Why AI Can’t Write a Great College Essay

July 29, 2025 :: Admissionado

The Elephant in the Admissions Office: Everyone’s Using AI… Right?

It’s 11:48 p.m. The cursor blinks like a metronome, mocking the empty screen. One hand clenched around a Red Bull, the other hovering hesitantly over the keyboard. A sigh. Then—like countless other teens this year—he types: “Write a college essay about overcoming failure.” Hits enter.

And there it is: 500 words of AI-generated earnestness, delivered with the sterile warmth of an HR manual.

This isn’t a fringe case. Google Trends shows a sharp uptick in search phrases like “college essay written by AI” and the slightly more honest “I really don’t want to write this essay AI.” And, look—given the pressure cooker that is college admissions today, can you really blame students? When you’re expected to be a valedictorian, an Olympian, and a social justice warrior… oh and also deeply authentic, the temptation to offload just one of those tasks is understandable.

In a world where AI writes corporate press releases, wedding toasts, and the occasional sci-fi screenplay, why wouldn’t a student ask ChatGPT to tackle an essay?

But here’s the thing: The real danger isn’t that your essay will get flagged by some anti-AI software. The real danger is worse. It’s that your voice will disappear.

Top-tier schools aren’t looking for “competent.” They’re not checking boxes. They’re searching for an essay that punches them in the gut. That makes them feel. That shows them something messy, raw, weird, funny, poetic, and—most of all—undeniably human. And AI, for all its wizardry, doesn’t know what it’s like to choke at a swim meet, or to rehearse a breakup speech for three weeks only to have your voice crack like a seventh grader’s.

The best essays are like fingerprints—impossible to replicate. That’s not because they’re perfect. It’s because they’re real.

And if you let a robot write your story? You’re handing in a copy. Not a masterpiece.

Do Colleges Check for AI in Essays? Yes… But Here’s the Real Problem

Let’s get this out of the way: Yes, AI detectors exist. Schools can check if your essay smells suspiciously robotic. Tools like:

• Turnitin – Once the plagiarism sheriff, now moonlighting as an AI detective. Their AI checker boasts high “accuracy,” but critics have slammed it for vague criteria and shoddy results.
• GPTZero – Made by a college student, now used by institutions desperate to stay ahead of the AI curve. Effective? Maybe. Reliable? Eh…
• Copyleaks – Claims to be AI-powered and “education-friendly,” but has been dinged for flagging Hemingway as AI-written. Let that sink in.

The problem? These tools are riddled with false positives. One kid writes with clarity and style—gets flagged. Another might paste in the ChatGPT special—sails right through. It’s a digital game of Russian roulette. The Common App’s stance is about as firm as a wet noodle. No clear guidelines. No real enforcement. Just a “we trust you” shrug.

But let’s be real—that’s not the actual problem.

The real issue isn’t that AI-written essays might get caught. It’s that they don’t get noticed.

• AI essays are safe. Predictable. Unoriginal.
• They say things like, “Music has always been a part of my life…”
• Meanwhile, a real human writes, “My pinky finger dislocated mid-arpeggio. I kept playing.”

Which one do you think sticks?

Admissions officers read thousands of essays. Their internal radar isn’t calibrated for “AI or not.” It’s wired to detect originality. Specificity. Humanity. When your essay reads like corporate oatmeal, it doesn’t get red-flagged. It just gets passed over.

So, should you worry about getting “caught” using AI?

Not really.

But you should worry about being invisible. Because the biggest risk isn’t rejection from a school. It’s a rejection from the reader’s memory.

What Top Schools Want: Voice, Stakes, and Humanity

You know what admissions officers never say? “We’re just looking for the most qualified students.” Nope. What they actually say—over and over again—is:

• “We want to see growth.”
• “We’re looking for nuance.”
• “We love contradiction. Complexity. Grit.”
• “Show us your personality.”

Translation: They want essays that feel like people.

Let’s look at a few essay types that do work:

• The Self-Aware Failure Essay: A student flubs their TEDx talk. Stage fright, forgotten lines, total trainwreck. But instead of slapping on a tidy “…and I learned to always prepare!” ending, they wrestle with their ego, their fear of looking dumb, and why failure still stings. It’s messy. Honest. And human.
• The Quirky Domestic Essay: A girl writes about folding laundry with military precision. Weird, right? But it turns out this routine is how she managed chaos in a household with four siblings and two jobs. The folding becomes a metaphor for leadership and control. Suddenly, socks = soul.

These kinds of essays light up a room. They surprise. They provoke. They linger.

