This I Believe is an annual essay contest for high school seniors sponsored by NPR Illinois. Modeled after the program started by radio journalist Edward R. Murrow in 1951, students are invited to write an essay sharing their own personal beliefs. This is the 21st year for the contest; 226 students within the NPR Illinois listening area submitted essays, among the highest number ever submitted. Eight community members each read a group of essays and scored them based on originality, positivity and being personal and compelling. Judges then reviewed and discussed the highest-rated essays to select the 2026 top 10 essays.
Ink – William Wujek, Litchfield High School
The Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum hosted a culminating event at the library on Wednesday, Nov. 4, where students read their essays. Custom Cup Coffee provided refreshments. Each student received a copy of Edward R. Murrow’s book, This I Believe: the Personal Philosophies of One Hundred Thoughtful Men and Women, courtesy of UIS Chancellor Janet Gooch. For more information and to listen to the winning essays from this year and previous years, go to https://www.nprillinois.org/podcast/this-i-believe-illinois..
Monday was Grandma Day. Every Monday in grade school, Grandma picked my brother and me up from school and took us to her house. Grandpa was usually still at work, so while we waited for him to come home, I’d wander around the house until I eventually found myself at the marble kitchen counter where Grandpa sat each morning to write in his journal.
I would flip through the dotted pages of his journal, rarely reading the words. What caught my attention instead were his drawings. Grandpa would litter the pages with goofy sketches, pictures and whatever else came to mind that day. To me, his journals were just entertaining collections of colorful pictures. I never grasped why he wrote everything down.
As I got older, I became more curious. I began reading what my grandfather had written. I discovered his journals were more than words on paper; they held his thoughts, stories, jokes, to-do lists, political opinions and even ordinary details of his daily life. His journals gave me a fuller picture of who he was. Grandpa loved to share his journals, so when he noticed my interest, he began encouraging me to start journaling myself.
At first, I didn’t understand why, and honestly, I was somewhat reluctant. Since most of my days weren’t special, why write them down? But he persisted and bought me my own leather journal, so I gave it a try. Now, I think I understand him. I realize I can’t relive my childhood. I won’t ever be the kid spending Mondays at Grandma’s house again. And as time passes, the small details of those days grow harder to hold onto. But my journal can remember them for me.
That is the power of ink. Ink is a way of pinning a moment to the page before time can take it away. Thoughts that would fade in seconds can last years and ordinary days can become memories. And now, as my grandpa faces cancer, his journals mean even more to me. There may be a day when my own children don’t get the chance to meet him. Yet, because of his journals, they will get to know him through his own words. They can experience his playful personality and hear the stories of his childhood on a chicken farm.
My grandpa preserved himself in his journals; now, I’m doing the same thing. Someday, my children will want to know who I was before I became their dad. They won’t be able to meet the 17-year-old writing this. But I hope they’ll one day open my journal to see who I once was. For a moment, they’ll meet someone who only exists in those pages. My grandpa showed me that life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to be worth remembering. He taught me that even the small moments are meaningful, and that with ink and a pen, I can make these moments live forever.
The brown boxes – Lauren Whitten, Glenwood High School
I’m 3, 8, and 11 years old, staring at the brown boxes. Brown boxes that held all I knew, all I loved. Brown boxes that held memories that would leave me with tears in my eyes, looking out the window on the way to a new “home.” They always brought a wave of emotions and unanswered questions: Will I make new friends? Where will we be living now? How long do I have left here? At that age, the boxes were my enemies, stripping me of everything familiar and safe. Each time I saw them stacked up, I knew more goodbyes were coming.
Growing up, change was inevitable in my family, as my dad kept getting promoted to higher positions at his job. We always had his back and cheered him on along the way, even if that meant packing up the brown boxes all over again. Now, the brown boxes haven’t been packed up in a few years, but the possibility always lingers.
For a long time, I always dreaded that possibility, afraid of what another move would take from me. But over time, I began to see what the brown boxes really carried: endless opportunities. From a young age, I was forced to adapt to different environments, different people, different everything. Every move challenged me to step into the unknown and figure out where I belonged. Change forced me to be flexible, and in that flexibility, I discovered resilience.
