Personal Statements For OT

6 OT Statement Examples

Below you'll find six examples of strong OT personal statements, each followed by a brief discussion of why we liked it.

When my grandfather had a stroke, it was an occupational therapist who helped him regain his independence. I remember watching her work with him on simple tasks—buttoning a shirt, holding a fork—and seeing how much pride he took in each small victory. That experience opened my eyes to the power of occupational therapy to transform lives. It wasn’t just about physical recovery; it was about restoring dignity and confidence. Since then, I’ve been passionate about pursuing a career where I can help others reclaim their lives in the face of challenges.

In college, I majored in psychology, focusing on courses like Human Development and Behavioral Neuroscience to understand the interplay between mind and body. A standout experience was a research project on how adaptive equipment impacts quality of life for individuals with disabilities. This project not only deepened my knowledge of the tools used in occupational therapy but also underscored the importance of tailoring interventions to individual needs and goals.

I’ve also gained hands-on experience through shadowing occupational therapists in various settings, including schools, hospitals, and rehabilitation centers. One of the most memorable cases was a child with sensory processing disorder. The therapist used creative approaches, like incorporating play and art into sessions, to help the child manage sensory overload. Witnessing the child’s progress reinforced my admiration for the versatility and creativity required in occupational therapy.

In addition, I worked as a caregiver for a young adult with cerebral palsy, assisting with daily activities and therapy exercises. This role gave me firsthand insight into the challenges faced by individuals with disabilities and the patience and empathy required to support them effectively. It also strengthened my communication skills, as I learned to adapt my approach to meet his unique needs and preferences.

Volunteering at a community center for older adults further broadened my perspective on occupational therapy. I helped organize activities designed to promote fine motor skills and cognitive engagement, such as crafts and puzzles. One participant shared how these activities helped her feel more capable and connected, which reminded me of my grandfather’s journey and reignited my commitment to this field.

Pursuing a Master’s in Occupational Therapy (OT) is the next step in my journey. I am particularly drawn to [University Name] because of its emphasis on holistic care and evidence-based practice. The program’s focus on serving diverse populations aligns with my goal of working with clients across the lifespan, from children with developmental delays to older adults recovering from illness or injury.

In the future, I hope to specialize in rehabilitation for neurological conditions, helping clients regain independence and achieve their personal goals. I’m especially interested in exploring how emerging technologies, like virtual reality and adaptive devices, can enhance therapy outcomes. Ultimately, I want to be an occupational therapist who empowers individuals to live meaningful and fulfilling lives, no matter their circumstances.

Looking back, my grandfather’s recovery journey was the catalyst for my passion for occupational therapy. Since then, every step—from academic studies to hands-on experiences—has prepared me to make a meaningful impact in this field. I am eager to bring my dedication, creativity, and empathy to your program and to continue growing as both a person and a professional.

What we liked:

• Personal Connection: The story of the applicant’s grandfather provides a compelling and emotional entry point, showing how the profession has personally impacted their life.

• Academic Preparation: The essay highlights relevant coursework and a research project, demonstrating a strong understanding of foundational concepts and their application to occupational therapy.

• Diverse Hands-On Experiences: Shadowing, caregiving, and volunteering showcase the applicant’s direct engagement with different populations and settings, underscoring their preparedness for the field.

• Admiration for the Profession: The applicant expresses a deep appreciation for the creativity and adaptability required in OT, which aligns with the field's values.

• Program Fit: The statement ties the applicant’s interests to the specific strengths of the program, such as holistic care and serving diverse populations.

• Clear Career Goals: Specializing in neurological rehabilitation and exploring emerging technologies gives the admissions committee a clear picture of the applicant’s ambitions.

• Emotional Resonance: The conclusion ties back to the opening anecdote, creating a cohesive narrative that emphasizes the applicant’s passion and dedication.

Rehab aide in a skilled nursing facility → OT

I’ve worked on a rehab floor long enough to stop being surprised by what people can do in therapy and still struggle to do at 2 a.m. when nobody’s watching. In the gym, a patient can stand, step, even climb a practice stair. Then you find out they can’t manage the bathroom safely, or they can’t put on socks without getting short of breath and frustrated, or they’re so anxious about falling that they stop trying.

That mismatch is why I’m applying to occupational therapy programs.

I started at a skilled nursing facility as a rehab aide because I wanted hands-on healthcare experience. I expected it to be mostly transporting patients and setting up equipment. It is that, sometimes. But being the person in the room for the “unremarkable” parts of recovery taught me what actually determines whether someone gets their life back. It’s usually not the big milestones. It’s whether they can dress without pain, get into the shower without panicking, use the kitchen without forgetting steps, or conserve energy enough to make it through the morning.

