My Fourth Language by Isabella

My Fourth Language by Isabella - January 2026 Scholarship Essay

“Leche, Leite, Milk.” I wrote these three words in sparkling glitter gel pen in the emoji-covered notebook I had just received for my fifth birthday. As my mom held up a milk jug, I found three different ways to interpret what I saw before me in Spanish, Portuguese, and English. The first was the sound of my first words to my mother, while the second came from the sound of sports commentators shouting during soccer matches on my father's television; however, the third was a mixture of the voices I heard on the school playground, of spelling tests and story times, but most importantly, the language I would decorate the subsequent pages in my treasured notebook.
Despite speaking three languages, I spent my entire childhood silent around adults: selective mutism felt like an invisible string pulling back my tongue. My inability to speak ranged from visits with close family members to my first piano lessons, where I played the note “C” for yes and “D” for no. At family dinners, I would freeze when asked about the latest book I was reading, or passively shake my head when offered more food. Some relatives asked, “Can she even speak Portuguese?” So I often wondered: what was the point of knowing three languages if I couldn’t speak any of them? When ambivalent gestures didn’t suffice, I would write my responses in my emoji notebook. Eager to connect with my cousin, I turned to a new page and wrote out the categories for the game Stop. We raced to fill in answers, often making up half of the words. Although I did not verbally speak with her, our shared laughter made it clear that we had formed a bond through the words on the page. In a world surrounded by adults, my notebook was my loyal companion, and writing became my fourth language.
Whenever I picked up my notebook, I had an urge to express myself as my ideas translated into hurried loops of scribbled handwriting. Naturally, each brush of ink reflected a passionate interest of mine. At the age of seven, I proudly wrote my first article about the popularity of my favorite childhood toy: Shopkins. Dozens of pages later, I witnessed the transition from colored gel pens to black ballpoints, as my fifteen-year-old self wrote frustratedly about the inability to acquire reasonably priced tickets to Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. My angered pen strokes quickly grew into an essay critiquing the capitalistic nature of the music industry—unexpectedly winning a Gold Key. For the first time, writing stopped being a secret diary entry where words I couldn’t speak hid behind a lock and key. As my thoughts no longer fit between the hot-pink margins of my emoji notebook, they spilled onto the black-and-white newsprint of The Cordette, where I became the editor of my school’s newspaper, publishing articles and helping my peers craft stories that mattered to our school community. My words carried into Model UN conference rooms as I stood behind country placards, letting the position papers I wrote guide the confident voice with which I debated my passion for global issues.
If milk were only one object, one idea, there would be only one way to express it. But not unlike me, its identity is shaped by language and culture. By teaching me three languages, my mom gave me the words I could pour out of both my notebook and a milk jug to connect with others universally. With my grandma in Mexico, I could recite a recipe for tres leches, using the word’s sharp syllables; while in Portugal, I could ask my aunt to pour me a glass of leite, a word that rolled as smoothly as the drink itself. Despite keeping my voice bottled up, as restrained as the monosyllable “milk,” I’ve finally found the confidence to let it flow and choose how to pronounce myself in the world.