Too Nice by Lincoln

Too Nice by Lincoln - February 2026 Scholarship Essay

A simple whispered affirmation has dramatically changed my success across academic, athletic, and personal domains. It’s a treasured vow to myself, a call to action. It’s a talisman of the heart, spoken into the air. The short phrase fills me with confidence, recharging my soul during hardship. While affirmations can work for anyone, the oath must meaningfully connect to the speaker’s soul. This is the story of three simple directions that somehow became a compass guiding me through adversity.

When I started volleyball, I was a Great Dane puppy: enormous feet carrying an enormous frame, uncoordinated, and eager to please. Coach’s eyes lit up, seeing my height. But as the ball sailed my way, I froze. Adults whispered, excitement fading as realization crystalized. They see it; they know. The perceived bait-and-switch of expectation-to-reality stung. “Be aggressive, Too Nice. PUSH!”

"Too Nice," they call me, as if it's the moniker bestowed upon me at birth. I was raised to be sweet, kind, and gentle. My parents' values betray me now, as red-faced coaches scream, “Be aggressive, Too Nice, and push!”

But at twelve, it isn’t me. This midnight of my childhood is blanketed in hesitation, cerebral analysis my muse. I stand with leaden feet because it didn’t seem like that was my ball. They say, “One day, you’ll love it,” but I’m not sure.

Older now, the metallic bench is cold with the ghosts of players past. Those who sat, not measuring up, just like me. My teammates perform with swagger, demi-gods of athleticism. I’ve grown taller, but betrayal - my heart has grown too! At fourteen I’m supposed to inherently know how to be aggressive and push. All I know is kindness.

Watching from the bench, they’ve found a new me this year. Another red-headed, left-handed giant, who plays while I sit. He’s not “too nice”. At this moment, I crave comfort and daydream of my mother’s cookies. I feel as if I’m baking in the oven, still soft on the inside. One day will it ding and I’ll be ready, just like the cookies?

“Too Nice! You’re in!”

The serve flies over the net; I’m poised to receive. But is it mine? My teammate’s? I think it’s mine – should I take his ball if it’s not? Is that rude? A Herculean effort at the last second, coming up an inch short, game over. I’m in only one play, just long enough to lose the game. I’m sprawled on the ground beneath the crushing weight of kindness and hesitation. I thought that ball was mine. I want, so badly, to love this.

Different team, different coach, I’m still too nice. I can score now, sometimes! Adorning my bedpost is a lone medal. I’m six-two in height and infinite in heart. But sunshine follows me, even inside the gym, casting an unshakeable shadow of kindness. It’s not welcome here.
At high school try-outs, I arrive underdressed. I wore only hope and childhood dreams. They wore hubris, swagger, and the new Dwayne Wade shoes. But this is his court; only he judges. I want it so badly it hurts. Holding my future, he considers my heart…and discards me. He tells me I need to be “nasty” on the court; I’ve never been nasty in my life.

His words strike shockwaves through my mind, heart, and identity. “Come with me,” says he, after he cuts me - after he splinters my soul with rejection, and makes my mother cry. He’ll teach me in a new place and things will get better. Hesitation clouds the mind. It feels like twelve with unmoving feet. It feels like fourteen, a ghost on a bench.

Drills, conditioning, and oceans of sweat give way to the sweetness of sixteen. Wounds of confidence heal into scars that aggressively fuel me to push. I stand before you, cerebral, passionate, and forever “too nice” – but you won’t outwork me. Because this coach sees a warrior before him, power in my hands, armored in kindness, and brimming with heart. I am transformed, and yet, somehow still wholly me.

Starting middle blocker on the varsity team, I bask not only in the joy of accomplishment but in the shadow of my mother’s silver pompoms and my father’s burgundy jersey. This was their gym and now it’s mine. I drape their colors around my frame, ready for battle. But, this time, the battle isn’t internal. Time bends for a moment, transported to an age when I wondered about the secret power of those Dwayne Wade shoes, or if I had to change all of my convictions, feelings, and heart just to play this game.

But it’s okay to be aggressive…or too nice…or push.

Whispered softly to myself in times of adversity, repeated often before a big test, this very phrase once taunted me. “Be aggressive. Too nice. Push.” These directions braid together, creating an indomitable trifecta of motivation.

Aggressively, I’ll pursue any goal, clothed in grit and determination. “Too nice,” uplifts and becomes a directive. I am too nice to ever doubt anyone, including myself. I’m great in height, greater in heart. Lastly, the push; the last gasp of effort when everything seems impossible. Push through all hesitation, limitations, and barriers.

Once screamed by a red-faced coach, these words are mine, now. I’ve whispered them on and off the court, a vow to myself. This affirmation, these three directions, shaped my success.