Category Archives: South Korea

“A” Series of Journeys: The Story Behind the Board

By Kate Han, age 16, from South Korea, studies in Canada.

‘A’ Series of Journeys by Kate Han, age 16, Canada.

I’ve always struggled with the question, “Where are you from?” It’s not that I don’t know; the answer has never felt complete. I was born in Korea, spent much of my childhood in India, and now study in Canada. Each country left something inside me, not just as memories but as layers of identity. My artwork (see above) , ‘A’ Series of Journeys, emerged from this sense of fragmented belonging. But without the backstory, I realized the artwork feels like a silent map—colorful but unexplained. This is the narrative behind that map.

From Korea to India: My First Migration

I was five when my family moved from Seoul to Bangalore. What I remember most from those early days was the constant feeling of being “new.” New sounds, new smells, new alphabets. Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t just visiting—I was being asked to live someone else’s normal. In school, I was the only Korean girl. I didn’t speak Kannada or Hindi, and I barely knew English. But children don’t wait for fluency. I played tag with my hands, not my words. I watched others tie their shoes, share lunch, and greet teachers. I mimicked until it became second nature.

India gave me my first lesson in courage: that you can belong without blending in thoroughly. My neighbors wore saris and spoke a language I didn’t understand, but they treated me like family. We celebrated Diwali together, and over time, the questions stopped being “Where are you from?” and started becoming “Are you coming to dinner?”

India didn’t erase my Korean self. Instead, it added to it. I still spoke Korean at home, wrote Hangul in my diary, and celebrated Chuseok with food parcels from my grandmother. But the girl who lit sparklers on the rooftop during Deepavali wasn’t pretending. She was expanding.

Canada: A New Kind of Destination

Years later, I moved again—this time on my own, to a boarding school in Canada. If India was about cultural immersion, Canada was about cultural comparison. I had more words now, and more awareness. I could see how my classmates viewed “Asia” as a single block. I could also see how they saw me: someone exotic, sometimes confusing, occasionally admirable. Someone told me, “Wow, your English is excellent.” It was meant as a compliment, but I felt the space between us widen.

Boarding school life sharpened my understanding of identity—mine and everyone’s. I met friends from Nigeria, Ukraine, Mexico, and Australia. Some had never left their home countries before.

Some, like me, had already moved across continents. We bonded over strange cafeteria food, homesickness, and midnight conversations about who we were becoming.

Canada taught me that identity is not a finished product. It’s in constant motion. You carry your past, but you also build your future with every choice—what you say, how you listen, which memories you protect.

Why I Made the Board

‘A’ Series of Journeys started as a personal project to visualize this idea of motion. I used pins and thread to create intersections, connections, and collisions. Each line on the board represented a person, a place, a story, or a version of myself. The foam base—soft yet firm—symbolized the adaptability I’ve had to develop. The photos marked moments in time that still speak to me. Together, they formed a chaotic and orderly piece, much like my life.

But something felt unfinished. It was only after receiving the Skipping Stones Editor message that I understood why. The board is a conversation starter, but it needs a voice. The images are full of meaning, but only when paired with a story. Without this reflection, the piece may be a decorative design, not a lived experience. That’s why I’m writing this—to give the work its missing voice.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that home is not a location—it’s a rhythm. It’s in how you wake up, how you say goodbye, what you find strange, and what you start calling your own. In India, I learned to listen before speaking. In Canada, I learned to question people’s meaning by saying “diversity.” In Korea, roots can deepen even when far from the soil.

Another lesson: People are much more than the labels we use. The word “immigrant” doesn’t tell whether someone is hopeful or scared. “International student” doesn’t reveal how many languages people hear in their dreams. I’ve learned to ask better questions. Not “Where are you from?” but “What feels like home to you?”

Above all, I’ve learned that my journey is not a detour—it’s the main road. My experiences are not interruptions to everyday life; they are my life. And through them, I’ve gained a sense of the world and a stronger sense of self.

Why This Matters

For young people like me, art is more than expression. It’s a translation. It’s how we turn complexity into something we can share. I hope ‘A’ Series of Journeys speaks to anyone who has felt between places, languages, or versions of themselves. I hope it shows that confusion can lead to clarity and discomfort can lead to growth.

This write-up is not the end of the project—it’s part of it. The series continues as long as I live, move, reflect, and create.

By Kate Han, age 16, grade 11, originally from South Korea, currently studies in a boarding school in British Columbia, Canada.

Between Names

Between Names

By Jane Helen Lee, age 17, South Korea.

I was a collector of languages before I even knew the English word for “language.” I would gently pluck foreign words from overheard conversations and save them like colorful marbles in my pocket—later turning them over, swirling their smooth coolness between my tongue, sounding out hola, nǐ hǎo, 안녕하세요 (annyeonghaseyo). Through the sun-dappled filters of childhood that gently curtained my vision, there was something quietly magical about being able to say “hello” or even just “thank you” to a stranger in their own language. It felt as if I were weaving a thread between myself and someone I might never meet again.