Instead of fearing the unknown, I have learned to embrace it. The people and places I left behind didn’t disappear, they became a part of me, layering new perspectives, stories, and lessons into my identity. Each move added a puzzle piece to who I am, shaping me into someone who knows how to grow through change instead of resisting it. Now, when I see brown boxes, I no longer fear the unknown and think of endings – I think of beginnings, endless opportunities and pieces that shape me.
I believe in the good of change, because it has shown me that even when life feels uncertain, it is in those moments of transition that we grow the most. Change built me into a stronger, more resilient, more ambitious and more open-minded person. Without the dreaded brown boxes, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Sylvia Plath’s fig tree – Adalyn Cruitt, Sullivan High School
When I was 10 years old, I begged my mom to buy me a National Geographic magazine for the plane ride to Seattle, Washington. Looking through the magazine, I became enamored with Zion National Park. It was a dream vacation of mine up until we visited Utah a year ago, where I finally got to see Zion. Ever since then I have fallen in love with the mountains and the western landscape.
Being a senior means making lots of life choices. I very well could choose to go to college in the mountains and be where I find comfort. Or I could stay close to home, where college is cheaper and closer to the people I love. Many choices and opportunities will present themselves to me over the next few months, and recently I’ve been finding myself quoting one of my favorite analogies.
Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar describes a fig tree that represents the main character’s life. Looking up from the trunk of the fig tree you see hundreds of branches, and at the end of each branch is a fig. Each fig represents a different life for the main character. For example, one fig is a stay-at-home mom, one is a journalist, and so forth, but she takes too long choosing a fig and in that time all the figs rot.
I’ve been comparing my life to Sylvia’s fig tree: I could move to the mountains, or stay at home, I could become an occupational therapist, or a teacher, or I could become a mom. I cherish each of these figs and want every one of them. I believe in Sylvia Plath’s fig tree, but does choosing one fig necessarily mean that I lose them all?
I believe the story continues on after the figs rot; spring will arrive and new figs will grow. Right now, my figs show me my dreams, but as the seasons of my life change my fig tree ripens and offers different opportunities.
When I was 10 years old, it was just a dream to go see Zion; however, in a few years I would get the opportunity to be able to go. Choosing one fig right now doesn’t mean I am bound by what that fig provides. In choosing that fig, I am making room for others. I could choose to stay close to home during college, but be presented a job opportunity in the mountains once I graduate. I don’t need to have my whole life figured out right now. For Sylvia’s fig tree does not die when the figs do, it simply adapts and creates new figs.
Zucchini bread – Jaxon Wittenmyer, Hillsboro High School
If life is a bakery, I am zucchini bread. Is it a teaspoon or a tablespoon of salt? Did I already add baking soda? Where’s the measuring cup I’m pretty sure I just used? Am I doing this right? Is it really 2 cups of sugar? How is it already 9:42 on a school night?
At least recipes are easy. Unlike in my home kitchen, the human experience has no recipe, no guidelines. Yet, I am the product. I am the ingredients. The kitchen air still smells of ground cinnamon and vanilla extract as I mix in the garden-grown, freshly shredded, juicy zucchini. I recognize that all the moisture comes from a vegetable rather than water or whatever canola oil is. Why does it work? It’s original.
In the way that no recipes are exactly the same, my experience is completely unique. Likewise, flour, sugar and eggs are not bread yet. They have no structure, no warmth. All pastries have these common ingredients, but each individual in a batch or baker’s dozen is inherently exceptional. Before I can be myself, I must know my ingredients.
I need to bake. The same aromas of cinnamon and zucchini return, but this time, they’re stronger than ever. All 325 degrees slap me in the face at once as I prematurely check the progress. In order to rise, what was a gooey mass must endure the raging inferno that is an oven. This metamorphosis reminds me that in order to find myself, I must struggle and face hardships. It takes time to become who I want to be and avoid having a raw center, so I might be stuck baking my entire life. But sometimes to bake is to be self-critical, self-motivated. To bake is to own up to mistakes and carry on anyway.
