In middle school, we were first treated like curiosities— strangers on display, objects of attention rather than people. But time has a way of softening distance. Eventually, there were those who approached us not with curiosity but with sincerity. They became our friends, and for the first time in years, we were seen simply as ourselves.

When I advanced to high school, I let go of the faint hope of returning to America. Instead, I tried to belong—truly belong—to the people around me. And in that effort, something settled inside me. The feeling of being a stranger eased. I became part of them, and the world felt less sharp.

But peace was brief. The pressure of Korean education grew heavier with every passing day. The relentless competition was a constant reminder that rest was a luxury few could afford. I chased a dream I had carried since childhood—art school.

So I drew until the images blurred, until the smell of graphite and paint clung to me like a second skin. I studied until I no longer knew whether I worked for desire, for pride, or for the expectations of adults who believed effort guaranteed reward.

And then came the exam. I failed.
Six years of effort collapsed in a single moment.

I hated myself at first. Then I realized it was not myself I despised, but the world I had stepped into— the world where one misstep could erase years of devotion, where a child could be measured by a single score.

That is how my youth ended: not with achievement, but with the quiet understanding that I had survived a system that cared little for the ones who fell.