The complicated kanji, hanja, and hangeul forms a patchwork quilt of syllables and syntax, woven from the voices of street vendors, lullabies, movies, and late-night whispers between siblings. Even when I couldn’t understand the meaning, I could feel the emotion behind a sentence—the rise in pitch, then the tremble, then, finally, the laughter tucked like a baby in a swaddle between vowels. Language to me, is and will always be something so achingly human.

But at age eight, I nearly lost my mother tongue.

My first language was Korean, and I learned English at a pretentious little english-only, ridiculously expensive preschool where white teachers would give Korean children names like “Emma” and “Madison.” When I moved to the US at age 6, my mother (omma) was shocked by how fast I forgot that my name was 재인 (Jae-in), not Jane. Suddenly, 엄마 (omma) was mommy and 숙세 (sook-jae) was homework. This shook her and, so, she pulled me out of school for 2 weeks to teach me, to make me re-learn and make sure I never forgot. This is something I thank her for to this day.

I once came across a piece of writing that claimed we are different people to each person we meet. I suppose that is true. To my mother, I am “재인아”, to my dad, I am “peach”, to my brother, I am “누나” (noona), to my classmates, I am “Jane.” I am 寶貝儿 (Bǎobèi er), 헤레나 (hae-le-na), Janie, peanut…, and I could go on forever. But that left me wondering: who am I to myself if all the names and identities I answer to have been lost or borrowed as changing masks to wear when interacting with others? See, when someone calls me “재인아” (jaein-a), I reply “응?” (eung?) or “네?” (nae?) and I’m what you’d describe as mature, and if you discount my horrible posture, maybe even ladylike, but call me Janie and I will change to become ever so child-like. Say “누나” (noona) and I will be strong. But despite being all these things, all these people, at once, I am just me. To me, I have no name, no title. The voice that tells me “ooh you shouldn’t have said that” or “hey, you look kind of good today” has no name for me. The thoughts I think that you will never hear except through the filtered microphone of my many masks do not belong to any one person, they belong to me, the many “me”s that together compose a jar of water made murky with the mixing-ins of paintbrushes tainted with colors from all parts of my life: every memory I have lived, every word I have spoken, and every song I have sung. And I can only hope that my jar, rinsed so many times of all the colors I have lived and palettes I have used, is not a dirty gray.

—Jane Helen Lee is a Korean-American writer currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work across screenwriting, poetry, and fiction and is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. Jane also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Unseen, the academic journal of the Korean Youth Honor Society, and finds joy in writing, debating, and volunteering at her local rehabilitation center.

Jane adds: “I am a senior attending high school in South Korea, and pencil was to me, what a Barbie doll was to many others: my dream, and my lighthouse. While dolls came to life in the hands of others, my pencil became an extension of myself. I began writing before I could even speak, creating stories and songs with scribbles, translating the world around me into language. In its easily broken, soft body, I found power; in its worn tip, wisdom. The pencil was my voice when I had none, and my refuge when life felt too loud. Now, that voice continues to guide me as I explore the issues close to my heart through my writing.”

Who I/Am

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”

“half, whole”

“half, whole”

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, Connecticut.
 
 
i have always been

two halves stitched together
half this, half that,
never wholly me
always half in, half out
not belonging to either
instead, i am two parts,
conflicting, like puzzle pieces
that don’t match,
forced together anyways
not one whole,
just bad stitching
the parts that don’t fit
hide under the paint,
cracked and chipped
not hiding much at all

they like to ask
if i am this half or that half,
but i say and, not or
and maybe they won’t understand
but i am always this half
and that half,
these halves are just me,
whole

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, high school junior, Connecticut. She adds: “I have been reading and writing for as long as I can remember, and it’s through reading and writing that I learned about other people’s cultures and identities as well as my own. My dad is white and American, and my mom is Korean and immigrated when she was young. For a long time, I’ve been exploring my own identity through writing, particularly my identity as a biracial person. I often feel like I have to choose between being Asian and being white, and I can’t identify as both. However, by ignoring either part of my identity, I am ignoring so much of my life. The way I see it, choosing one half of my identity is being dishonest with myself about who I am. My poem, “half, whole” explores the struggle of never feeling fully accepted as either “half” of myself, and how I have accepted that I don’t have to be put in one box and discard parts of myself for others’ comfort.”

Patbingsu With A Twist

Patbingsu With A Twist

By Nina Choi Zaldivar, age 14, Illinois

“I am a fourteen year old high school freshman living in Chicago, Illinois. Half Korean and half Argentinian, I love connecting to the cuisines of both of my cultures. I wrote the attached piece, Patbingsu, inspired by my desire to explore my cultural identity through food, specifically, delicious desserts!”

During middle school, my cousin Audrey and I figure skated at a suburban North Shore camp where most of the coaches and skaters were white. We slept over at our Korean grandparents’ house for a shorter commute to camp, where our grandparents cherished every moment with us, their lovely granddaughters. My grandmother expressed her love through her Korean cooking: kalguksu (noodles with beef broth), bulgogi(sweetened beef), fishcakes, chapchae (sweet sesame glass noodles), chapssaltteok (rice cake with sweet red bean paste), and my favorite, patbingsu.

