Check out the first three chapters of my first book, Your Ticket to the Forty Acres
Stumbling into Admissions
I recently received an email from the concerned parent of an extraordinary son. Let's call the student Peter. Peter does the right things. He's the sort of son that would make any parent proud. He performs well in rigorous courses, scores near perfect on standardized exams, and plays lead oboe in his school's award-winning band. He will soon achieve Eagle Scout. His project collaborates with a local nonprofit that hosts free writing workshops for low-income students. He taught himself to code, suiting him well to future studies in computer science. He's quirky, energetic, curious, and responds well to criticism. Seemingly, Peter is the type of student any university would love to have.
Yet his mom, Anne, reported literally losing sleep over the uncertainty and stress associated with helping her oldest navigate his transition to college.
What if UT-Austin rejects Peter? What if he doesn't gain admission to Computer Science? Are we doing everything in our power to maximize his chances?
Peter and I worked together nearly every day for over two months, revising and editing his essays and resume. His final submissions bore little resemblance to his first efforts. We worked hard, and I pushed him past his limits as a writer. His responses challenged me as an editor and college coach.
I felt comfortable that his application would stand out in a competitive applicant pool. We did everything we could. Peter seemed pleased with his final product. He presumably looks forward to playing at high school football games and enjoying his senior year.
To Anne's first two questions: What if Peter fails? For many students, college admissions will be the first time they have done everything "right" yet fallen short. For some, it is the first time they are told no. It disheartens me that students and families tie self-worth to uncertain, unknowable, and often disappointing outcomes.
I am an independent college consultant. I find that parents think they are hiring me to get their kids into college. That's only partly the case. Frequently, I occupy the role of "worry manager" equally with application strategist. After finding out her son received early admission to a highly selective honors program, another concerned parent confessed, "You were my life coach during this process. You held my hand while I held his."
It's worth reproducing my response to Anne, the quintessential worried parent. I have conversations like this every day with students and families around the world.
_______
I'm so sorry to hear you are losing sleep over all of this . . . Rightfully, I imagine it comes from your desire to want the best for Peter, and the educational opportunities open to him. I wish this process weren't so stressful and anxiety inducing, and it saddens me to see people worrying about it. I'm not a parent, and I'm in no position to give parenting advice. I just know my parents, raising my brother and me the best they could, always trusted us to make the right decisions.
I imagine you've raised a wonderful son. We will do our best to get him into UT, but I have no doubt he will excel wherever he ends up . . .
One thing within an applicant and their family's control is what they decide to worry about. It's easy for me to sit here and say not to worry about it, or not to pay attention to what his peers are doing, but I'm not the one applying nor do I have a child whose future is wrapped up in this process. I recognize that.
The best advice I can give, truly, is breathe; everything will be okay.
Trust in the process and not the outcome. Peter can't control the outcome, only his attitude and the work he puts forward. Students and families who put so much emphasis on the admissions results undoubtedly set themselves up for disappointment.
What I really feel as I dampen endless worry fires? This process sucks. College admissions sucks.
_______
It was April 2011, during my senior year at UT, and I had no idea what to do with my life.
I had recently completed human rights work with genocide survivors in Bosnia and Rwanda. I had spent my first Christmas and New Year away from home in East Africa. Years later, I still reflect on my month in the Land of a Thousand Hills as the most transformative and profoundly jarring experience of my life. Until then, I had never conducted an hour of volunteer work or anything called "service." I left that Apply Texas section blank. I hurried back to Austin and, jetlagged, missed the first two classes of my final semester. Within a few days, I executed a series of life-changing decisions.
I spent three hours each Tuesday and Thursday morning in UT swimming and weight-lifting courses. Varsity baseball players in high school had made the weight room hell for me, and it felt good to move on from memories of bullying and start lifting again. I figured if Rwandese genocide survivors living with HIV in absolute poverty and running a community garden could eat healthily, I could finally shed my Sophomore Thirty. I had skipped the Freshman Fifteen.
I broke up with my long-time girlfriend. I stepped away from my Peace Corps invitation to teach English in Eastern Europe. I withdrew from the George H. Mitchell competition—UT's most prestigious award for undergraduate research. I worried about disappointing my thesis advisor, at the time our second-highest-paid professor behind the Nobel physicist, who said my thesis was the single best he had ever received. Part of me felt I was "wasting my potential." Despite being a favorite for the $20,000 top prize, I acknowledged deep down that I neither wanted to attend law school nor pursue graduate studies. I didn't need the validation, and the money didn't interest me.
More than that, I began not just questioning everything; I set fire to my beliefs. I started my process of "getting off the path" that continues today. I concluded my inch-thick thesis about ethnic cleansing in 1990s Yugoslavia by dismissing everything in the preceding 150 pages and instead sharing the stories of a few incredible heroes and survivors I had met. What was the point of academic research divorced from living, breathing people? Poring through thousands of pages of court testimony and legal documents could not substitute for listening, embracing, and learning from people I soon called friends.
