This is a tough call. It sounds like a fantastic piece of writing, but the fact that it’s already won a writing contest actually takes away from its value. It’s a piece that has already been out in the world and received recognition. My instinct tells me that Harvard doesn’t want you to use recycled material for that optional essay. Then again, if it’s the apex of your writing and “the heart” of what you’re about, it could be okay.
My recommendation? Spend some time creating a piece that does the same thing (the heart of what you’re about) but is new and crafted specifically for the Harvard application. You don’t have to explicitly say, “I wrote this for you guys,” but perhaps it’ll be clear from the piece’s uniqueness that it’s not recycled from another application or a writing contest. If you’re a great writer – my instinct from your initial post tells me you are – then you should have no trouble creating something new for the application. After all, it’s Harvard, so the effort is worth it.
I’ll share a personal anecdote with you. During the last week of October in 2001, I was staring at my completed Harvard application, wondering if there was anything I could do to improve it. That year, they offered the same open-ended optional essay prompt. I considered the last two months of my life. The attacks of September 11th happened, and my dad was supposed to be in Tower 1 that day. Luckily, his meeting was cancelled at 7am that morning. Then in October, my grandmother passed away suddenly without any history of health issues.
I was an anxious, emotional wreck, yet I remembered something my grandmother told me two days before she passed. We were watching TV coverage of the ongoing rescue and cleanup effort at the WTC site. She knew how deeply I’d been affected by everything, especially the recurring thought that I could have lost my dad. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, “and don’t let this affect your plans for the future.” She was concerned I wouldn’t devote enough energy to my college applications. As a little girl in Vienna, she recalled watching the annual university crew regatta on the Danube. The strongest image for her was the Harvard crew team, the crimson H emblazoned on their chest, powerfully commanding their shell. It wasn’t the reason I was applying to Harvard, but my grandmother had always made me understand the importance of higher education, an opportunity she didn’t have after fleeing Vienna in 1938 with her family.
That night at the end of October in 2001, forty-eight hours before Harvard’s EA deadline, I sat down and wrote. I recounted everything that happened in the two months, but I didn’t stop there. I synthesized it, considering what it all meant. As I sat at the computer, hands shaking, I realized that I wasn’t a kid anymore, but I was not yet an adult. I was terrified by the world around me, yet comforted by my grandmother’s words and the prospect of expanding my knowledge as an undergraduate. College was the next logical step in my life, the time to bridge the gap between youth and adulthood, and I wasn’t going to let the inevitable tragedies of life stop me from taking it.
It was a raw piece of writing. I spent some time editing the essay the next day and submitted it. It said something about me, and it was clear I’d written it just for the Harvard application. A little more than six weeks later, I was accepted. My four years there were worth every ounce of effort I put into that optional essay.