Over the last sixteen years, I’ve helped many students, girls and boys to shape their college essays, one Google Doc at a time. We’ve never met in person. Our connection is virtual. But through Zoom calls and email threads, I’ve learned how open a teenager can be when you create just the right amount of space. I’ve read essays that carry the weight of parental silence, the pride of a national medal, the loneliness of being a misunderstood sibling. More recently, students have begun writing about their position within the family, how they’re spoken to, what’s expected of them, and how invisible they sometimes feel at home.
Yet, for all this honesty, there is one subject that almost never shows up. Romance.
Nobody writes about the first time they liked someone.
Or the time they were left on read.
Or the ache that lingered longer than they thought it would.
And still, I know it’s there.
I know it because I’ve been a teacher.
I know it because I’ve raised children through that age.
And I know it because I understand the layered world of adolescence, where attraction, attention, and validation from the opposite sex can become as powerful as any exam result.
The inner classroom, to me, is that quiet, unlit space in a student’s emotional life where the real learning happens. It is not always neat. It is often wordless. It is where moods change because of something that happened on a WhatsApp chat. Where self-worth flickers with every Instagram story view. Where someone’s silence can feel like an exam you never studied for. It is where teens slowly start figuring out what love feels like, what it means to be liked, what it means to not be liked back.
None of this makes it to the Common App.
And I wonder why.
Is it because they think college admissions won’t take them seriously if they write about heartbreak?
Do they fear their emotions will sound trivial compared to internships and coding bootcamps?
Or have we, in our subtle messaging, made them believe that romantic confusion is too soft to be counted as growth?
This year, when Sairara burst into theatres and onto social media feeds, I watched quietly. It wasn’t just a film. It was a collective outpouring. Teenagers cried. They messaged old crushes. They patched up with people they hadn’t spoken to in months. Some just sat silently with it all. It felt like a dam had broken. In that moment, I thought, they are feeling it. Deeply. Maybe more than we realise.
So where are these feelings in their essays?
Maybe the real coming-of-age story isn’t only about learning how to lead a team or winning a debate. Maybe it’s about liking someone who doesn’t like you back. Or realising you were someone’s distraction, not their priority. Or understanding for the first time that love is not a reward. It is a risk.
These are real lessons. And they belong in the inner classroom.
Of course, not every student has to write about romance. But I sometimes wish they knew they could. That there is space for that story too. That emotion is not weaker than ambition. That heartbreak teaches you patience, maturity, and self-reflection in ways no leadership camp ever can.
Maybe some of the best essays remain unwritten because they are quietly waiting for permission.
For someone to say, yes, even this counts.
Because the inner classroom is not just a place for knowledge.
It is where feelings take shape.
Where we first learn how to carry ourselves when something breaks.
And how to begin again.
Sheetal Bagaria is an essay strategist who guides students toward foreign education while sharing meaningful life lessons along the way.