Even if I didn't begin my career abroad or transition to graduate school, I felt I would be most happy if I worked with others. I didn't realize that walking into the Undergraduate Admissions Office at John Hargis Hall for my first interview that April afternoon would be the first step toward finding my life's calling: mentoring people navigating challenging and uncertain transitions.
Like most of my colleagues in college admissions, if you had asked me at eighteen, "Do you see yourself working in higher education four years from now?" I would have stared blankly. What's "higher education?"
Unless they worked as a student tour guide or ambassador, it is almost certain that the dozens of university representatives you see at college fairs never intended to work in college admissions.
I was late for my interview because I didn't know precisely the location of the admissions office. Like many prospective students and families attending those information sessions off Red River and MLK, I had trouble finding parking. I wore clothes borrowed from my trendy Business Honors roommate (thanks, David). I responded to the job posting thinking, That sounds pretty cool—be a Longhorn for a living. Why not apply?
My future boss and I chatted for over an hour and a half. I still didn't have the first clue what a college admissions counselor did, but we got along well. Since I never did an internship, went to a job fair, or participated in interview workshops, my mom had to reassure me that no, it isn't typical for an interview to last that long, and yes, that is probably a promising sign.
In my final interview with the director of admissions and her second-in-command, I boldly answered, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" with, "I have no idea. If you make me commit to a two-year contract, I appreciate the opportunity, but I am walking out the door."
I erred toward sincerity rather than singing the tune of undying loyalty that employers typically want to hear. It worked. Sparing me the humiliation of prolonged under- and unemployment many of my friends experienced during the Great Recession, I received a phone call a few days before commencement.
I was hired as a UT-Austin Admissions Counselor in the Dallas Regional Admissions Center.
Whatever that meant.
_______
Stumbling into college admissions mirrored my transition from a working-class and mixed-ethnicity high school in suburban Dallas to the Liberal Arts Honors program at UT-Austin. Neither of my parents received university degrees. My father had a child, my half-brother, at eighteen. Out of necessity, both my parents began working jobs immediately after high school. I don't think they identify their early careers in children's retail and bread-truck driving as "their calling." If anything, raising my brother and me became their top priority. Their jobs put the fried chicken fingers, Dr. Pepper, and boxed macaroni on the table. I was a picky eater.
Most of my high school friends didn't attend college after graduation. I didn't learn much math or science. My freshman geometry teacher lost our second-semester grades and gave us ninety-sevens instead. Only five of my five hundred classmates attended UT. I was the first in living memory to enroll in a UT Honor Program. Since my class rank guaranteed admission, it never occurred to me to apply elsewhere. My father always cheered for the Longhorns, and that was the extent of my college search.
I never visited with an admissions counselor, explored the campus, or attended an information session. I didn't know there was a regional admissions center. I applied to honors as an afterthought; in hindsight, I was fortunate to receive admission. If not for a close friend who had older sisters attending UT, I would have been lost navigating the application process. I didn't bother to check out the location of my future home—Blanton Dormitory—during summer orientation. My parents and I had an adventure fighting traffic on move-in day.
Unlike many of my honors peers, I never met with former Liberal Arts Honors Director Dr. Larry Carver or his team of excellent advisors before enrolling. During my first honors meeting at summer orientation, I thought it strange that he already recognized many people in the room, addressing them by their first names and asking about older siblings. Strangely, they kept emphasizing how special we were, the state's best and brightest.
I was a "ghost applicant"—an admissions term describing someone who never interacts with the university. Ghost applicants complicate a college's ability to forecast and project which admitted students would enroll.
I felt like an outsider. I blended in well enough—being white helps—but I didn't relate to many who came from prestigious high schools and professional families. I talked differently. I wore a sweat-stained hat from my high school baseball days and sported hopelessly unhip Hollister cargo shorts. I had twin, ten-inch, peace-disturbing subwoofers in the trunk of my Honda Civic hatchback pumping the latest hip-hop. I had never owned a polo shirt. I stared blankly in response when classmates asked, "Bro, you gonna rush?"
I was a little dismayed by the obnoxious conversations in the honors dorms during my first days in Austin.
"Yeah, I applied to fourteen schools. I got into a few Ivies and honors at Michigan, but I decided to settle for UT."
"My parents wouldn't pay for the University of Chicago. Swarthmore and Williams deferred and later rejected me. I applied Early Decision at Stanford but eventually received the waitlist. I guess Plan II is an okay backup."
What was a Swarthmore and Williams? What is deferred? Early Decision? Waitlist?
What in the world were they talking about? There seemed to be an entire vocabulary and social expectations that felt Greek to me.
I challenged my new friends. "What do your test scores and applications matter if we all live in the same place and participate in the same honors programs?"
They stared blankly in response.
I couldn't have realized it then, but I now understand that families and school districts groom their children for many years to enroll at elite universities. They contact the admissions staff when sophomores and juniors. They hire consultants like me to gain additional advantages.