I want to be enjoyed. I shut off the oven timer for the fifth time, and I realize I’m done. The speckled, crispy brown surface radiates in perfection as I offer a piece of zucchini bread to my younger sister. But she refuses. Why does she not want to stuff her face with pure, warm goodness? Well, as it turns out, not everyone prefers to eat a vegetable impersonating a baked good.
Just like this loaf, I exist as myself anyway; it’s too late in the process to change who I am to fit someone else’s preferences. Some people only want regular, white bread. Some may only like red velvet cheesecake. Regardless, I will never be everyone’s cup of…sugar. In a world full of cookies, other pastries and sweets, I strive to be vegetable-based. I have found that I am happier as myself than what others want me to be. I place my worth in my own hands rather than obsessing over the opinions of others. So: what does it mean to be zucchini bread? I believe it means to be myself and to love every ingredient to the fullest extent.
Mud Pies – Annie Elliot, Glenwood High School
from making mud pies. When I made mud pies as a child, I was not afraid of the mud. However, as I’ve grown, I’ve found myself identifying with a parental point of view, worrying myself over the mess and having to clean it up later. But why? What changed?
It was the end of my freshman year when I discovered my struggle with perfectionism. I had unattainable expectations of myself, but I intended to live every day to reach them anyway. I searched for fulfillment in an emptied to-do list. One evening earlier this year, I had a particularly long to-do list. However, my sister was at home, so I sat and talked with her for a bit in order to check the newly added “spend time with my sister” box off of my list. I told her I had a lot of homework so she wouldn’t ask me to do anything. I didn’t want to make a mess of my clean schedule. I decided to get started on some laundry, and after I brought a load downstairs, I heard my sister in the other room ask, “Hey, would you maybe wanna…oh, never mind, you said you had homework.” I felt a sting.
After responding, “Yeah,” I took shelter in my room. I felt horrible. I rummaged around my room for work to occupy my thoughts as persistent voices screamed arguments in my head, until everything went quiet. You will never feel satisfied if you are always trying to empty an ever-growing list. I ran back downstairs. “Hey Em, when I get this laundry going, I’m gonna come watch “The Voice” with you. That OK?” A big smile covered her face, and I knew I had made the right decision.
That night with my sister, I laughed more than I had in forever. We sat on the couch and played old childhood music I had forgotten about. Most importantly, I learned new things about my sister and spent precious time with her. It’s these little spontaneous moments in life that restore me.
When I get caught up in my fear of messiness, I now remind myself about that old photo of me covered in mud. I was not scared of the mud. In fact, excitement and creativity rushed through me when I would feel it slipping between my fingers. Yes, my clothes got a bit dirty, but I didn’t worry. I learned from my younger self in that picture that perhaps the most joy-filled moments in life come in the messiness of life, not in striving for cleanliness in schedules or lists. And because of that, I will always believe in making time for mud pies.
Little green sequins – Aleigha Marburger
“Oh… you just look so beautiful.” Grandpa always greeted me as his “beautiful girl,” but this time it was different. His voice broke and his tears began to form; the weight of his words hit me harder than ever. I stood tall. I smiled and told him I loved him, that I will always be his beautiful girl.
Once I hugged him goodbye and left, I cried in my car, at home, in my room and at my vanity. When I looked down at my sparkly green dress and at the sequins that rubbed off on my hands and arms, I realized this moment will be stuck with me forever, like the little sequins stuck to me. This day was the last day my grandpa saw me, but it wasn’t the last day I saw him.
While getting ready for his funeral, slipping on the same dress I wore for my grandma’s funeral a couple months before, I tearfully looked down at my hand. There it was – a little green sequin. “Oh… you just look so beautiful.” A smile creeps across my face. Balling my hands loosely, the little green sequin still in my grasp, I know I can do this. I can stand strong.
This little green sequin and I make our way through the day that is full of grief, with our heads up high and hearts full. My grandpa’s voice and words echo in my chest every time I glance at that little green sequin, giving me an odd sense of relief. Every now and then, I find little green sequins in my car, my room and on my vanity. They stick to me like the memory of my grandpa: his words, his voice, his tears. The warm embrace of these little green sequins and the comfort they provide me when I find them is enough to get me through every bump and hill grief presents.
