This year, it was harder than ever to get into Harvard University. The prestigious college announced their lowest acceptance rate ever, welcoming only 1,968 of 57,435 first-year applicants into their hallowed halls. Thanks to Abigail Mack’s moving, insightful essay, she will be one of the lucky students to matriculate this fall.

The Massachusetts high school senior used TikTok to share a part of the essay that made her one of the 4 percent of applicants who made the cut. Her essay focused on an unusual theme: the letter “S.”

“I hate the letter ‘S’,” she read aloud on TikTok. “Of the 164,777 words with ‘S’, I only struggle with one. To condemn an entire letter because of its use 0.0006 percent of the time sounds statistically unreasonable, but that one case changed 100 percent of my life. I used to have two parents, but now I have one, and the ‘S’ in ‘parents’ isn’t going anywhere.”

“‘S’ follows me,” she continued. “I can’t get through a day without being reminded that while my friends went out to dinner with their parents, I ate with my parent. As I write this essay, there is a blue line under the word ‘parent’ telling me to check my grammar; even Grammarly assumes that I should have parents, but cancer doesn’t listen to edit suggestions.”

She went on to explain that she fled that dreaded letter by throwing herself into school activities. She joined clubs, sports, and performed in theatrical productions, all in an effort to lessen the pain of losing her mom. Eventually, she realized she was hiding from her pain and decided to face it head-on. She took over the “S” for her own purposes. Now, instead of thinking about the “S” in parents, she concentrates on the double “S” in passion.

Abigail’s essay earned her a spot at several top colleges and she has officially been accepted into the class of 2025 in Harvard. In the meantime, her essay has gone viral (走红) with over 16 million views!

As introduction to backpacking go, this might be pushing it. At noon on a brilliant Tuesday in March, my 12-year-old son Kai and I are a mile and a half into a four-day, 27-mile walk through the Grand Canyon (峡谷) — his first backpacking trip — when he asks, “Are we almost to camp?” Um, no. Camp, at Hermit Creek, is seven miles and nearly 2,500 feet below. That will take us several more hours.

We are here largely because of a birthday note Kai wrote to me two years ago in which he declared, “You used to be a wild 10-year-old like me and now you’re a wild 53-year-old. We can do so many things together! I am excited for when I’m old enough for the Grand Canyon.”

There are, I suppose, dads who could resist that, just as there are fathers who would plan an experience-appropriate trip for their sons. I am neither, so here we are. Never mind that; aside from simply being 12, Kai has done almost nothing to physically prepare for this. Or that I haven’t backpacked for 13 years.

We go down a poorly maintained path off the canyon with twisty trees and twining bushes. Gradually the view broadens, the landscape in Vishnu fascinates Kai greatly. “This place is amazing.” he says. Nightfall in the canyon can be magical. Darkness surrounds us, pressed by cool air. Hearing the sound of a waterfall, we lie down to take in the stars. Twice I suggest we turn in. “Not yet,” Kai says. “This is too unbelievable.”

Wednesday, we travel three miles to Monument Creek, and hike a mile and 1,000 feet down to the Colorado River. The next morning at 7:30 when we march out, I’m optimistic, and Kai sets a quick pace. Friday, we rise before dawn and are the first ones out of camp; for an hour we have the Bright Angel Trail and its soaring (高耸的) scenery to ourselves.

In that birthday card Kai had also written, “Even when you’re 100, you will always be wild,” Nice, If I’m lucky enough to make it there, it looks like I’ll have company.

What is a family? Why does it matter? What does it teach us that we can’t learn on our own? These questions seem especially relevant in the holiday season when it is often our tradition to gather as families and celebrate together.

My mother was one of twelve children. As they grew up, married and had children of their own, most of them lived near enough to gather for holidays at my grandparents’ home in a small town in the mountains of North Carolina.

I don’t recall getting many gifts from them. I remember the sense of belonging, of being part of something that assured me I was loved and not alone.

I delighted in the laughing, playing and fighting with my crazy cousins.

I watched my granddad and uncles sit on the porch (门廊), rain or shine, smoking and joking, arguing about politics and trying to solve the problems of the world.

I listened to my grandmother, mother and aunts stir pots on the stove and talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and disappointments, and gossip about any sister who failed to show up.

The food was always plentiful and delicious – country ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, biscuits and my grandmother’s banana pudding. But for me, the food was never the highlight. The highlight was simply being together. A family.

However, they’re all gone now. My parents and grandparents, my aunts and uncles have left this world for the next. My cousins are scattered (分散) here and there. And yet the memories linger, along with the love that we shared.

I treasure those memories and the things they taught me. They told me that families aren’t perfect, but they prepare us to find our way in an imperfect world. They made me realize that all families are crazy in their own peculiar (独特的) ways.

My husband and I are growing a new family, while keeping close to the surviving members of the families. It’s a beautiful blend (混合) of kindness, traditions, nurturing (养育) and friendships, which grows year after year.

I hope this holiday season will fill you with lovely memories of the family that raised you, and surround you with all the people who mean “family” to you now.