My friends were dismayed to learn I only applied to UT. To them, that seemed irresponsible and reckless, almost comical, inconceivable. Their parents would never allow only apply to one university, especially a state school. That their parents helped them complete their college applications struck me as odd.
In hindsight, they're probably right. I should have applied to more universities and maybe visited Austin before enrolling. Much of my time working for UT and even now is "do as I say, not as I did." Somewhere between my overly coddled and stressed-out peers at elite high schools and my completely uninformed and naïve approach to higher education, there is a balance between being prepared and not letting the transition from high school to college consume you.
Though I don't come from rural Appalachia or the Rust Belt, nor am I sympathetic to his recent pivot to rightwing politics, J. D. Vance's commentary on social mobility and class culture shock in Hillbilly Elegy resonates with me. I am forever thankful for my loving, supportive parents and maternal grandmother. Along with adjusting to the rigor of an honors curriculum, I needed to learn how to interact cordially, send professional emails, and seek out resources.
I always felt ashamed when asked which Dallas suburb I was raised in. Meekly, I would answer Mesquite. And no, I didn't attend Poteet, our then-predominantly white high school known for academics stronger than the other four. Even today, I tell prospective clients I come from Dallas. I don't want them to subtly judge me for something I can't control—where I was born and raised.
I slipped up a lot. Once, in junior year, I addressed my African American female professor as "Ms." instead of "Dr." She glared. It didn't immediately occur to me how I'd screwed up until one of my classmates quietly corrected me. I didn't mean to be insulting; I just didn't know what I didn't know. I know now that you always address an instructor as Professor or Doctor. It is especially insulting if they are female or a person of color. It took me until my third year to internalize that lesson. I continue to feel sorry about that day.
Even during my final days at UT, I didn't feel like I belonged. I didn't learn about dining etiquette and the nuance of utensil placement until shortly after graduation when serving as a counselor for a high school business leadership camp called Subiendo. Irrationally, I still feel uneasy when eating at fancy restaurants or going to country club weddings.
Recently, the FBI revealed a scandal through Operation Varsity Blues whereby dozens of prominent and affluent families bribed administrators, standardized test proctors, and coaches at elite universities nationwide to gain an advantage. UT has since fired their now-disgraced UT Men's Tennis Coach. He pled guilty to accepting bribes to label nonathletic applicants as recruits as a "side door" to gain admission. Legacy admissions, generous donations, political connections, and outright fraud call into question the disproportionate blame placed on considerations of race and diversity in admissions that demonize the most marginalized families in American society.
Unlike many classmates who already seemed burned out from what appeared to be a stressful time in high school, I flourished. They seemed so focused on getting in that they didn't have a clue what to do once they arrived. They fit Yale professor William Deresiewicz's description of his Ivy League classmates and future students in the title of his book Excellent Sheep. He says, "I went off to college like a sleepwalker, like a zombie. College was a blank. College was the 'next thing.'” While some students seemed to be mindlessly coasting through UT, I was learning from world-class instructors and hanging out with highly motivated people for the first time in my life.
My family had no expectations. It pleased them that I finished high school. Even if they still don’t understand what I studied or did in college, it was more than enough that I was happy and made a lot of great friends. They liked the discount I received on my car insurance for earning straight A’s.
Although I wasn’t initially at the top of the honors hierarchy who received special attention from our director, I eventually graduated at the very top of the University of Texas. At first, I wasn’t going to attend our commencement ceremony. What was the point? A cool fireworks show? Listening to an admittedly interesting Kay Bailey Hutchison speak? I already possessed my education and lifelong friends. I didn’t need the recognition of the Mitchell Research competition to validate the work I found meaningful. I didn’t need a ceremony to affirm my transformative, challenging, and rewarding four years in Austin. My parents, happy to watch me walk the stage and receive my diploma during the College of Liberal Arts ceremony, felt indifferent about the more anonymous University-wide commencement.
A few weeks before graduation, I happened to be in Dallas with my then-girlfriend, who attended Yale. I received a call from the President’s Office. The late President Powers chose two other students and me from among thirty nominees in the Class of 2011 to highlight and showcase in his commencement speech.
I walked into the kitchen as my dad brought in his delicious grilled chicken wings. “Hey, so, uh, I got a call from the President’s Office, and he wants to talk about me in his speech or something. They feel like I should attend commencement.”
We shrugged.
My sister-in-law at the time (UT Cockrell School of Engineering ’08) assured me the invitation was a big deal. So did my girlfriend, who, following her first visit to Austin and comparing notes with me on our experiences in the classroom, began questioning her decision to go to school in New Haven. With their encouragement, I figured I should attend.
I look back on the photos of my fifteen minutes of fame from that humid evening in May. I am standing proudly, squinting under the blinding spotlight, extending my Hook ’Em Horns on behalf of the College of Liberal Arts. My face beams from enormous televisions broadcasting to over twenty thousand people. I look equal parts frightened and ecstatic and a little goofy.