Coping is a process that takes more than a day; it happens in steps, big or small. Each sequin is more than a round plastic disc; it is a milestone toward growth. So, I believe in the little green sequins.
Big ears – Gavin Kornack, Southeast High School
I always thought that there would be enough time to just talk to him later. When later came, I would give anything to spend another hour with him, but then again, how would I be able to share an entire lifetime of struggles, successes, wins and losses with someone who only lived to see me reach freshman year? Losing my role model made me think differently about him. It made me reflect. It made me think about the way I treat others and how he taught me how to be a better person.
All my life, my grandpa had done everything he possibly could for his family. He loved helping people and seeing the gratitude in their expressions and in their words because, to him, it meant that he made someone’s day better. The only thing that he wanted to do was spend time with his family.
In middle school, on Wednesdays, he would pick my grandma and I up and we would go back to the house on Maryland Avenue, which always had its door open. It was a place I always knew I could go if I ever needed to talk to him or my grandma. It was a place where I could come if I wanted dinner, to watch the baseball game, or even just talk about school and my life. Although I never did such things because I had friends on the same block who I would rather play basketball with.
All this time, I may have taken him for granted, but looking back now, he taught me so many important life lessons. The biggest lesson I learned from him is to have Big Ears. No matter the circumstances, whether it was an argument or talking about someone else, he always listened before speaking. He would never talk over anyone because he knew his deafening silence was much louder than anything that he could say.
From the day that I lost him, he made me think differently about how I treat others. I realize now that even when I may not agree with someone, or someone just needs to be heard, I made a promise to him that I will always keep my “Big Ears” on and be willing to listen. When things matter most to the people around me, I know that the best thing they can receive from me is that they know I will listen.
There has not been anything more beneficial in my life than knowing that someone who I care about can talk to me knowing that I will listen. Every day, I cherish all the relationships I have built and being that person people want to be around. I believe that listening can be one of the greatest gifts to give to someone. I can thank my grandpa for teaching me to wear Big Ears just like him.
A nice fold – Patricia Cheng, Litchfield High School
Basketball, I quit. Cheerleading, I quit. Scholastic Bowl, I quit. For a long time, I thought quitting meant failure. I used to believe that once I said yes to an opportunity, I had to stick with it until the end. After all, opportunities aren’t always easy to grab. If I quit, I felt like I had wasted a valuable opportunity that someone else might have wanted. I also worried that people would think I wasn’t determined or serious enough. Because of all of these thoughts, whenever I tried something new, I felt like I had to stick with it, even when I realized that it wasn’t my thing.
It wasn’t until I learned to play Texas Hold’em that I began to see quitting differently. Before I started playing Texas Hold’em, I thought that once you were in a hand, you had to stay and play until the end. But as I learned more about Texas Hold’em, I came across two very different choices: a hero call and a nice fold. A hero call means staying in the game and taking a risk when you believe it is worth it, while a nice fold means recognizing that the hand is not worth playing and walking away.
I remember playing with my friends once and being in a hand where I really wanted to keep playing because I had already put so much into it. But when I looked at my only two cards again, a 7 of spades and a 2 of diamonds, the phrase “nice fold” suddenly struck me. Then I folded. I realized that staying in just because I had invested didn’t make sense. If I stayed, I might lose even more. Folding could be disappointing, but it could also be the better choice.
After this game, I began to see my real life the same way. I thought about all the things I had quit before. At first, I saw them as failures. But the idea of a nice fold changed my mind. Then I realized each one had taught me something. Some helped me discover things I enjoyed, while others showed me what I wasn’t passionate about. Basketball and Scholastic Bowl taught me that trying something new and leaving it are better than wondering “what if.” Cheerleading taught me to walk away and put more time and energy into what matters to me.
Today, I still make my hero call. I keep trying new things, taking chances and gaining different experiences. But I also believe in a nice fold. I believe a nice fold isn’t a failure or a selfish choice. I believe that not every opportunity is meant to be kept. Sometimes, the best choice is to let go, choose a path that is better for me and always make room for something new.
