On Nov. 1, 2020, I submitted my early decision application to Penn. It was closer to the midnight deadline than I’d like to admit, but I was up late perfecting my supplemental essays. Now, almost five years later, I’m perfecting a different kind of essay: my parting thoughts on four years at Penn squeezed into 650-800 words. More words, but also so much more to say.
Back then, I tried to imagine myself during these four years. In response to the question on what I planned to contribute to campus, I shared my dream of joining The Daily Pennsylvanian. I confidently declared, “I’ll write stories to nurture the minds, hearts and stomachs of the Penn community.” I included stomachs because I had previously mentioned my plan to join Penn Appétit, which I never got around to.
But little did I know how much Penn would, in turn, nurture me. Not only my mind, but also my heart. And occasionally, my stomach (shoutout to the OG McClelland bowls).
Many of us had lofty ambitions of what we might do at Penn once we arrived, how we would leave our mark after four years, and most importantly, how that fit into why the admissions committee should give us that chance. But in the end, my time here was defined by the mark Penn left on me, not the other way around.
My journey of deep appreciation for Penn started my sophomore fall. I vividly remember moving into Rodin College House that year, a dorm whose motto “To be rather than to seem” was imprinted on the glass window and always resonated with me. On a campus where SABSing and Penn Face reign supreme, that call for authenticity was a challenge to break free.
As I said goodbye to my dad, he asked me if I knew the origin of the word sophomore. I told him no, and he responded that it meant “wise fool.” It was the first humbling reminder that though I was comfortable enough at Penn to take on more classes, clubs, and commitments, I was still inexperienced enough to struggle handling it all. Our departing conversation was a precursor to the most challenging semester of college that remains my favorite out of all eight.
Just a few weeks later, I met my very best friends who I will cherish forever. I was fortunate enough to have experienced the unconditional love that is true sisterhood, and I can never thank Penn enough for bringing these girls (BABO) into my life. Our late night hangouts in 311, where the shabby couches saw me more than my own bed in 1608 did, are some of my fondest memories.
That same month, I joined the Kite and Key Society. As an opinion columnist at the DP (the Quirky Quaker, to be exact), I was accustomed to using my voice to put words on a page. Becoming a tour guide forced me to go outside of my comfort zone, but what I gained most was a second humbling reminder, this time of who I once was.
As I looked into the crowd of wide-eyed prospective students and their families, I saw my younger self. Anxious, full of hope, and in awe of all that Penn had to offer. I could only dream of attending Penn, and now I was lucky enough to be living that dream.
Those 90-minute tours became my sanctuary, an escape from the chaos that often is a busy and successful life at Penn: endless midterm seasons, internship recruiting, club deliverables and more. You seldom get the chance to pause and take it all in, let alone do so every single week. No matter what was going on, I was there with a smile on my face, full of energy (or at least trying to be), and sporting Penn merch.
With every stop and story about my experiences, I was filled with gratitude. At Williams Hall, I took an Amharic class where I was the only student — yes, it was just the professor and me the entire year. At Claudia Cohen Hall, I read my late grandfather’s book in an Ethiopian history class. No, I was not the only student there.
On Locust Walk, I walked through a sea of 10,000 undergraduates and realized after publishing my first column that what I had to say mattered. As an 18-year-old who had just arrived in Philadelphia, it was a heady experience: the power of having a platform, receiving mostly support (but some backlash) from alumni and administration, and getting recognized on campus.
From feeling excluded at the Social Ivy’s racialized party scene to reckoning with the DP’s own exclusive history, my column became a home for me to grow up at Penn, to process everything as I was experiencing it. By tackling race and identity and critiquing campus culture and social politics, I challenged myself, my peers, and this institution to do better. It sometimes came at a cost: from bashing messages on Sidechat to threads dragging me on Reddit. I knew not everyone’s mind or heart would be nurtured, but I wrote anyway. By the time I became opinion editor, I was helping new columnists do the same: find their voice and experience how rewarding it could be.
Looking back on my time at Penn, I’m starting to understand why many people refer to college as the “best four years of their lives.” I used to believe that title was only reserved for those who peaked in college. But I can say with certainty that August 2021 to May 2025 marked the greatest period of my life thus far. Although each individual year was certainly not perfect, the sum of all four was truly special.
As I embark on the next chapter of my life and craft a new kind of admissions essay (this time to the world), here is my revised declaration: I hope to nurture hearts and minds, just as dear old Penn did for me.
YOMI ABDI is a Wharton senior from Chicago studying finance and management. She served as opinion editor on the 140th Board of The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. Previously, she was a deputy opinion editor and opinion columnist. Her email is yomiabdi@wharton.upenn.edu.
