Bethesda Local Writer’s Showcase: 2025 High School Essay Contest

High School Essay Contest – 1st Place

The Painting in the Mirror
By Logan Moran – Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School

As I step into the powder room adjacent to my attic bedroom, I take in my surroundings. The afternoon light streams through the stained glass window, dappling the walls with color. The messy array of pastes, sprays, and brushes are strewn across the surfaces, each exactly where I left them. I turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm. As it washes over my face, I feel refreshed, and when I’m done, I reach for my towel to carefully pat my face dry. I stand up, and when the towel drops, I catch a glimpse of the painting in the mirror. 

Some days it’s a Picasso, and I see not a unified person but rather a combination of different features, both feminine and masculine.

I see the wide “cow eyes,” as my sister used to call them when she wanted to put me down. Attached to those are the long and dark eyelashes that my ophthalmologist used to say she was jealous of. I poke and prod at my cheeks as I try to figure out where fat ends and bone begins. They are rounder than I’d like—a still lingering reminder of my childhood and the first part of my adolescence, when estrogen ran through my veins. 

The testosterone brought with it the thick eyebrows of my mother’s side and the sharper nose of my fathers side. I see the adam’s apple which accompanied the long-awaited voice drop. I see what could be the beginnings of a beard. 

 If I stare long enough, my features start to distort. I see what I hope to be my future, and I see the girl I used to be. I can see everything except the real face that stares back at me. I know these features create a coherent face, one that’s perceived by others just as I perceive theirs, but on Picasso days I can’t imagine it. Try though I may, I can’t combine these features into a person. They exist individually, reminding me of the progress I’ve made and the things I will never be able to paint over.

The pain has eased, as the testosterone replaced the estrogen. Now most days are Van Gogh days—aesthetically pleasing but never perfectly smooth. 

Painter and painted, with each injection and exercise I make contact with the canvas once again, but the paint is not without its flaws. The acne that plagued my face for two years has left scars. A side effect and therefore a constant reminder of my transition. I didn’t have to take the testosterone. I was choosing to do this to myself. Still, it was the right decision. 

Each brush stroke builds upon the previous layer until the canvas is transformed. Each stroke will never be as smooth and the feeling never as warm as a Rembrandt or Vermeer. Nevertheless I continue to paint, content with the beauty found in imperfection.  

High School Essay Contest – 2nd Place

What Silence Held
By Caroline Easley – Walt Whitman High School

My siblings and I gathered at the wooden dining table in our grandparents’ kitchen. The soft beeps of various appliances blended with creaks from Grams’ well-worn wooden table. She placed a few paper plates at each of our placemats while Grandaddy prepared bread rolls. Each roll was carefully buttered––eight in total, so each of us could have two. His quiet presence anchored the room. Now, I realize how much silence can hide.

The excitement among my siblings and me was palpable. Nothing was more thrilling than spending the night at our grandparent’s. We could barely contain ourselves, waiting to dig into the meal in front of us. But we held back until Grams and Granddaddy joined us. Once they sat down, the scene at the table erupted: mouths were full, and manners were out the window. The scent of warm bread and the sound of laughter saturated my grandparents’  kitchen.

But even the warmest kitchens grow cold.

***

The next time we gathered, a seat was missing. The room’s warmth dissolved into a suffocating chill. The lines on Grams’ face had hardened. Grandaddy had taken his own life. 

A nebulous dread clouded the memories of our time together. The snow globe that once danced with snowflakes had cracked. The fond memories of my childhood drained slowly––seeping into my hands, and slipping through my fingers. I tried to patch the crack, but the effort only delayed the inevitable. The memories fell, scattering like shattered glass across the cold tile floor.

Now, I see Grandaddy at the dining table again, his eyes fixed on the meal before him. What I once thought of as quiet shyness has the weight of something heavier, something unspoken. He excuses himself from the table to rest in bed. 

I picture him: his tired eyes, the dark shadow looming behind him. I wish I could go back, stand beside him, and fight the shadow myself––tear it away, just for a moment. At the time, I didn’t know its weight, suspended by my ignorance. Now, that burden has fallen on me, waking me too late to change anything. 

I see him battling the shadow. The pill organizer, each compartment containing capsules of hope––each pill a fragile promise, an ephemeral victory against ceaseless blows. 

Eventually, Grandaddy’s armor grew rusted and worn. The blows became too much to endure.

I do not fault his surrender, but wish his opponent had been weaker. Only after years of reflection do I begin to grasp the complexities of his struggle. Now, I carry his memory not as a broken snow globe, but as a reminder of the strength it takes to battle what we can not see. I remind myself to carry light, even when shadows remain invisible.