Now, let’s peek at the AI version of these same topics:

• “Public speaking taught me to always be prepared.”
• “Doing chores taught me responsibility.”

Yawn. These aren’t essays. They’re empty calories. They don’t show how the student thinks or who they are. They just tick boxes.

This isn’t a critique of AI’s abilities—it’s a reminder of its limits. AI can mimic tone. It can pump out structure. But it can’t generate stakes. It can’t feel embarrassment or pride or that stomach-dropping moment when you realize you’ve disappointed someone you love.

And this stuff matters. Because schools like Brown, UChicago, and Columbia aren’t trying to build a LinkedIn feed. They’re building a cohort—a vibrant, opinionated, spicy stew of personalities.

• Can you hold a room?
• Do you challenge assumptions?
• Are you bringing flavor or filler?

AI will always give you competence. But the best essays go beyond that. They whisper: Here’s what it feels like to be me. And that’s what top schools are listening for.

Why Even “Smart” AI Use Is a Trap

“But what if I just use AI for grammar?”

“Can I at least have it brainstorm with me?”

Harmless, right?

Nope. Here’s the reality check: The second you outsource thinking—even a little—you start watering down the stuff that makes your essay… you.

See, AI doesn’t “get” subtext. It doesn’t understand what it meant when your dad said “I’m proud of you” for the first time without looking up from his phone. It doesn’t track the emotional terrain between silence and apology. It’s great at stringing words together. But meaning? Stakes? That’s where it flatlines.

Even when you use AI to “just help with ideas,” you’re giving your brain a script. And guess where that script comes from? The internet’s most average responses. Which means…

• You ask AI for Johns Hopkins “collaboration” essay ideas.
• It says: “Group science project where we all learned to work as a team.”
• You think: “Sounds decent.”
• And boom—you bury your real story: the one about teaching your grandma to use Zoom during COVID so she could attend your cousin’s wedding virtually, even though she cried through the whole thing because she couldn’t hear a word.

AI didn’t steal your story. It just made you forget it was even worth telling.

Sure, AI can make things faster. But college essays aren’t about speed. They’re about reflection. They’re about sitting with a thought long enough that it starts to reveal something deeper. Something uncomfortable. Something true.

And if your final draft sounds like it had help—or if it lacks tension, if it lacks texture—it won’t land. It won’t cut through. It’ll glide gently into the slush pile of meh.

Here’s the thing: A good editor doesn’t write for you. A good editor interrogates your story, pokes holes in it, digs beneath the surface, and says “Okay, but what’s the real reason you froze up during that championship game?” A good editor helps you sound more like you.

AI Won’t Get You Rejected. But It Won’t Get You In Either.

Harvard isn’t slapping a “DENIED” stamp because your essay smells like ChatGPT. There’s no crimson-robed committee waving around AI detection reports. That’s not the threat.

The threat is that your essay sounds like everyone else’s.

You know the type:

• “Overcoming obstacles has made me stronger.”
• “This experience taught me the value of hard work.”
• “I want to attend a university where I can grow academically and personally.”

These aren’t just AI-written sentences. They’re AI-trained sentences. They’re the linguistic equivalent of white noise. And whether they came from a bot or a human using one, they fade into oblivion the second they hit the reader’s eyeballs.

Now compare that to some real opening lines we’ve seen in standout applications:

• “I grew up believing the world would end in 2008.”
• “My hands smelled like vinegar for three days after I exploded the kitchen.”
• “My younger brother once tried to trade me for a lizard.”

Instantly, you’re in a scene. You’re curious. You’re invested.

This is the crux: The enemy isn’t ChatGPT. It’s generic thinking. The danger isn’t in the tech—it’s in what the tech encourages: blandness, symmetry, safety. It teaches you to sand off your edges. And those edges? That’s what colleges want to see.

Top-tier schools aren’t scanning for robot syntax. They’re scanning for spark. For that flash of weirdness or depth or discomfort that makes a reader stop and say, “Wait—tell me more.”

AI doesn’t get you rejected. It just makes you forgettable.

And in a sea of 50,000 applicants, forgettable might as well be fatal.

Final Word: This Is the One Part of the App You Should Never Phone In

Your transcript is numbers. Your activities are checkboxes. But your essay? That’s your voice.

So why give it to a bot?

This is your shot to speak directly to the people deciding your future. To show them something no résumé ever could. And AI? It doesn’t know what matters to you. It doesn’t know what hurts.

Let it write your packing list. But not your story.

Book a free consultation with Admissionado. We’ll help you find that thing—the sharp, human truth that no algorithm can fake.

Because you’re not competing against AI. You’re competing against humans with something to say.