By five, you sat at a cram school desk, your legs swinging above the floor. You didn’t know what you were preparing for—only that if you didn’t keep up, you’d fall behind.
At ten, you were already tired. Sleep was for the weak, they said, and weakness meant failure. 6 hours of school, 4 hours of private classes, and homework from both.
By fifteen, it was four hours of sleep, four cups of coffee, and fear—the kind that lived in your chest and clung to every test score. "Vacations" meant it's time to study like never before. Relax and you'll fall behind. You can't live, but you can't die either. You can't be weak like your peers who died.
12 hours of your day roaming the Daechi district in private education facilities. Friends? Had to cut them off in middle school. Clubs? Sports? Hobbies? Keep dreaming.
And for what? No guaranteed success. But you made it. Good university. Good job. You check every box. And yet—every day feels like a slow unraveling in the work culture that glorifies sacrifice and burnout. Even a break is weakness.
Saying "no" is disrespectful. Your worth is your productivity. Always has been.
You live in Seoul, in a room the size of your childhood dreams. You wake, you work, you wither. People ask when you'll marry. You don’t even have time to breathe. Marriage? Kids? They're not even dreams anymore, they're burdens. Who wants to bring a child into a world where they'll suffer the same way they did, or worse?
The government sends baby bonuses, housing incentives, free childcare. But not peace. They never did. It's like putting a bandage over a broken bone. You were told to succeed. You were never told how to live.
(To be continued)
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