High School Essay Contest – 3rd Place

The Intricate Process of Pottery Production
By Michaela Levy – Winston Churchill High School

Like they have countless times before, my hands push against the clay on the wheel with purpose as I apply the force needed to drive a boulder. This is the first step, centering the clay. Even after finding the perfect middle, the structure is precarious. If I’m not meticulous with my hands, the entire piece will be thrown off center, asymmetrical, imperfect, but everything else is still undetermined. What will it be? A cup? Maybe a vase?  The spontaneous, ever-changing nature of clay makes the creation process so interesting.

When I was younger, I perceived myself as off-centered. My mother is single, I have no father, and I’m adopted from China. Life felt normal until I found out I had a unique family. I remember sharing my story with classmates for the first time. Their faces twisted into hesitant expressions, and one said my mother wasn’t my real mother because we weren’t bonded by blood. My mom was real; I came home to her each day, she made warm food and sang songs to me. For years, this comment stuck like a leech that I couldn’t shake off, and deeply affected how I believed others perceived me.  

In creating pottery, a wall can get too thin to continue throwing. At times, I have been hesitant to continue a piece out of fear that the structure could collapse. Fearing my own collapse in middle school, I became reserved about sharing my family origins, afraid to again feel vulnerable. Even after making friends with Chinese kids, I felt different, divided by our lack of shared experiences. Surrounded by people who looked just like me, I still felt like my walls would crumble at any moment.

Even after throwing the walls for height, the clay must be formed into a shape. To morph it into what it will become. Stepping into my first high school art class, the huge bucket of clay caught my attention. Some students gagged at the feeling and smell of the wet mud on their hands, but I was captivated by the potential of the sludge. I took in every moment as if I were consuming water after being deprived for days in the desert. 

When drawing first lured me into the artistic world, I would cover my work with my arm like a wall to protect it from judgment. In my high school setting, however, I couldn’t stop showing off my creations because I was surrounded by people who had the same passion for art. The newfound sense of belonging in my school’s art community sparked a flourishing bud of self-acceptance toward my adoption. Our shared love of art held us together like a bandage, slowly healing my definition of what belonging means. 

The final step in completing a ceramics piece before placing it into the kiln is to trim it. I’m still “trimming” my definition of belonging, and while I believe it will be ever-changing, with each refinement I come closer to discovering who I’ll become.  

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

Lucky Number Make a Wish
By Marin Brow – The Potomac School

I find myself praying at 11:11 each day for a better me. I find myself pleading for signs, depending on a god I swear I don’t believe in. The unconscious repetition soothes me. It’s not planned, nor do I take any measures to stop it. Every day, I find myself succumbing to the wits of a higher being, burning for a heaven I ostracize myself from. 

I go to church almost every weekend, never of my own accord, but I go nonetheless. I take this time to search for myself; I evaluate if I have been flawless. I’ll never be. I find that I’ll never live up to the version God made for me. I find myself in need of salvation, yet I will never accept it. I find myself relying on a welcome I’ll never trust. 

I was confirmed two years ago. A couple of days beforehand I worked myself up to finally denounce this God to my mother. But I got no response, only more questions left unanswered. Confirmation was a game to me; toying with the idea I could be accepted, burned by the realization I was dreaming. A dream of running naked through the gardens with Adam by my side. Life is what I make of it, yet no matter if I choose hunger or satisfaction, the ending never changes. 

Death is a reverie, a cap to an overflowing bottle, pushing to contain a never-ending flow; the desire to be known. I know how God comforts, it’s not a coincidence we are suddenly church regulars once my aunt and grandfather died. I just don’t understand it. It’s an illusion of liberty, you are always tied down – the only difference being the choice of shackles. I am restrained by my naiveties and my fault in understanding. I need to die knowing my mere existence doesn’t put me on a speed train to hell. I need to live knowing my prayers are more than what I believe in. I need to look back on the past and think. Why did God make me like this?

I was ten when I knew I was gay. I was nine when I knew this entrusted me to evil. At no point was I ever allowed to live with myself without the wary shadow of hell. The stark and waiting outline of my sins. A candle can be reformed once burned, do I get the same mercy?

 I lay at night staring at my clock, itching for it to turn to 11:11. The one time I can rely on a peripheral thought. One where I don’t care that God knows me; only that he hears me. And as another year ticks by, the first sermon of January meets me, singing an alarm to me. Wake up. “One must bear fruit worth repenting in order to be forgiven.” But I don’t want to be forgiven, I want to be accepted.

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

Familiar Scent
By Eleham Salo – Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School

Oneness between the cook and the ingredients can be recognized by a simple scent.

