RESOLUTE.

Lexie Kamerman, persuasion, and the lie we keep telling kids

If “be yourself” actually worked, kids wouldn’t sound identical in their personal statements.

But here we are.

Every fall, students sit down to write the most personal essay of their lives… and somehow we end up with 40,000 versions of the same kid, I mean essay:

• “I learned resilience…”

• “This experience taught me leadership…”

• “I discovered the power of community…”

• “I stepped outside my comfort zone…”

Same arc. Same vocabulary. Same polished moral at the end like it’s a Disney short.

And it’s not because teenagers are shallow.

It’s because the system rewards performance.

It persuades students—subtly, constantly—to sand down the strange edges, mute their actual voice, and package their lives into something legible, safe, and applause-ready.

So yes, we say “be yourself.”

But what we mean is:

Be yourself… as long as it doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable.

That lie is why I’ve been thinking about Lexie all week.

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On January 17, 2014, my dear friend, Lexie Kamerman was murdered in a terrorist attack in Kabul, Afghanistan.

Twelve years later, I still don’t have clean language for that sentence.

I will always remember the day I heard because it was my 34th birthday. Lexie had died the day before, on January 17, but I didn’t know that yet. The whole morning felt off—like the air had shifted and my body knew before my brain did. I went to the gym. The Today Show played on the elliptical, and the lead story was a terrorist attack in Kabul. I worked out. I went wedding dress shopping with my sister (truly a South Side Chicago cultural experience). My bank account got hacked. I went to lunch with my mom and sisters.

The world kept behaving like nothing had happened.

And then I answered a call from a dear, dear friend, and the universe changed in one sentence.

This year, I read something from Lexie’s mom that did what grief always does: it knocked the wind out of me.

She wrote about persuasion—specifically, about not being able to persuade Lexie not to go to Afghanistan.

I want to share just a few lines—not to repost, but to show you what stopped me cold when I read her words:

“I realized the story I needed to tell wasn’t about her death, but about how I couldn’t persuade her not to go.”

Because the truth is: Lexie couldn’t be persuaded into a smaller life.

Not by fear.

Not by love.

Not by logic.

Not by anyone.

Lexie was resolute.

Lexie didn’t “stand out.” She stood in her values.

When people talk about Lexie, they tend to reach for big words because that’s what we do when someone is gone.

But Lexie wasn’t a concept. Lexie was a presence.

She was funny and stubborn and bright. She had that rare kind of intelligence that doesn’t perform. She made people feel more like themselves. She argued ferociously when she believed she was right. She didn’t fake softness just to be liked.

And she wanted to matter—not in an “award” way, but in a make-things-better way.

When she took the job at the American University of Afghanistan—because Afghan women deserved access to education—no one could talk her out of it.

Her mom writes it plainly: the chances of persuading Lexie were zero.

And as strange as it sounds to say this out loud: that’s what I loved about her.

Not the danger. Not the stakes. Not the heartbreak.

But the refusal to contort herself into something safer just because it would make other people more comfortable.

That’s the part I want for kids—and the part admissions subtly trains out of them.

Every year, I watch students shrink.

Not dramatically. Not consciously.

They don’t call it shrinking.

They call it “being strategic.”

They call it “doing what works.”

They call it “telling colleges what they want to hear.”

And that’s how it happens.

Teenagers—who are naturally intense, complicated, weird, brilliant, contradictory little universes—get coached into becoming applicants.

They translate themselves into traits:

• hardworking

• empathetic

• resilient

• driven

• curious

• passionate

Then they spend 650 words trying to persuade strangers that those words are true.

And suddenly the whole thing becomes a sales pitch.

Not a voice.

Not a person.

A product.

What I want kids to understand

You are not a pitch.

You are not a product.

You are not a list of traits arranged to make an adult relax.

You are not “proof” that you deserve a seat at the table.

And you are not responsible for persuading institutions—or parents, or counselors, or algorithms—that the truest parts of you are acceptable.

But that’s what this culture teaches kids to do.

It teaches them to translate themselves into palatable language.
To sand down anything sharp.
To hide anything too intense.
To perform stability.
To perform gratitude.
To perform likability.
To perform “the kind of kid they want.”

And if you’ve been around teenagers for more than ten minutes, you know exactly what happens next:

They start shrinking.

Not because they’re dishonest.
Because they’re smart.
They can tell what gets rewarded.

So they become more polished.
More strategic.
More careful.
More impressive.

And less themselves.

Lexie never did that.

Lexie didn’t contort herself into something safer.
She didn’t dilute her convictions to keep the peace.
She didn’t negotiate with fear just because it made other people more comfortable.

She lived like a person who believed her life belonged to her.

That’s what “be yourself” really means.

Not: “find the best angle.”
Not: “tell the right story.”
Not: “make it make sense to strangers.”

It means: refuse to become digestible.

And here’s what I want kids to take from Lexie

If you’re seventeen and you feel yourself sanding down your voice, your humor, your opinions, your intensity—because adults seem nervous about who you actually are—

good.

Let them be nervous.

That discomfort is often the first sign you’ve stopped performing and started telling the truth.

Palatable kids don’t change anything.
They just get rewarded for behaving.

Lexie didn’t behave.
Lexie lived.

And if you take anything from her story, take this:

You’re not here to be digestible.
You’re here to be yourself.

No footnotes.
No disclaimers.
No shrinking.

Always.