When I was teaching ninth-grade English in Chicago, I had a student who rarely spoke in class—until we reached the personal narrative unit. One afternoon, she turned in a piece that began in the midst of chaos: thunder cracking outside, her mother shouting in the kitchen, her hands trembling as she tried to calm the family dog. It was raw, vulnerable, and electric.
I remember thinking: This is the work that matters.
And it turns out, there’s science behind that feeling.[1]
We remember stories—not lists. We connect to people, not bullet points. And when something feels alive on the page—structured with purpose, tension, and emotional truth—it lingers. Whether in the classroom, on a college essay, or inside an admissions reader’s brain.
But why do stories work so well? And how can we help students harness that power, even if they don’t think of themselves as “writers”?
The Power of Storytelling on the Brain
Cognitive scientists have long known that narrative activates more of the brain than exposition. But only recently have we understood how profound the effect can be.
In a 2010 Princeton study, neuroscientist Dr. Uri Hasson found that when one person tells a story, the listener’s brain begins to mirror the storyteller’s.[2] This neural mirroring—called neural coupling—suggests that stories don’t just entertain us. They sync us up. “A story,” Hasson said, “is the only way to activate parts of the brain so that a listener turns the story into their own idea and experience.”
But it goes even deeper. A compelling narrative can trigger a cascade of neurochemical reactions:
- Cortisol, released during moments of conflict or suspense, heightens attention and focus.
- Oxytocin, produced when a story builds empathy, deepens emotional connection and trust.
- Dopamine, released at a satisfying conclusion or twist, enhances memory retention.
Dr. Paul Zak, a pioneer in neuroeconomics, found that emotionally engaging stories could boost oxytocin levels by up to 47%.[3] As if that weren’t enough, listeners with higher oxytocin spikes were more likely to donate, remember, or act.
A story, in other words, doesn’t just move us. It moves us to do something. And in the context of college admissions, that “something” might just be remembering a student’s name at the end of a long day of reading files.
Storytelling Techniques That Light Up the Brain
You don’t need to write like Zadie Smith or Ocean Vuong to tap into this power. You just need to write like a human—with structure, intention, and emotional honesty. These four narrative techniques aren’t new, but when applied thoughtfully, they light up the reader’s brain:
1. In Medias Res: Start in the Middle
Skip the background. Open with momentum.
“Smoke was already pouring out of the oven when I yanked it open.”
Starting mid-action triggers a dopamine response as the brain anticipates what comes next. It’s the same reason we can’t stop watching a good Netflix drama—it makes us crave resolution.
As Lisa Cron writes in Wired for Story, our brains are primed to seek narrative structure.[4] A clear beginning-middle-end isn’t a cliché; it’s cognitive scaffolding.
2. The One-Moment Frame
Zoom in. Choose a single moment and let it breathe.
“The clay was cold in my hands, and I pressed too hard. The flower I’d spent an hour shaping collapsed—and I burst into tears before I could stop myself.”
Focusing on a specific, emotionally charged beat not only builds oxytocin through empathy, but it also activates the sensory cortex, making the scene feel immersive.
This technique helps students resist the urge to summarize their whole life story. Instead, it invites them to slow down and present a single moment with resonance.
3. Motifs and Anchor Objects
Let one small thing do big emotional work.
“Every time I saw that red backpack in the lost and found, I remembered the day I let go of hers.”
Repetition of a detail—an object, phrase, smell—creates cohesion and payoff. Think of it like a mental hyperlink: when it reappears, it brings the reader back to a deeper emotional truth.
As Cheryl Strayed once wrote, “Use the thing that happened as a portal. Break it open and build your story there.”
4. Nonlinear Time and Circular Endings
Memory is not a straight line. Let your structure reflect that.
Start: “I used to sit on that bench every morning, waiting for my dad.”
End: “Now, I sit on the same bench—but this time, I’m waiting for myself.”
When a story loops back, closes a circle, or reveals a pattern through time, our brains reward us with a small hit of dopamine. As Dr. Kendall Haven wrote in Story Proof, “A well-structured story is not just remembered better—it is remembered longer and believed more.”
Why Narratives Matter in College Admissions
A few years ago, when I was working for an elite international school, I asked a college counselor and former admissions officer what made an essay stand out. She didn’t mention scores or awards. She said, “I want to feel like I know the student by the end. Not what they did—but who they are.”
That’s it. That’s the bar.
At InGenius Prep, we work with thousands of students each year. Many are impressive on paper. But when an essay lacks cohesive writing—when it reads like a résumé in paragraph form—it doesn’t linger.
What does linger? Voice. Reflection. A story that shows change over time.
Storytelling isn’t a soft skill. It’s a strategic advantage, especially when 60,000+ students apply to the same top 20 schools each year. With admission rates below 5% at institutions such as Harvard, Columbia, and Stanford, readers are looking for reasons to remember you.[5]
Story helps them do that.
A Mini Workshop: Try It Yourself
Pick one ordinary moment from your life—something from your résumé or Common App activities list. Now:
- Open with action, not summary.
- Focus on a single emotional beat.
- Add one sensory detail or object.
- End with a thought—not a moral.
You don’t need to oversell it. You just need to make it feel real.
Final Thoughts: Storytelling as Strategy
This isn’t about being poetic or dramatic. It’s about understanding your reader’s brain. The strongest essays I’ve seen—from São Paulo to Seoul to suburban Iowa—don’t just inform. They move. They don’t just tell a story. They become a story.
When students learn to write this way—with precision, vulnerability, and intent—they stop writing to impress. They start writing to connect. And that makes all the difference.