Clarity Through Uncertainty
My goal for the past four years has been to make a choice, a choice about my future. Questions like “What do you want to do when you grow up?” and “What do you want to study in college?” started in freshman year. I felt confused. I barely knew what I wanted to do the very next day. How was I supposed to know what I wanted to do in four years? What about the years of my life after that? Some adults told me that I didn’t have to decide so soon and that I had time to think about it; yet, that's not what my Korean parents believed. Maybe it's a cultural norm or the way they were raised, but to them, the most important thing was making a major decision between two things: 이과 (i-kkwa) versus 문과 (munkkwa). In English, i-kkwa is a title for the STEM-related majors while munkkwa leans towards the liberal arts. Almost every week since freshman year, my parents would ask, “Have you decided whether you’re i-kkwa or munkkwa?” I would always respond with “I don’t know.”
Four years ago, I sat in front of my laptop ready to select courses for my first year in high school. Back then, I didn’t have much thought about what classes I wanted to take, most of them were already mandatory. Biology was one of those classes, and I clicked it without much hesitation while choosing my courses. Since the very first class, biology easily became the highlight of my day. Who knew that learning about cellular respiration and the circulatory system was so captivating? So when my parents asked me about the progress in my decision-making process thus far, I answered with “i-kkwa.”
When course selection for sophomore year came, I wanted to be that well-rounded STEM student, so I made the choice of taking computer science and chemistry this time. Well, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that both these subjects were not for me. Every day, I alternated between sitting in computer science class staring at endless lines of foreign code and scribbling down chemical formulas I never understood. When the hours of staring and practice didn’t work, I decided that the field of science was not for me. This time, I realized I was definitely not an i-kkwa person. But did that mean I was munkkwa?
I initially joined MUN because of my parents’ constant nagging. It wasn’t considered i-kkwa, a decision I thought I had made correctly for myself. I also wasn’t much of a public speaker nor did I take an interest in global issues—for me, joining MUN was a choice far out of my comfort zone. Yet even with that discomfort, the overseas conference I attended in India built my love for public speaking and the collaboration that came with it. This was the first time I traveled overseas with a team, and that sparked something in me. By being surrounded by people who shared the same excitement for something, especially in another unfamiliar environment, I felt comfort in a community I never thought I’d be in. I began to enjoy the persuasive arguments and the interactions between delegates—they became skills that felt natural to me, skills crucial for communication.
This is why two years later, as a senior who’s in the midst of applying to colleges, I’ve completely forgiven myself for my indecisiveness. While discussing my college plans with my counselor, I ultimately chose to pursue communications—a munkkwa major inspired by my experiences in MUN and shaped by the exploration of my uncertainty.
The constant back and forth between i-kkwa and munkkwa was anything but straightforward. Each shift felt like starting over from scratch, but eventually, it became the basis for the clarity that came later. It was because of my experiences in both worlds that I was able to consider all aspects of my potential future upon making the definitive choice. Now, I realize that my indecisiveness was never a flaw—it was a part of my growth. Every moment of frustration, every time I bounced between these two worlds, I was learning more about myself and my interests. At first, the external pressure from my parents to make a choice and the internal pressure from my frustration led me to blame myself, and my abilities. While everyone else was either good at math or English, chemistry or history, I was stuck in an infinite loop, oscillating between i-kkwa and munkkwa. I blamed myself because I thought the reason why I couldn’t make a seemingly simple decision was because I wasn’t good enough. However, it was in that uncertainty that I began to understand that not knowing is okay. Rather than seeing this indecision as a lack of ability, I chose to see it as an opportunity to move forward.
The pressure to constantly make decisions can feel overwhelming, often leading us to blame ourselves for not knowing the “right” choices. When we fail to accomplish a goal, it’s easy to spiral into self-blame—we begin to question ourselves, others, and even the circumstances around us. I was no different. Whether as high school students faced with an uncertain future or adults grappling with pivotal choices to make, we often hold ourselves accountable for outcomes we don’t have control over. The question I ask is, why? Self-blame brings us nothing other than constant pressure and stress that trap us in a cycle of doubt and hesitation. It convinces us that a potentially “wrong decision” defines our worth and ultimately who we are.
So after all of this back and forth, it's safe to say that I choose forgiveness over blame.