, and coincidentally the conclusion of the song, I want to end by saying you will be found. Your story has just started. You are not defined by your trauma. Your tree will stand again. And if not, every tree is replaced by an even stronger one.

Orla Grace McCoy Enloe High School Raleigh, NC

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST MADELINE’S FULL ESSAY:

      Throughout this past year, COVID-19 was not the only pandemic plaguing our nation. In fact, the mental health crisis, especially among school-aged kids was magnified to heartbreaking proportions. Not only were kids distanced from their friends, but they were also restricted from brick-and-mortar learning. I saw this effect many families in my community, including my own. It was time for someone to take action. I started by posting on our neighborhood social media page, offering free math tutoring to anyone who needed extra help. The number of responses I received was overwhelming. After a few days, I showed up to my first house armed with a notebook, flashcards, a mask, and a patient heart.

    Her name is Mira. She has always struggled in math, but online learning only increased her struggle. After working through a few sixth-grade level problems with her, I discovered her particular struggle, “You know your times tables and are able to do long division without a hitch, but word problems are what seem to trip you up.” She nods, agreeing. For the rest of the hour, I taught her tricks for how to recognize different functions through specific key words. We laughed as I came up with crazy scenarios for her to solve involving money and cookies. By the time I left, I could not wait to return next week for another session.

    Their names are Hayden and Hunter. They were receiving failing grades in both reading and math. I arrived at their house feeling confident from my success on the previous day. After struggling through a couple area problems with the two of them, they began to talk about flag football and how much they enjoyed the sport. I began listening intently to what they had to say as they laughed with each other. I felt an urge in the back of my mind to refocus the conversation again to numbers and equations, but I knew that this conversation was lifting up the boys’ spirts more than any math problem could. We ended the session not so much making progress on their math work sheet, but rather having made a strong connection through conversation and laughter.

    Her name is Macey. She had just moved to Arizona from another state which taught math differently and at a different pace. Now in a sophomore math class online, she was struggling to keep up with her classmates. I was excited to interact with someone close to my age but also tutor in the subject I love the most: geometry. I arrived at her family’s warm and welcoming new house and was greeted with a smile. Once we sat at her kitchen table, she showed me a quiz on which she received a lower grade. I was able to explain the concepts to her in a different way than her teacher had taught. It clicked. Her eyes lit up as she started correcting her test answers. After she closed her iPad, satisfied with her progress, she told me how difficult it was for her to move to a different state during the pandemic. We talked and connected through various interests and hobbies we shared. I left her house that day not only having taught her about congruent triangles, but also having formed a new friendship.

   Although all of these kids each requested academic support, they all needed one thing even more: connection. In fact, I longed for this connection as well. Even in the midst of a global crisis, we were able to find laughter, confidence, and joy through something as simple as a tutoring session. I realized how important connection is through this time. So, thank you Mira, Hayden, Hunter, and Macey for being excellent students, but also excellent friends.

Madeline Wiest Glendale Preparatory Academy Peoria, AZ

[dearevanhansenofficial]

“YOU WILL BE FOUND” NATIONAL COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2021 | DEAR EVAN HANSEN

In partnership with Gotham Writers Workshop and the Broadway Education Alliance, DEAR EVAN HANSEN invited 11th-grade and 12th-grade students across the country to write a college-application style essay that describes how they channeled “You Will Be Found” to ensure those around them were a little less alone over the last year, or, alternatively, a moment where they found comfort in connection.

READ FINALIST SAMANTHA’S FULL ESSAY:

Five Hundred Silver Stars

         At the beginning of my junior year, I bought a sticker book; five hundred silver stars that illuminated a galaxy of wax paper. And I stuck them everywhere: my friends’ notebooks and pencil cases, and their hands and faces. Starry Night could have been recreated well over one hundred times with the number of stickers I gave away. My teachers scoffed at my year-long art project, “How old are you again? Are you aware that you are in an Advanced Placement class?”

         And, actually, I was aware. But when I looked at my friends’ proud smiles with their shining teeth and matching stars, I was also made aware there is a sort of simplistic happiness in each of us that is often lost with age. We often forget what truly brings us joy. Before the dawning of college application season and senior year, I knew we all needed that simple joy. At the time, college was the most overwhelmingly stressful thing that my friends and I could imagine. But on March 13, 2020, when North Providence High School closed down because of the COVID-19, all of our perspectives changed.

          We thought we’d be back in a week. Or a month. Or sometime before June, at least. I was wrong. I did not even have the foresight to rescue my sticker book from my locker.

          In a second, I was plunged into a constant night. My parents, front-line workers, were never home. When my parents were home, however, they kept their distance for my own protection. I was so physically and emotionally alone. I was too afraid to leave the house. I was too afraid to even talk to my friends out of the fear they would tell me that their own home had been affected by COVID-19.

         But my stickers appeared everywhere.

         There was a star folded in my sock drawer. There was one stuck inside my pack of cinnamon gum. A  few more were still wedged between the pages of my Physics textbook. They were my little comforts, little sparks in the night of the nationwide quarantine that I was so convinced I was completely alone in. Thankfully (and obviously), I was wrong.

          Slowly, the pictures began to roll in. Day by day, my friends reached out with pictures of the stickers I had given them. They were my first line of communication almost back to normal.

          There was one stuck to the heel of one of Natalie’s old gym sneakers. There was a sheet of stars left untouched inside Jenna’s lunchbox; a lunchbox that should have been cleaned out weeks before it was. There were two still clinging to the side of Cassie’s neon pink water bottle.

         As pictures led to conversations, the human connection that we had been so afraid of, I realized I was not alone. My stars connected my friends and me together when we could not have been farther apart. The simple joys I had given away came back to me five hundredfold when I truly needed them.

        Five hundred silver stars made up beautiful constellations all across North Providence’s sky.

Samantha Williams North Providence High School North Providence, RI