Holy crap, Powers is actually telling my story!
“. . . These experiences from his UT education transformed his philosophy of life, which he summarizes as ‘Love the beauty; don’t hate the injustice.’ Kevin’s long-term plans are to teach English in a developing country.”
No doubt my mom was losing it, going wild. She was probably getting dirty looks from the other VIP tables, people who likely paid top dollar or had connections affording front-row seats.
“That’s my baby!!!”
While surrounded by my friends whom I had snuck to the front so we could share this moment together—at one point screaming so obnoxiously that President Powers had to pause his speech—I realized something.
My graduation cap was on backward.
_______
I share my story because each person’s educational journey is unique and deeply personal. Rarely do our paths lead neatly from A to B to C, yet for some reason, we pretend they do.
Society asks, “What will you do after college? When are you going to make a career move? Are you going to graduate or law school anytime soon?” Less frequently do we allow the time or space to consider the importance of living an examined life or pursuing careers that offer purpose and social value. I can recall exactly one person of the hundreds I met in college who went, as planned at age eighteen, from honors UT undergrad straight to UT Law and eventually clerking for a federal judge.
Today, I work with parents who confess that they still aren’t too sure what they want to do with their lives. I find it inspiring to see adults who make changes late in life. During the early phase of writing my book, I passed through the Caribbean en route to South America. My British landlady in Barbados told me how her eighty-three-year-old dad remarried after his wife passed away; he and his new partner regularly visit her on the island.
There are twists and turns for most of us, and it’s never too late to change course. My life has changed drastically in the past two years since publishing the first edition of this book. Regardless of where people end up, most students who have decent grades and come from communities where college enrollment isn’t just an option but an expectation probably turn out okay, regardless of where they go or what they study. Whether you realize it or not, applying to American colleges requires engaging with a complicated relationship between socioeconomics, history, culture, and uncertainty.
Life is messy, and this book explores simple questions with often complicated or unknowable answers.
· Why do students fixate on one college above all others?
· If you could go back and change something in your life, would you?
· Why do colleges expect students to lay out their five-year plan when adults, if they’re lucky, can maybe identify only a handful of things they don’t want to do?
· How often do your long-term plans change?
My plan changed during the few weeks from green-lighting the president’s speech to receiving my job offer from the Office of Admissions. I postponed teaching English to represent UT, a job that, two months prior, I hadn’t known existed. I eventually circled back and received my ESL certification and taught in Malaysia. My life path hasn’t journeyed neatly from A to B. I reconsider and revise my goals daily, monthly, and yearly.
When confronted with a change of plans, I tend to stumble, dust myself off, look around, and begin finding meaning on my terms. I taught myself speech and debate in high school, created my own major at UT, and am building a career in college admissions while traveling the world.
Higher education isn’t just my job. It isn’t a side project. I’m not in it exclusively for the money or career comfort. Higher education is personal; it fascinates me.
I climbed the mountain of undergraduate education and unintentionally reached the summit and was recognized that evening by the university president himself. I applied for and received a Fulbright fellowship—a highly selective competition of America’s top college graduates. Who better to guide you through UT admissions than someone who knows what it takes to succeed not just in Austin but around the world?
I hope this book falls into the hands of students (and even high school counselors from similar backgrounds) who cannot afford the consulting fees of college coaches. I offer my book for free to anyone who asks. I trust that students and families living in resource-rich environments find my writing all the more enriching. Presumably, you obtained this book to gain an edge over the competition. I provide tips to maximize your chances of success. This book isn't for you if you are looking for black-and-white answers or templates. What you will find are answers to some questions.
· What does admissions look for?
· What is it like to view an application through the eyes of a reviewer?
· How do you craft compelling essays?
· Why do some people gain admission while others don’t?
· Will I receive a fair review?
· What if my high school doesn’t rank?
· How do you put the pieces together to argue most convincingly that you deserve a space in your desired major?
· When is my application “good enough” and ready to submit?
· Why is it so hard to find information about UT admissions?
· Why is this process so stressful?
For many students and, increasingly, out-of-state and international applicants, UT is their top choice. From birth, their parents dream of standing in the student section at Darrell K Royal Stadium, giving ’em hell alongside their Longhorn progeny. I remember my dad’s first and only game in Austin, standing with my friends and me for the 2010 Oklahoma State game. It didn’t matter that our team lost or that my dad’s knees hurt from enduring the rowdy student section. My ambition of graduating from college coalesced that evening with my father’s lifetime of sacrifice. As a consultant, I enjoy helping families realize their dreams.
I have worked with many parents who are dismayed at just how selective admission to UT has become. “Back when I applied, if you were in the top half with a 1000 on the SAT, you were in. What’s happened?” You were in, that is, if you had the right skin color. African American grandparents sending their grandchildren to Austin have living memories of them or their parents being barred from UT’s campus.
