What’s the Good Word?

A small story about voice, memory, and the kind of student who still shapes how I do this work.

He was a freshman—La Lumiere School, 2010. Smart, quiet, thoughtful. Glasses a little too big for his face, backpack packed way too heavy, brain already miles ahead.

I don’t know why I started saying it. But every time I’d him, I’d toss out the same line:

“What’s the good word, Neal?”

And Neal Patel—14 years old, brand new to high school—would pause.

Tilt his head.

And give me a word.

Not “fine.” Not “okay.” Not “meh.”

He gave me a word.

Real. Specific. Thoughtfully chosen. One I usually had to Google.

Some days it was playful—serendipity, whimsy, incandescence.

Other days it held weight—tenacity, solace, reckon.

Once, I think, it was “defenestration,” which honestly just made my whole day.

I didn’t know it then, but that small exchange—the question and the answer—would become one of the clearest snapshots I have of what good teaching, good mentoring, and good admissions work is supposed to be.

It’s not always about the big moments. It’s about building a life between them.

Because here’s the truth: college admissions asks students to know themselves, reflect, communicate, advocate, and imagine their future—all while surviving high school. It asks them to name what matters and explain why they matter. And too often, they’re surrounded by noise that tells them to be impressive before they’ve even figured out how to be honest.

But Neal? Neal was giving me voice before he even knew that’s what it was.

He didn’t perform. He didn’t polish.

He answered the question like it mattered.

And that made me want to keep asking.

There’s a kind of legacy that lives in that.

Not the résumé kind. Not the “hook” or the donor wall.

The kind where a student reminds you—quietly, steadily—what it means to listen for real voice. And to never underestimate the kid who’s still growing into it.

Neal Patel probably doesn’t know how many students he’s helped me see more clearly.

How many essays I’ve looked at and thought, Ask the better question. Wait for the real word.

How often I’ve reminded a nervous 17-year-old, “You don’t need to sound like anyone else. You just need to sound like you.”

That’s legacy.

That’s mentorship.

That’s admissions at its best.

And then—just last week—there he was again. Grown-up. Grinning. Dressed for a wedding.

His wedding.

I left a comment under the post:

“This is the best word! Congrats and best wishes!”

And Neal replied:

“Indeed the best word. Thank you!”

Still thoughtful. Still gracious. Still Neal.

Turns out, the good word sticks.

And if you’re lucky—it answers back.