One patient shaped this for me early on. She was post-hip fracture and doing fine in PT—walking with a walker, practicing stairs, building endurance. Everyone kept saying she was “ready.” In OT, she kept shutting down. She would try a lower-body dressing task, get flustered, and say, “I can’t do this. I’m going to end up in a wheelchair.” The OT didn’t correct her or rush her. She asked simple questions: What feels hardest? What are you picturing at home? It turned out the patient lived alone and had a narrow bathroom with a tub she had to step into. She wasn’t just afraid of dressing. She was afraid of being stuck at home with no way to bathe safely. Once that was on the table, the session changed. They practiced transfers the way she’d actually do them, talked through bathroom setup, and planned equipment that made sense for her space. Her mood changed within days. So did her willingness to participate.

That was a lesson for me: function isn’t abstract. It’s tied to a person’s real environment and real routines.

In my role, I’ve tried to learn OT by watching closely. I’ve observed how therapists break tasks down without making patients feel small. I’ve seen them choose between multiple “right” options based on what matters to the person—privacy, speed, pain control, cultural habits, modesty, pride. I’ve also seen the family side: an adult child who wants their parent to be “safe,” and the parent who hears that as “I’m incompetent.” The OTs who impressed me most weren’t the ones with the fanciest tools. They were the ones who could get buy-in without forcing it.

Over the past three years, I’ve taken on more responsibility on the rehab side: assisting with groups, supporting carryover of strategies on the unit, and communicating observations to therapists (fatigue patterns, confusion during multi-step tasks, refusal that seemed tied to fear rather than “noncompliance”). I’ve also sought exposure to different settings. I shadowed in outpatient orthopedics and saw how OT fits into return-to-work and pain management. The through-line in both places was the same: practical goals, coached practice, and problem-solving that respects the person’s priorities.

My specific interests are adult rehab and aging—stroke, orthopedic recovery, and chronic conditions that affect daily function. I’m especially drawn to home safety, caregiver training, and cognition-related functional skills because I’ve seen how easily those get missed until discharge. A patient can “pass” therapy and still fail at home if the plan doesn’t match their reality.

I’m applying to OT programs because I want the training to do this work with more depth than I can from the aide role: assessment, clinical reasoning, evidence-based intervention, and the ability to design treatment that transfers outside the clinic. I also want to develop as a teammate who can collaborate well with PT, nursing, speech therapy, and case management—because on a rehab floor, outcomes depend on alignment.

I’ve learned on the unit that people don’t need perfect bodies to live well. They need workable routines, supports that fit, and someone who can help them rebuild skills without taking over. That’s the work I want to do.

Why this statement works

• The setting and observations are specific (rehab floor realities, discharge mismatch), which builds credibility.

• Shows understanding of OT’s focus on function, environment, routines, and buy-in—without sounding like a brochure.

• Includes a concrete patient example that illustrates OT problem-solving rather than “inspiration.”

• Connects experience to clear interests (adult rehab/aging, home safety, caregiver training, cognition).

• Explains the gap between current role and OT training in a practical, believable way.

Rock climber with a hand injury → OT

I used to think of my hands as something I could count on without thinking. That changed after a pulley injury in my ring finger during a climbing session. It wasn’t dramatic. No big snap, no ambulance. Just a sharp pain and then weeks of realizing how many parts of my day depended on grip strength I no longer had.

What surprised me wasn’t the injury. It was how quickly my world shrank. I stopped climbing, obviously, but I also stopped cooking certain things because chopping hurt. I avoided opening jars. I typed differently. I started turning down plans because I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t do normal stuff without wincing. I’ve always been patient with training for performance; I was not patient with being limited.

That’s how I ended up in hand therapy—and how I started paying attention to occupational therapy.

My first sessions were not what I expected. I imagined “do these exercises” and go home. Instead, the OT asked questions that felt strangely personal for a finger injury: What do you need your hand to do in your daily life? What do you do for work? What do you do to decompress? Which tasks are you avoiding? She watched how I used my hand, how I guarded, how I compensated. She didn’t just chase pain relief. She chased function.

The part that hooked me was how precise the reasoning was. The splint wasn’t just a splint; it was a way to let tissue heal while still letting me live. The exercises weren’t random; they were targeted and progressed based on symptoms and response. And the education mattered. Once I understood what I was doing mechanically when I climbed—and how my impatience was pushing me toward re-injury—I got better at following the plan.