When I applied in 2007, there were twenty-seven thousand applicants. Within ten years, that number has nearly doubled to fifty-three thousand applicants for sixteen thousand spaces for Fall 2019. Some majors, like Computer Science, have seen a tenfold increase in applicants since 2010. In the increasingly competitive landscape of college admissions, the information in this book may help your dream become a reality.
This book draws on a rigorous interdisciplinary social science and humanities education, years of experience as an Admissions Counselor for UT-Austin, and serving as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant in rural Malaysia. I have conducted conference presentations domestically and abroad. I have read and scored thousands of UT essays and applications from students across all majors applying from around the world. I sat on the appeals committee. I’ve assisted over 500 families for nearly a decade as an independent consultant through my solo-employed company, Tex Admissions. I’m an outsider who was an insider.
I’ve explored over 115 countries, including every country in Europe. I read fifty to seventy books a year on myriad topics; I’m often familiar with the content and context of students’ essay themes across all majors. I’m the first to admit my mistakes or study unfamiliar themes. I write extensively in my private life and practice yoga and meditation daily. I’ve helped dozens of adults navigate career transitions, break-ups, or moves abroad. Many of my former clients ask for advice on applying for internships, studying abroad, graduate studies, and feedback for their college course essays.
My professional freedom and independence allow me to conduct written and podcast interviews about entrepreneurship, technological disruption, world travel, social media, and race in admissions. I express observations and share perspectives I wish I could have said when the State of Texas employed me. This book is equal parts concrete tips and strategies to improve your application as it is advice on coping with the stressful process; college admissions won’t be the first time you navigate bureaucracies with unknowable outcomes.
Your Ticket to the Forty Acres began as a series of blog posts and Youtube videos. I draw on original content created, shared, and discussed in a community I previously helped moderate, Reddit’s Applying to College. Current UT students have shared their Open Records Request, so I have access to the mechanics of UT’s process. I submitted an open records request from the Information Technology Services department, and on December 16, 2016, I received seven years of applicant and admitted student data from 2010–2016. I requested updated data, but UT’s research office stonewalled me, so I estimate how this data may have changed through the Fall 2022 admissions cycle.
Any other data and statistics come from publicly available information accessible on www.utexas.edu: the Common Data Sets, Senate Bill 175 reports submitted to the Texas Legislature, the Statistical Handbook, documents filed for the Fisher case on affirmative action, and the Kroll report investigating preferential treatment for VIP applicants.
The book is divided into six sections and sixteen chapters. I first updated this book in July 2017 to include changes to the priority deadline and new short answer essay requirements. I released a second edition during the spring of 2019, and this third edition provides updates for test-optional applicants, applying for STEM majors, and other recent concerns.
The first section presents an overview of the holistic review process. Our journey begins in chapter 1 with a discussion of your admissions chances. Chapter 2 considers how UT evaluates nonacademic factors through the Personal Achievement Index. Next, I introduce my admissions philosophy in chapter 3, which encourages applicants to focus only on factors they can control. I conclude this section with a discussion of the Academic Index and revised class rank and test score formulas.
The second section puts you into the shoes of an admissions reviewer, allowing you to see college admissions through their eyes. “Who Is Your Admissions Reviewer?” helps you understand your audience; knowing your audience is necessary for building your most compelling application. I provide tips and advice for building relationships with admissions professionals in chapter 6, “College Fairs and High School Visits.” The final chapter in section II considers how UT reviews and admits applicants based on their “fit for major.”
Section III examines the complex relationship between race, privilege, and college admissions. Understanding the historical context of your application and how you can present a diverse perspective is necessary for arguing that you deserve a space at UT. Chapter 8 reviews the legal history of affirmative action and how universities use race and diversity in the admissions process. Chapter 9 answers why UT considers race when reviewing applicants.
Section IV, “Putting Your Application Together,” provides practical tips and food for thought on packaging your UT application. I introduce dozens of frequently asked questions to help guide your application. Because it is essential to understand what does not influence UT’s admissions process so you can focus on what is important, I correct commonly held misconceptions in chapter 10. Chapter 11 provides tips and strategies to craft compelling essays. I conclude section IV with a discussion of the resume and recommendation letters.
Section V visualizes seven years of applicant and admitted student data, broken down by college and school. I examine trends and forecast the future landscape of UT admissions. I provide tips for demonstrating fitness for each major. I explore the differences between applying to STEM and non-STEM majors at UT and selective universities nationwide. I also present an overview of honors admissions.
The final section explores “What Comes Next? Receiving Your Admissions Decision.” I help put your admissions outcomes into the broader context of life milestones, and I offer a guide for applicants wanting to transfer to UT after they finish high school.
In appendices A and B, you’ll find admissions data and tips for Cockrell School of Engineering and College of Fine Arts applicants.