Nine year old me would wear goggles when watching my mother cut onions; her hands moving with delicacy from years of experience, chopping each part completely unfazed. That effortlessness ingrained itself into me, as I ultimately dropped the need for accessories and upheld discipline against the strength that onions brought to my eyes. Though our eyes might’ve stung, we never complained.

It fills the air as we cook, so we close our closet doors tightly and keep the windows open—a quiet ritual passed down to keep the strong scents from settling into our clothes and haunting our rooms. Regardless of our efforts, the scent lingers in the halls, filling up the empty voids. It’s stubborn. But that’s okay, it brings warmth to our home as familiarity is one’s strongest sense of comfort. And when we close the closets, it’s not out of shame but out of respect, for the routine of onions to claim a space and announce their promise of a fulfilling dish.

Often, both of my environments clash. I have my American side, which puts less emphasis on onions, while my Ethiopian side values them as the heart of the meal. They are the beginning of my favorite dishes, ranging from Doro Wat to Tibs, recipes that consistently follow years of traditions. There’s no emotion that they aren’t able to appeal to. Seemingly fitting every mood—whether annuals, festivities, or funerals—that scent will always strengthen the presence of community, and the love that was put into making it is recognizable and heart-felt. 

Never excluded from the grocery list, it has been a scent I grew up learning to tolerate and appreciate, a scent my mother has brought with her to preserve the cultures of back home. At the center of many memories, good and bad, the act of cooking is complemented by this one ingredient. We start every dish by chopping onion pieces in a gushing pan of oil before being joined by garlic and spices. Even as tears stream down our faces, we conserve it, as it is a process that places value onto our meals, and allows the cycle to continue.

The sharp stinging of the once unbearable onions has taught me that life’s bitterness is not meant to be permanent. To cry eventually softens, much like the moments in life that seem unbearable but, as time passes, leave us stronger and wiser. It has always been, “Worth the tears,” I’d say.

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

Mornings Topped with Sprinkles and Loss
By Katja Treadwell – Walt Whitman High School

Mornings at my grandparent’s house began with sprinkle-waffles. My Farfar’s¹ creation—rainbow sprinkles melted into golden batter, ladled into a sizzling waffle iron as their sweet scent wrapped like an arm around me. Sometimes, the sprinkles crowned the top, sometimes they nestled on the side—but their placement didn’t matter. All I expected was to descend the stairs of their quaint brick home and be hit with the smell of cooking batter in Farfar’s kitchen. With the sound of crescendoing classical music and the sight of pulpy orange juice sifting in green-glass stained cups, or the cookie tin filled with sewing supplies. 

I sat with Farmor² and waited for the leavened batter to hit my plate, the music providing a score to her fluttering eyes and swaying fingers. When the tune finished with a hollow thump of the record player, the home was content, full of photographs of pudgy grandchildren tacked to the bulletin board and decades-old abstract paintings lining the walls. That was all I expected, but perhaps I expected too much.

I didn’t question my parents when I visited the little brick home a little less often. At first, it felt like a temporary shift—slow weekends at the grandparents were filled with family errands and sports practices. But over time, I couldn’t recall the taste of cakey sprinkles in my mouth or what Farmor was listening to. I begged to return, fearing that the source of my once-excitement could slip into a vague memory.

But it seemed to me even from the outside that the house was naked of the life it once harbored—the record player no longer hummed with warmth, as if to mourn its obsolescence, and the smell of cooking sprinkle-waffles was replaced with a faint medicinal tang as if to mock what I had taken for granted. When I stepped inside, Farfar was a shell of his former self, all droopy eyes and sunken skin. He was too sick to make the waffles, my parents told me. Eventually, he passed away in 2021.

Soon after, Farmor—who once swayed to the music—stared blankly ahead, her fluttering eyes replaced by an unreachable gaze. She could no longer eat the waffles, her mouth sewn shut with the cookie tin’s threads. I naively believed she didn’t speak because if she opened her mouth, a stream of dead memories too overwhelming to swallow would spill out. But I began to see that her remembrance had hazed as much as the comforting scent. Her house, my name, even her Farfar were lost to Alzheimer’s.

I had begged to return, thinking I could preserve the mornings I once looked forward to. But those memories were already gone—buried beneath medical bills and loss. I still have trouble chewing the idea that nothing in life is finite, least of all the moments you thought would always last. Now, all I can cherish is the relic of time baked within my Farfar’s sprinkle-waffles.

1: Grandfather in Danish

2: Grandmother in Danish

For more information on the Local Writer’s Showcase, please visit https://www.bethesda.org/bethesda/localwriters