I’m applying to OT programs because that experience took a vague curiosity I’d had about rehab and turned it into a clear direction. I want to work in upper-extremity rehab and return-to-activity, including return to work and sport. I’m drawn to the combination of technical skill and coaching. With my OT, I felt like I was being treated as an adult who could learn, not as a body part to fix.

After I recovered enough to climb again, I started looking for ways to test whether my interest was real or just gratitude. I volunteered at an adaptive climbing program where people with different physical abilities climb with modified equipment and a lot of creative problem-solving. I expected it to be mostly encouragement. It wasn’t. The best moments were practical: changing a harness setup so someone could transfer more safely, adjusting grip aids, and figuring out how to cue movement so the climber could control their body the way they wanted. It felt like OT in the wild—activity-based, individualized, and focused on participation.

I also began shadowing in outpatient OT. I watched sessions with people recovering from fractures, tendon repairs, and nerve issues. The work was slower than I expected, and sometimes repetitive. That was actually reassuring. The outcomes weren’t based on dramatic breakthroughs; they were based on good plans, consistent practice, and therapists who could keep a person engaged when progress was incremental.

I’m aware of my own bias as someone who comes from a performance world. I like measurable progress. I like training plans. That’s a strength, but it can also turn into impatience or tunnel vision. One thing I learned from being a patient is that rehab doesn’t reward brute force. It rewards attention and humility. I want clinical training and supervision that will help me carry my drive into a therapeutic relationship without making it about my standards.

Occupational therapy fits me because it treats function as the center. For some patients, that means dressing, bathing, or work tasks. For others, it means the thing that makes them feel like themselves—music, sports, hobbies, parenting. I’m drawn to that range, and to the idea that therapy can be both evidence-based and personally meaningful without being sentimental.

My goal is to become an OT who can do excellent upper-extremity rehab while keeping the bigger picture in view: pain, habits, fear of re-injury, the realities of someone’s job, and the ways people adapt that can help or harm them. I’ve experienced the frustration of losing function in a small body part and the relief of getting it back through a process that made sense. I want to be on the other side of that process.

Why this statement works

• The motivation is grounded in a concrete experience (hand injury) that naturally connects to OT without melodrama.

• Shows real understanding of hand therapy and return-to-function work (splinting, progression, coaching).

• Demonstrates follow-through beyond personal experience (adaptive climbing volunteer work, shadowing).

• Includes self-awareness about a potential weakness (performance-driven impatience) that fits the applicant.

• States a clear clinical interest (upper-extremity rehab/return-to-work/sport) with plausible reasons.

Special education classroom para → OT

I’ve worked in a special education classroom where you can tell what kind of day it will be by 8:10 a.m. If a student comes in covering their ears, the next hour might be about getting them regulated enough to sit in a chair. If someone refuses to take off their backpack, it might be because transitions feel unsafe. If a kid throws their shoes, it might be because the shoes feel “wrong” in a way they can’t explain.

I don’t say that to make it sound dramatic. It’s just the job.

I started as a paraprofessional because I like working with kids and I wanted a career where I could be useful. Over time, I realized the part of the work I was drawn to wasn’t academic support. It was helping students participate—at all. Eating, sitting for circle time, tolerating a haircut, holding a pencil without melting down, using the bathroom routine, playing with peers without getting overwhelmed. Those are the things that decide whether a child can access learning and relationships.

That’s how I found occupational therapy.

We have an OT at our school who is calm in a way I envy. When a student is dysregulated, she doesn’t jump in with a speech. She changes the environment, changes the demand, and gives the student a way back. I watched her help a child who refused handwriting by starting with something that looked unrelated: building shoulder stability through play, then short bursts of writing with the right supports, then gradually increasing demand. The “miracle” wasn’t that the child suddenly loved writing. The change was that writing stopped feeling like a threat.

Another student made my interest even clearer. He was smart and verbal but constantly in trouble because he pushed other kids, grabbed materials, and couldn’t wait his turn. Adults were labeling him as “aggressive.” The OT noticed that he got worse in noisy settings and during fine motor tasks. She worked on sensory strategies, provided movement breaks that were specific rather than random, and helped us adjust the classroom expectations so he wasn’t constantly failing. His behavior didn’t become perfect. But the day stopped being one long punishment cycle, and he started making friends. That shift changed how I think about “behavior problems.”

I’m applying to OT programs because I want the training to do this work with clinical skill and accountability. I’m especially interested in pediatrics, sensory processing, and school-based practice, including collaboration with teachers and families. I’ve seen how easily adults blame kids for challenges that are really about skills, regulation, or environmental mismatch. I want to become someone who can assess what’s going on, design interventions that fit a real classroom, and coach the adults around the child so strategies carry over.