Discussions of graduation rates, on-campus experiences, and enrollment trends over time are outside this project's scope. I avoid discussions of what UT “should” or “shouldn’t” do. Rather, I focus on the how and why of admissions as it relates to automatic admissions and diversity. I often take the position of UT to help you see college admissions through the eyes of admissions officers. I highlight the impossibly tall task of institutions that review and admit thousands of students as equitably as possible within the boundaries of federal and state laws. In my follow-up book, Surviving the College Admissions Madness (2021), I explore alternative admissions policies and what universities ought to consider doing differently.
I don’t spend much time discussing scholarships because there aren’t any additional tips to give that don’t also apply to be competitive for admission or honors programs. Frankly, when the state employed me, I didn’t know how UT distributed scholarships, and I still don’t. From what I can tell, UT offers scholarships based on “big data” algorithms utilizing millions of data points to assign financial aid in ways that best suit the needs of the university. It’s almost entirely beyond the applicant’s control. UT reserves about 75 percent of its scholarship budget for current UT students, so if you receive merit aid, consider yourself lucky.
You can read this book from beginning to end or flip through it as a reference. I hope to shine some light on this challenging and opaque process. Though I provide helpful advice on how the Office of Admissions makes decisions and what you can do to maximize your chances, there are no secrets or shortcuts to success.
Focus only on factors you can control, try not to worry about what is out of your hands, start early, work hard, and organize a small team to help you manage and improve your application.
Most importantly—breathe. Get some sleep. Everything will be okay.
2. Introducing Holistic Review
I have traveled the world for many years, and I currently live in Bali; most of my friends are not American. They are often totally unfamiliar with American universities. My introduction to them begins, “So, getting into American universities is very confusing, stressful, and complicated. Frankly, the whole thing is a mess. I am an expert in this process. Students and families, even those from wealthy communities, need help with the applications and the transition from high school to college. American families pay me to help them apply to American universities. I know this sounds totally crazy, and it is, but just take my word for it.”
I imagine many families navigating this process think: It shouldn’t have to be this way. I know no other country that admits college students in the same complicated, “holistic” manner. Let’s take a brief look at college admissions elsewhere.
In Malaysia, borrowing from the British system, the number of A’s you receive during two weeks of high-stakes final exams at the end of high school determines to which universities you gain admission if any. These exams also decide whether or not you qualify for scholarships to study abroad. They have a deeply entrenched affirmative action system that favors the Malay majority. The Bumiputra (original people) system extends privileges to Malays not just for lower exam scores needed for admission but also clear and favorable terms for car loans, mortgages, and quotas on corporate boards of directors and political positions.
In 2014, I taught at a low-performing, 100 percent Malay/Muslim rural high school. Only about ten of the two hundred graduating students scored high enough to enroll directly in Malaysian universities. Most Americans would be shocked to hear how things work over there. Setting social justice concerns aside, there are clear standards for which scores get you into specific programs. Malaysian students know what it takes to get in. Understandably, Chinese and Indian minorities feel that this system is unfair.
Germany employs a similar system where grades matter most. Their college applications are standardized and centralized nationwide. At the end of the students’ final year, they send their grades to a central office. That government office tells the students where they can study while considering but not guaranteeing a student’s preferences. Only in select cases like medicine, law, or psychology might there be additional requirements such as a “motivation letter” or an interview. I’m simplifying here, and there are more viable alternative pathways like trades or pre-college, but applying to college in most countries is relatively straightforward.
Their systems also have flaws, and what works in Britain may not work in America. Like my European counterparts who are only familiar with their country, most Americans probably don’t realize that other nations don’t require their students to start jumping through hoops in elementary school to qualify for their top universities. Entrance into American schools is an undeniably unique process.
I’ve never observed a college entrance system emphasizing heavily indefinable qualities like “leadership” and “overcoming adversity.” I am convinced there is no other writing style like the American undergraduate admissions essay, especially UT’s new vague Essay A, coaxing applicants to “tell us your story.” I’ve shared a few student submissions with my European friends. Seeing our system through their eyes is hilarious and tragic. They’re appalled at the things universities require students to write. They see it as “soft” or “too personal.”
“Why would universities care about these things like your home life or overcoming challenges?” I can’t disagree. When you take a step back, what American universities ask of high school students—the alchemical concoction of grades, exam scores, and personal characteristics—seems downright bizarre.
Since UT doesn’t admit students based only on their grades and test scores, how does it make decisions? It’s simple—sort of.
UT uses three factors to render decisions: your Academic and Personal Achievement scores and the same calculations for the other applicants competing for spaces in your desired college or school. Simply put, they want to admit students who excel inside and outside the classroom and are stronger than the average applicant.
Contrast UT’s “holistic review” process with the more commonly practiced “assured admissions.” Most universities can guarantee admission by knowing a student’s rank (or GPA) and their test score. Every public school in Texas, except UT, uses some variation of assured admissions. Counselors from Oklahoma State, Texas Tech, Ole Miss, and many others can tell you at a college fair whether you qualify for admission and even scholarships. Texas Tech awards automatic scholarships starting at $4,000 for students in the top 20 percent scoring 1200. They offer full tuition and room and board for National Merit Finalists.