Organ donation – Adlyn Ferguson, Litchfield High School
Forty-three: the number of hours my Papa had been on the transplant list, awaiting the call notifying him that a match was found. He had been living with pulmonary fibrosis for years, and his lung function was decreasing daily. The only cure was a double lung transplant.
When we went to see him in the hospital the day before his surgery, I couldn’t help but notice the look in Papa’s eyes. I expected to see fear, but instead, I found hope. Papa was surprisingly calm for someone who was about to enter a life-or-death surgery. “Are you afraid, Papa?” I questioned him. With three simple words, he eased all fear that was present in the room: “God’s got this.” Papa’s courage exceeded my own.
As I left the hospital, I wondered if that was the last time I would ever see the man that had been a leading light my whole life. For the next two days, I waited anxiously by the phone for updates. Our entire family held its breath, praying that Papa would take another. My mom stayed at the hospital, offering strength and support for both Papa and Nana. After his surgery, I received a FaceTime call from my mom. My heart sank at the sight of Papa with multiple tubes down his throat and what seemed like hundreds of wires attached to him. He couldn’t speak and appeared lifeless. Mom assured me that the transplant went well and that my sister and I could visit him the next day. By the time we visited, the tubes were removed, and Papa was alert.
Although the surgery was finished, his journey was just beginning. He and Nana spent the next three months in an apartment near the hospital for appointments and in case of emergencies. My family and I constantly took trips down to play games, eat snacks and binge-watch “Is It Cake?” on Netflix. Papa’s health was showing vast improvements, and his lung function rose from only 24% to 108% after the procedure. I truly couldn’t believe the miracle unfolding right before my eyes.
When Papa shared his progress, I realized that he had been given a second chance at life – something that was made possible by his organ donor. We later learned that she passed away in a car accident. Though the doctors weren’t allowed to share much more information, I sensed that Papa felt a responsibility to honor her life. Three years later, he still tears up when speaking of her and her family with immense gratitude.
Witnessing the gift of organ donation inspired me to become a registered donor. To me, it was a small choice, but to someone else, it could mean a second chance at life: their next breath or heartbeat. When my life ends, I hope to help save another, just as a donor saved my Papa. I believe in the life-changing power of organ donation.
Airport floors – Natalie Harris, Southeast High School
Sitting on a dirty airport carpet at 3 a.m., with the second flight of our mission trip cancelled, I felt hopeless. My itinerary at the bottom of my backpack was useless to me now. The industrial vacuum whirled by us while I wiped the grogginess from my eyes. As I looked around, I didn’t know what to think. Anyone who knows me knows that I need everything planned out to a T. If there is not a plan, I will make one. I struggle with anxiety and uncertainty when there is anything left up in the air. Knowing what’s going to happen down to the minute helps relieve my anxiety. But at that moment, none of it mattered.
I felt on edge not knowing what was going to happen at all. As I looked around, I made eye contact with my friend Anna. While everyone was sitting by themselves in silence, she cracked a joke. I don’t even remember what it was about, but the tension in the room was broken. When she snapped our minds out of it, we all started laughing and couldn’t stop. Suddenly, what began as a terrible night turned into one of laughter and games. My friend Katie grabbed a worn deck of cards and dealt them out. We played games, laughed as loud as the vacuum coming towards us, and recorded silly videos. We walked around the airport at 4 in the morning, exploring everywhere we could. As soon as the Chick-Fil-A opened, we got breakfast and sat down on the same carpet, but it felt different by the time the sun went up.
I believe when losing control of plans, people can always retain the ability to control their outlook on it. If it weren’t for my friends Anna and Katie to help me embrace the unknown, I would’ve been an anxious puddle the rest of the night. Instead, they showed me how powerful this belief can be when put into play. While I hopefully won’t experience a situation like that again, on an airport floor with no luggage or a shower in days, the experience grew me as a person. I have since been able to be OK with losing control every now and then.
When I returned home, everyone asked me what I learned, and expected stories from the mission work itself. But I couldn’t stop replaying the moment in my mind, where, on the dirty airport floor, the future was uncertain but we made the most of it. It’s easy to look at your circumstances and wallow in them. But what I learned is that when a plan breaks down, your reaction to the chaos matters a lot more than the original plan ever did.
This article appears in November 5-11, 2026.
