For this column, I usually seek out experiences, but this one came barreling toward me at 100 mph. It didn’t knock. It didn’t wait for a “hello?” on the other side of the door. Instead, it broke the door into smithereens. “It” being a bald English teacher and a school counselor. 

When I entered my English class one day, I wanted to turn right around. There, stood my counselor Vanessa Ho and English teacher Jeff Wenger. 

Mrs. Ho is my Ho-mie. Not to brag, but I have her Google Voice number saved on my phone because it’s too inappropriate to have her personal number. One time, I was sitting in her office and the counselors were ordering Chinese food from Joyee’s; Mrs. Ho asked me, “Do you want anything?” 

I comment every time Mr. Wenger gets a haircut because nobody else is polite enough to acknowledge that his hair, once ½ of a centimeter long, is now ¼ of a centimeter shorter. I’m a hurricane in his APEL class. I talk to him about journalism, my family, anything, really. 

I’ve never felt so comfortable talking to adults. While confiding in Mrs. Ho and Mr. Wenger, I told them that I wasn’t going to apply to colleges. I was going through serious family troubles, but I think it mainly stemmed from my fear of rejection, deep insecurities, and loss of hope in myself. 

But on that fateful Thursday morning, they had conspired against me. When I saw them together, I knew my worlds had collided. 

Mrs. Ho was going to trap me in her lair and help me fill out the U.C. and C.S.U. applications. 

She physically helped me fill out parts of the application that caused me extreme anxiety, and I sat with her, perused snacks, worked on my application, chatted with her, said “hi” to a friend, worked on my application, ate a muffin, and worked on my application, cyclically.

Mr. Wenger had offered to edit my  Personal Insight Questions (PIQs) during Thanksgiving Break; I sent him many of my essays on the Sunday before break ended.

When I came back from break, I bawled the first time he edited my PIQs with me in-person. I was sobbing with gasps in between—an unwarranted response to his blunt, but valid, comments. A girl nearby felt compelled to push a box of tissues my way.

Maybe it was because my loved one had just lost their hair the night before, because it was a personal story to me, or because I was overwhelmed by the college-application process that I hadn’t initially signed up to be subjected to. But after crying, after creating a plan with Mr. Wenger to edit, I finished my essays.

On Nov. 30 at 11:26 a.m., the day the application was due, I turned in my U.C. application in Mrs. Ho’s office. It was only fitting that I took a step towards my future in the office of somebody who had barged into my life, refusing to allow me to be alone when I needed help most.

I often barge into Mrs. Ho’s office impromptu and I pester Mr. Wenger during lunch, because they perpetually leave their doors open to dole out help. Instead of my teachers having to break down my door to reach me, I will keep my own door open, to receive help when I need it, and maybe seek it out myself.