In my current role, I’ve tried to learn intentionally. I track what works for different students: what helps them transition, what triggers shutdown, how long they can sustain a task before fatigue shows up, what kinds of prompts escalate versus support. I’ve also taken training in de-escalation and trauma-informed approaches because I didn’t want to rely on instinct alone. I know I’m still missing the deeper framework and the assessment tools that OTs use. I want that foundation.

I also want to be honest about something: this work can make adults controlling. When you’re responsible for a room full of kids, you can start caring more about compliance than participation. I’ve caught myself doing it. OT appeals to me because it keeps bringing the question back to function and engagement. Not “can this child do what I want,” but “what supports help this child do what matters in this setting.”

Long-term, I want to work in public schools, especially schools with limited resources. The need is obvious, and the impact is immediate. When a student learns to tolerate a routine, use tools that support independence, or regulate enough to join a group activity, it changes their entire day. It also changes how peers and adults treat them.

I’m pursuing occupational therapy because I’ve seen what good OT looks like in a school: not a separate service in a separate room, but a way of building access to everyday life. That’s the work I want to learn how to do well.

Why this statement works

• The classroom details are concrete and believable, showing real exposure rather than generic “I love kids.”

• Demonstrates an OT lens (participation, regulation, environment, skill-building) without jargon-heavy explanation.

• Uses specific student examples to show problem-solving and carryover, not “heartwarming transformation.”

• Acknowledges a realistic pitfall (over-focus on compliance) and shows growth-minded self-awareness.

• Clearly connects experience to a coherent goal (school-based pediatrics, collaboration, equity in access).

Ergonomics specialist in manufacturing → OT

I work in manufacturing, and I spend my days looking at the small physical demands that add up over time. How far someone reaches to a bin. How often they twist. Whether a tool forces wrist deviation. Whether the pace of the line leaves room for microbreaks. None of this is dramatic, but it’s where shoulder injuries and tendinitis come from.

My job is ergonomics and safety. I do job task analyses, help redesign workstations, train supervisors on safe practices, and assist with return-to-work planning after injuries. I like the practical nature of it: a problem in front of you, a solution you can test, data you can track. What I don’t like is how limited my role becomes once an injury is already affecting someone’s daily life. I can recommend restrictions and modifications. I can’t treat the functional loss. I can’t coach the person through the anxiety and identity hit that often comes with not being able to do your job normally.

I became interested in occupational therapy because it sits exactly at that intersection: the person, the activity, and the environment—and the skills to restore function, not just prevent further harm.

A case that pushed me toward OT was a machinist who developed severe lateral epicondylitis. We adjusted the workstation and tools, reduced force demands, and created a gradual return plan. On paper, it was solid. In reality, he was terrified to use his arm. Every time pain flared, he assumed he was “making it worse” and he backed off. That fear turned into avoidance, and avoidance turned into deconditioning. He ended up out longer than expected, not because we lacked accommodations, but because he needed rehabilitation that addressed function, pacing, and confidence—not just restrictions.

I started shadowing an OT in an outpatient clinic that did work conditioning. The sessions looked different from my world in a way that made sense immediately. The OT wasn’t just measuring strength. She was observing movement patterns, grading tasks to match the job demands, and coaching the person in strategies they could actually use on the floor. She also addressed the behavioral side—how to interpret pain, how to build tolerance, and how to communicate needs without escalating conflict with supervisors. I realized I had been working on only one side of the return-to-work problem.

That’s why I’m applying to OT programs. I want clinical training so I can work directly with injured workers on regaining function and returning safely and sustainably. I’m particularly interested in outpatient orthopedics, hand/upper-extremity rehab, and work rehabilitation. I also care about prevention, but I want to be able to follow the whole arc: assessment → intervention → reintegration into the real job.

My background gives me strengths I would bring to OT training. I’m comfortable analyzing tasks and environments. I understand the constraints of production settings and the difference between a “nice idea” and a change that will actually stick. I’m used to working with multiple stakeholders—employees, supervisors, HR, medical providers—and translating between them. I also have a quantitative orientation, which helps with tracking outcomes and being honest about what’s working.

At the same time, I’m applying because I’m missing the clinical piece. I want supervised training in assessment, therapeutic use of activity, and evidence-based treatment for musculoskeletal conditions. I also want to strengthen the interpersonal side of clinical care. In ergonomics, it’s easy to talk about “compliance.” In rehab, people are dealing with pain, fear, fatigue, and sometimes financial stress. The OT role requires a different kind of relationship than my current job. I want to develop that skill with supervision.