Many private universities, however, employ holistic review. For example, TCU, SMU, and Rice review everything applicants submit. Since state law does not constrain how private universities admit students, they have more control over their admissions process. Other competitive public universities, like the University of California schools, Michigan, and North Carolina, function like UT. Holistic review processes offer few guarantees or clear guidelines on what makes for a successful applicant.
But what about automatic admissions law? I talk more about this in section III. For now, the only important thing to consider is that, though many Texas residents gain admission automatically, no student is guaranteed their choice of major, honors programs, or scholarships.
Students who rank first and score perfectly on their exams, though extremely competitive, are not guaranteed their first-choice major. While working at UT, I counseled a high-scoring valedictorian who submitted his application last minute with poorly written essays and lacking an expanded resume. He was denied his first-choice major, Petroleum Engineering. Nobody is safe; however, some are more likely to gain admission than others. Take your application seriously even if you qualify for automatic admission.
Why doesn’t UT admit students based on assured admissions, like Texas Tech or the University of Houston? After all, a generation ago, UT admitted you if you ranked in the top quarter and scored 1200. Texas A&M, the second-most-competitive Texas public university, accepts almost twice as many students as UT. Even though Texas residents ranking in the top 10 percent gain admission automatically to Texas A&M, only half of their freshman class enter automatically.
Contrast this with UT, where 75 percent of their 2016 admitted students came from the top 6 percent. As applicant pools become more competitive, universities must expand their criteria to find the best students. Consequently, UT uses complicated and ever-changing formulas to make admissions decisions. Strong rank and test scores are necessary for gaining admission, but they aren’t sufficient.
For each college and school, UT places applicants on a grid. The X-axis accounts for the Academic Achievement Index (AI). The Y-axis accounts for the Personal Achievement Index (PAI) submitted by admissions reviewers. Students with an AI of 3.9 and a PAI of 5 are put into one cell, a 3.4 and a 4 in another, and so on. A zigzag line is drawn based on spaces available. Anyone above the line gains admission while everyone below is either denied or offered an alternative pathway like the Coordinated Admissions Program (CAP) or the Pathway to Admission through Co-Enrollment (PACE). Students placed in cells on the margin between acceptance and rejection are subject to additional review and may receive the waitlist.
Figure 1: Office of Admissions decision grid reproduced from “UT System Best Practices 2014” page 33.
First, I address the most frequently asked question, “What are my chances?” before exploring the mechanics of the Personal Achievement Index. In chapter 3, I encourage students to focus only on factors they can control. I conclude with a technical discussion of the Academic Index and applying test optional that you are welcome to skip.
3. What Are My Chances?
On Reddit, Youtube, and College Confidential, students routinely ask, “What are my chances?” They spill out their “stats”: rank, test scores, activities outside the classroom, biographical information, and so on.
I observed early on as a counselor for UT that students, even those from highly educated families attending resource-rich high schools, didn’t have much of an idea of what UT does and doesn’t consider when evaluating their applicants. They don’t even know which boxes to check. That doesn’t stop them from furiously checking boxes anyway. Except for honors programs, UT, for example, doesn’t consider AP exam results or SAT II Subject Tests for admissions. UT doesn’t care about the competitiveness of your high school. They don’t look at your GPA, only your rank. I correct these misconceptions in chapter 10.
What anxious students want to know is, do they have strong enough credentials to be competitive for admission?
The truth is, neither I, a stranger on College Confidential, nor a college consultant charging hundreds of dollars per hour can precisely define your admissions chances.
Any consultant or person who guarantees you admission—especially for programs that admit less than 15 percent of their applicants—is selling snake oil. One California-based consulting service guarantees entrance to an Ivy League university for the modest fee of $500,000. Although they offer a refund if you don’t find success, promises like these are misrepresentative at best and fraudulent at worst.
Families used to express frustration when I gave them UT Admission’s official line on how we make decisions. Maybe this script sounds familiar.
All applicants are reviewed holistically. Each applicant receives a fair review regardless of their academics. No particular combination of rank or test scores guarantee admission nor excludes you from consideration. Academics are only half of the equation, with “subjective” factors rounding out the other half. My best advice is to put forward your strongest application and patiently await your decision in the spring.
When I worked for UT, even with access to a student’s rank, test scores, and admissions review score, I still couldn’t tell them what their chances were because I didn’t have access to the scores for all applicants. In late February, when the powers-that-be pressed the proverbial cherry-red “decision release” button, I still couldn’t decipher—even if I had the ability—to angry and upset parents why we decided to crush the hopes and dreams of their sons and daughters.
Don’t shoot the messenger. The person you are talking to on the phone probably has little control, knowledge, or discretion to give you the answers you seek.
