Club President Means Less Than You Think

President. Captain. Director. Ambassador.

Those labels often tell me almost nothing.

One of my students who got into Princeton (and 12 other top twenty schools) this year was president of one club. One. Not six.

What actually made her compelling was that she had five independent projects. Five separate examples of real initiative, real curiosity, real work that existed outside of a school club and outside of adult-created structures.

Captains and Club Presidents are common.

There are more than 23,500 public secondary and high schools in the United States alone, and almost every high school offers extracurricular activities. That means that hundreds of thousands of students have that title on their resume.

So yes, becoming club president at your school may have taken work. I’m not denying that. But nationally, there are an enormous number of student presidents, vice presidents, founders, and board members every single year.

The title may feel special up close. From an admissions standpoint, it’s not rare.

Admissions offices are reading more applications than ever. They are seeing the same polished activity lists over and over. Everyone suddenly seems to be a “founder.” Every other student is “leading” something. A lot of those titles are inflated, school-specific, or basically ceremonial.

Admissions readers know this. They are not stupid. They know that being president of a club can mean you built something substantial, or it can mean you got elected by twelve friends in a group that meets twice a month and orders pizza.

You need proof of your talent. So why aren’t you posting it?

Colleges want to know whether you were given a role or if you actually made something. Not whether you joined the right brand-name activity, but whether you pursued an interest deeply enough for it to leave a trail.

That is why “digital proof of passion” matters.

And no, I do not mean every student needs to become a content creator or start screaming into the void online for attention. I mean, students need visible proof that they are doing the work, thinking the thoughts, building the thing, making the art, testing the idea, or engaging the subject beyond the walls of a school club.

Substack is one example. A good one, frankly.

If a student says she is deeply interested in medicine, I would much rather see a Substack where she is digging into a real corner of the field, like the ethics of pain management, end-of-life decision-making, or bias in women’s healthcare, than another generic “HOSA President.” Bonus points if she’s interviewing real researchers (which she now has an excuse to do!).

One shows me that the student is returning to the topic repeatedly, refining her perspective, finding an audience, and putting her thinking out in public where it can be judged. The other tells me she may have run some meetings and made a flyer.

Your internet presence counts more than a club.

If you are an aspiring business major, I want to see signs that you understand attention, persuasion, audience, and value. That could be a newsletter. That could be email marketing for a real project. That could be a niche publication, a product experiment, a small business, or a strong digital presence built with actual strategy. If you say you are interested in marketing, I do not want to just hear that you are vice president of DECA. I want to see that you know how to make people care.

If you are an artist, I want to see a portfolio with taste. I want to see a body of work with a point of view. I want to see that you are not just doing assignments, but making choices. An Instagram used thoughtfully can do more for some students than another shallow club role ever could. Not because followers are magic, but because a real portfolio shows commitment, identity, and output.

If you are a reader, a writer, a policy kid, a thinker, I want to see signs of intellectual life. Goodreads reviews that actually say something. Essays. Interviews. Independent analysis. A student who can point to months of reading and reflection is far more convincing than one who keeps collecting leadership labels like charms on a bracelet.

If you are a coder or builder, I want to see your GitHub. I want to see the product. I want to see the ugly early version and the better later one. Process matters. Iteration matters. Evidence of obsession matters.

Build Something REAL (With Help)

Stop worrying about looking “professional.”

Too much polish can sometimes make me suspicious. A perfectly packaged passion project that appeared out of nowhere the summer before senior year, with no visible process, no evolution, and no real texture, is often less compelling than a messier body of work that clearly grew over time.

Admissions officers are increasingly interested in process because process is harder to fake.

A title can be handed to you. A body of work cannot.

A branded summer camp can be purchased. An actual track record of thought, output, and initiative cannot.

This is also why independent projects matter so much. They tell me who a student is when no one is assigning the work, handing out the grade, or giving them a neat little role to step into.

That is exactly why my Princeton student stood out. She was not the queen of collecting titles. She was the Spiderman of making things. Her five independent projects. They showed range. They showed seriousness. They showed initiative. They showed that her mind had a life outside of school-sponsored containers.

That is what colleges are hungry for, whether they say it this bluntly or not.

A huge part of my job is helping students stop sounding impressive on paper and start becoming impressive in reality. Anybody can slap a title on an activity list. I help students build work that actually holds up.

Different students need different proof. But all serious students need receipts.

So yes, your club presidency matters. But less than you think.