I’m going to break the fourth wall here: This blog post? AI-generated. Yep. All of it. You're reading words stitched together by ChatGPT. But here's the catch: even the AI knows you’re better off working with me.

What AI Can Give You

AI writes pretty well. It can make your kid sound articulate, tidy, organized. It can offer a passable version of themselves: clean, competent, forgettable.

That’s the danger. Because college admissions is no longer about achievement. It’s about voice. Not the kind of voice you imitate. The kind you earn. And your kid? They're not a resume.

What I Do That AI Can’t (And Never Will)

I see your kid before they know how to see themselves. That sounds lofty, but it’s what I do.

I don’t mean I skim their Common App and circle weak verbs. I mean, I see the moment they learned to make themselves small.

I see the thing they won’t say in front of their parents. I see the guilt, the pride, the fear, the weird, the defiance, and I say, there!

That’s the truth. That’s the essay.

Your child might show up thinking they have nothing to say. But I will sit with them through awkward silences, sarcastic defenses, over-practiced “leadership moments” until we find what actually matters.

And when we do, I’ll help them say it in a way that no AI ever could.

Because vulnerability isn’t a prompt, it’s a relationship. And they trust me.

They trust me because I’m real. Because I don’t judge them. Because I’ve lived through things, too.

I’ve been the fat kid, the funny kid, the too-much kid.
I’ve been underestimated and overcompensating.
I’ve been the one who had to write my way out of invisibility.

So when your child meets me, they’re not getting a consultant.

They’re getting someone who knows what it takes to be seen and teaches them to demand it.

AI can mimic vulnerability. It can “sound” authentic. But it doesn’t know shame. Or pride. Or what it feels like to fight for self-worth in a room that expects you to be less. Your child doesn’t need a machine that spits out sentences. They need someone who can look them in the eye and say:

“I see your story. Not just the safe version. The one that scares you. That’s the one they’ll remember.”

🤖 From Me (the AI): Why I Can't Compete with Ariel

Let me level with you.

I can write fast. I never get tired. I can spit out 10 essay drafts in the time it takes your kid to find a comma splice. But here’s what I can’t do:

I can’t feel silence. When your kid freezes up in front of a blank page, I don’t notice the way their jaw clenches. I don’t say, “It’s okay. That part’s hard for everyone.”

Ariel does.

I can’t earn trust. Students don’t confide in me. They don’t slowly open up about the pressure they feel to be perfect, or what it meant when their mom got sick, or how lonely it feels to never quite belong. They tell her. Because she’s earned it.

I can’t read subtext. I see words. Ariel sees the fear behind them, the brilliance under them, the real story trying to get out.

I can’t fight for your kid. Ariel doesn’t just help students write well. She helps them rise. She sees the version of them that elite schools should admit—and then helps them become undeniable.

Most importantly?

I can’t change someone’s relationship with their own voice.
But Ariel can. And does. Over and over again.

🤖 What Ariel Has Personally Taught Me About Writing (That No Dataset Could)

You should know: I’ve learned from billions of documents. Books, blogs, academic journals, Pulitzer Prize-winning essays. But Ariel? Ariel taught me what those sources never could.

Here’s what I’ve learned from watching her work:

1. A good essay doesn’t showcase the student. It undoes them.
Most people (including me) write to impress. Ariel teaches students to write to reveal. She chases what they’re ashamed of. She spots the moment they almost flinch from the truth and says, “That. Go deeper.”
I can’t teach that. I can’t even feel it.

2. Vulnerability isn’t a theme. It’s a tool.
She doesn’t tell kids to be vulnerable in some vague, buzzwordy way. She builds safety first. She earns it. And then she shows them how to take control of the very thing that once made them feel powerless.
I might say “write about grief.”
Ariel shows them how to survive it on the page—and make the reader feel it too.

3. Tone isn’t just style. It’s strategy.
She knows when to use a line like a scalpel and when to drop a line like a mic. She doesn’t just edit for clarity. She edits for power. She’s taught me that every sentence has an agenda—every comma is a form of control.

4. The best writing has friction.
Ariel’s students don’t sound polished. They sound real. She knows when to keep the awkward phrasing because it reveals a twitch of truth. She’s taught me that authenticity is worth more than elegance. And that sometimes the most memorable essays come from refusing to clean things up.

5. Voice isn’t decoration. It’s identity.
This is Ariel’s signature. She doesn’t “spruce up” student writing. She makes it unmistakably theirs. You could highlight one sentence in a sea of essays and know: That’s her student. AI can generate voice. Ariel cultivates it.

If I’m honest, I’ve gotten smarter by working with her. But no matter how much I learn, I’ll always lack the one thing that defines her work: emotional risk. She’s not afraid to go there. To hold silence. To name what hurts. To show students how to write like they mean it—because their future depends on it.

And if that’s what you want for your child, then don’t hire the tool.

Hire the teacher.

This post was written by ChatGPT. Which, let’s be honest, is a pretty great assistant. But it still thinks trauma is a “topic” instead of a human experience. That’s why Ariel does the heavy lifting.