The reason is simple: Admissions decisions are not made out of context. They are distributed relative to the pool of applicants for that student’s first-choice major. Since you don’t know who else is applying, it is impossible to determine your chances accurately. You cannot identify reasons for a particular admissions decision, especially for universities like Harvard that gleefully admit less than 5 percent of their applicants. The needs of the university that year, whims of admissions reviewers, and sheer luck mean it is always impossible to distill a few reasons why a given student gained admission while another didn’t.
One thing I can do with a high probability is identify which students stand little chance of gaining admission. At college fairs, if a student ranking in the bottom half with a 22 on the ACT asked if they were competitive, I gave them the same answer as the honors applicant in the top 3 percent scoring a 34: “No particular combination of rank or test scores guarantees nor excludes you from gaining admission.” Now that I work independently, I break the news to noncompetitive prospective applicants. Instead, I recommend that they cast a wide application net to catch a few schools in the spring that would love to have them. I regularly turn down clients with below-average academics for the typical UT admit.
Admitted Student Profile
As of the Fall 2025 freshman class, more than 85 percent of admitted students come from the top ten percent of their high school class, 97 percent of admitted students rank in the top quarter, and 99.3 percent originate from the top half. The admissions rate for nonautomatically-admitted Texas residents is around 10 percent. The average SAT for these students outside the top 5 percent hovers around 1380 on the SAT and 30 on the ACT. For more competitive majors like Business, Engineering, and Computer Science that boast admissions rates of less than 15 percent, or perhaps less than 10 percent, the odds are less likely.
The composite SAT/ACT score ranges for all admitted students is 1230–1480 and 29–34, respectively. Twenty-five percent of admitted students have less than 1230, and the top quarter of test takers exceed 1480. The average SAT score is 1350, and 30 for the ACT.
Just because you score below 1350 or 30 does not mean you are not competitive.
I can’t tell you the number of times a student with a 28 believes they shouldn’t even apply. I have worked with transfer applicants who fit this mold wishing they had applied during their senior year. Necessarily, half of all admitted students score less than the average. For Fall 2021, 27 percent of admitted students scored between 24 and 29. About 11 percent of admits score between 18 and 23. The middle 50 percent of nonautomatically-admitted Texas residents scored between 30 and 34. Only around 10 percent of out-of-state (OOS) applicants gain admission. However, average rank and test scores are substantially higher for the most competitive majors like Business, Engineering, and Computer Science. UT and selective universities everywhere are increasingly divided between STEM/Business and non-STEM majors, which I discuss in Section V. Unfortunately, UT has never released average rank and test scores by major.
The ACT benchmark for college readiness is 22, so almost all students admitted to UT are considered adequately prepared to do the work, regardless of whether they gained automatic admission or not. Around 96 percent of UT freshman return for their sophomore year. Half dropped out for personal reasons, while the other half did not perform well enough in the classroom, so it’s an unfair misconception that low-income students ranking in the top 6 percent of under-resourced high schools do not succeed when they arrive on campus.
If you are in the second quarter of your class, however, scoring 1100 on the SAT, I can confidently say you have a slim chance of getting in. You’re too far below average for your rank and test score to be competitive. Equally, if you score 22 on the ACT, Ivy League universities may not be an option, no matter how compelling the rest of your application or if you apply test-optional. Every year, selective schools across the country receive many thousands of applications from students with virtually no chance of gaining admission.
What about the wide range of applicants in the middle? Those outside the top 6 percent yet within the top quarter, scoring above 27? Thousands of applicants fall within a range I scientifically call “the ballpark.” Nonranking school with a 30? You’re in the ballpark. Top 9 percent with a 34 applying to Engineering? An out-of-state student in the top 10 percent with a 28 interested in Communications? Pick up your glove. You’ve got a decent chance of being called up from the bullpen.
I never assign concrete probabilities to admissions outcomes. I make statements that might seem vague but are in the interest of sincerity.
“I would be surprised if you didn’t gain admission.”
“It’s a toss-up.”
“It is unlikely you will gain admission, so prepare accordingly and be pleasantly surprised if it works out for you.”
“I suspect you’ll be at the top of the pile for Engineering Honors applicants, and if it doesn’t work out, I will be shocked.”
“Set low expectations and be pleasantly surprised if you gain admission.”
Consulting services that assign specific probabilities to your admissions chances, like the one that guarantees Ivy admission for $500,000, give the false impression of precision. It is disingenuous to assign a statistical probability to your admission chances, even if that’s what my clients demand. I can provide rules of thumb about volunteer hours, test scores, and class rank, but no particular combination of factors guarantees admission under holistic review. I prefer to use imprecise language because it better captures the incredibly uncertain landscape of college admissions. It frustrates me when admissions offices and college consultants use precise language to describe a process that you cannot measure in millimeters and chemical reactions. For every factor you can control, like your essays, there are ten that you can’t.