My long-term goal is to work in occupational health or outpatient rehab with a focus on return-to-work and injury prevention—ideally in a role that connects clinics with employers so that recommendations don’t die on paper. I’m applying to OT programs because I want the scope and training to make that connection real for individual people, not just for workflows.

Why this statement works

• Distinct, systems-and-task orientation reads like an ergonomics professional, not a typical healthcare applicant.

• Clearly explains the gap between accommodations and rehabilitation, which justifies the OT pivot.

• Uses a realistic case (fear-avoidance, return-to-work) that highlights OT’s unique contribution.

• Connects transferable skills (task analysis, stakeholder coordination) to OT practice without overstating.

• Ends with a specific career direction (work rehab/occupational health) that aligns with the narrative.

Family caregiver for a parent with dementia → OT

I became a caregiver before I had a name for what I was doing. At first it was small: reminding my dad about appointments, leaving notes around the house, driving more often because he started getting lost. Then it became constant. The parts that were hardest weren’t the medical tasks. It was the daily living stuff that slowly stopped working: dressing in the right order, cooking safely, managing the bathroom at night, keeping track of what day it was, staying calm when confusion turned into anger.

When home health services started, an occupational therapist came to our house. I assumed she would do exercises. Instead, she watched my dad try to make coffee. He stood at the counter, opened and closed cabinets, got frustrated, and then said he wasn’t hungry. The OT didn’t argue. She looked around the kitchen, asked what he used to do every morning, and then simplified the setup so the steps were visible and consistent. She coached me on cueing—how to give one step at a time, how to avoid correcting in a way that escalated, how to build routines that reduced decision-making. It wasn’t a cure. It made the day more livable.

That was my introduction to OT: practical problem-solving that protects dignity.

As my dad’s condition progressed, OT support became the difference between “we can manage at home” and “we’re in crisis.” We learned transfer techniques that reduced falls. We adjusted the bathroom so he could toilet more safely. We used strategies to reduce nighttime wandering. The OT also addressed me, not just him. She taught me how to set up the environment to prevent arguments I was having every day—arguments that weren’t really about the task, but about my dad’s fear and my exhaustion.

I’m applying to occupational therapy programs because I want to do that work for other families. Dementia care is often described in terms of decline. That’s real. But there is also a large space where good intervention changes quality of life: reducing risk, preserving independence longer, supporting caregivers, and making routines workable. I want to be trained to assess function, cognition, safety, and environment, and to design interventions that fit a family’s real constraints.

Since my dad passed, I’ve tried to move toward OT in a way that’s grounded in experience outside my own family. I began volunteering with an adult day program and later worked part-time as an activities assistant in assisted living. That work taught me how variable older adults are, even within similar diagnoses. It also taught me that “activities” can be therapeutic when done thoughtfully—graded, meaningful, and matched to capacity. I started observing OTs in the facility and noticed how much of their job is education and collaboration: working with nursing staff, communicating with families, setting realistic goals without giving false hope.

I don’t want to enter OT training with a single personal story and a vague desire to “help people.” I want to enter with a clear focus: geriatric practice, dementia care, home safety, and caregiver support. I’m interested in home-based OT and community settings because that’s where people spend most of their time and where small environmental changes can prevent major problems. I’m also interested in how OT can reduce avoidable hospitalizations by addressing function and fall risk early.

Caregiving also changed how I think about autonomy. I used to assume safety should always win. Now I understand that people have preferences, even when they need support, and that dignity matters. Families often need help finding the balance between risk and independence. I want to be trained to have those conversations responsibly and to offer practical options rather than abstract advice.

What draws me to OT, specifically, is that the work is grounded in daily life. It’s not only about symptoms. It’s about what someone can do, how they do it, and what supports make the difference. I’ve lived what that difference looks like in a home where everything was slowly getting harder. I want the training to become the person who can walk into that situation, assess what’s happening, and help a family build a routine that makes tomorrow a little more manageable.

Why this statement works

• The voice is quieter and more personal, fitting a caregiver background without turning into a memoir.

• Shows a clear understanding of OT in dementia care (environmental setup, cueing, routine design, caregiver training).

• Demonstrates maturity: acknowledges limits (“not a cure”) while showing meaningful impact.

• Adds external experience (adult day program/assisted living) to avoid relying only on personal history.

• States a focused goal (geriatrics/home-based/dementia/caregiver support) that aligns with the narrative.

Video: 7 Ways to Write a Crappy Graduate School Personal Statement

For more personal statement tips, check out Vince's video: 7 Ways to Write a Crappy Graduate School Personal Statement.