Patbingsu, pronounced pot-bing-soo, is a summertime red bean shaved ice dessert. “Pat” means red bean in Korean, and “bingsu” is the shaved ice part. Most bingsusare made with shaved ice, but my grandparents introduced an American touch of lemon-flavored Italian ice, which adds a light, citrusy note. On top of the ice, you layer a sweet, earthy, and creamy red bean paste and a variety of fruits—my favorite are grapes and strawberries, which add a crunchy texture. Finally, you sprinkle soft, chewy mini rainbow mochi among the fruit on top. The harmony of lemon ice melting with the red bean paste turns into a symphony with a bite of strawberry and mochi.

Every morning our grandparents fed us a Korean breakfast and our grandpa drove us to the skating rink, our Korean lunches wrapped securely in our rolling ice skating bags, where we were met by a chilly blast of air. During lunch, our friends pulled out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a Capri Sun, while I opened my bulgogialong with rice and gim (dried seaweed).

The pungent smell traveled across the table, the conversation skipping a beat while my friends noticed the difference. I felt humiliated, and then guilty about my embarrassment because I was betraying my Korean-ness. Ashamed of feeling ashamed, I quietly ate my bulgogi and rejoined the conversation about Taylor Swift’s Reputation Tour.

At the end of each day of skating, I’d collapse at my grandparents’ kitchen counter where my grandmother greeted me in her floral blouse with faded pastel slippers, having lovingly prepared chopped fruit for patbingsu. “Muhguh chigoom!” she’d command—Eat now!—as she handed me a clear, square floral bowl full of freshly assembled patbingsu.Relieved to be home, I’d take the cold treat to the backyard where I’d devour the tangy and sweet patbingsu. My devoted grandmother never denied my request for a second serving, even though it was always smaller than the first.

My life consists of two worlds: the traditional Korean world, and the mainstream American one. Whenever I taste patbingsu, I am transported to the summers of my middle school, smelling the sweetness of the breeze in my grandparents’ backyard, enjoying the flavors of the lemon Italian ice melting into the red bean paste. Patbingsu is my place of comfort and security where I can be unconditionally accepted as both Korean and American.

Recipe for Patbingsu with Italian Ice (makes 1-2 servings)

This refreshing patbingsu recipe with lemon italian ice is courtesy of the Choi grandparents. For the fruit, I recommend fruits that are ripe and in season. I prefer using a variety: grapes, strawberries, watermelon, kiwi, and blueberries.

Ingredients:

⅓ cup lemon Italian Ice
¼ cup sweetened red bean paste
¼ cup fresh fruit
1 ½ tablespoon mini mochi (sweet rice cake)

Instructions:

  1. Add the Italian Ice then red bean paste into a bowl.
  2. Cut up fresh fruit into bite size cubes then add to the bowl.
  3. Add the mochi and serve.

Goldilocks Zone and the Three Planets

Goldilocks Zone and the Three Planets

Have you ever heard of the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears? In the story, Goldilocks sneaks into a bear family’s house and comes across three bowls of porridge. She finds that the first one is too hot, the second one too cold, and the third one is just right. Interestingly, there is also a principle called the “Goldilocks zone” in astrobiology. The Goldilocks zone (or habitable zone) is a space shaped like a doughnut around a star, where the temperature is “just right” for water to remain liquid, signaling the potential for life. In our solar system, the Goldilocks zone is a doughnut-shaped area between Venus and Mars’s orbit, with our earth in the middle. The only habitable planet orbiting the Sun is Earth, but there could be thousands of other exoplanets in the universe that have the conditions for liquid water. We can’t be sure yet, but some might even have life.

One example of an exoplanet that suits the Goldilocks principle is Proxima Centauri B. Proxima Centauri is a red dwarf star that is the closest star to our sun by a distance of 4.2 light-years. Although Proxima Centauri B lies in the habitable zone and could have an atmosphere and liquid water, there are obstacles that make it harder for people to settle there. For one, Proxima Centauri B suffers from overwhelming stellar wind pressures from its star. Also, as the planet might be tidally locked to its star, meaning that the same side faces the star at all times, one side might be boiling and the other extremely cold. As of now, we are unsure of whether the planet is rocky, icy, or gaseous. However, because the planet is very close to Earth, it might be the first exoplanet for humans to visit, so we should keep it in mind.

Another example of an exoplanet in the Goldilocks zone is Trappist-1e. Located about 40 light-years from Earth, its star Trappist-1 is a red dwarf star that weighs 0.09 times the Sun’s mass. All of Trappist-1’s seven planets have rocky surfaces like Earth and almost all have water in vapor, liquid, or solid form, which make humans look for opportunities to settle there. Out of these seven planets, Trappist-1e has the best chance of being habitable. Trappist-1e has an ocean and land, and if it has an atmosphere similar to that of Earth, people might be able to live there without gas masks or space suits. One interesting fact is that because Trappist-1 and its planets were formed 3 billion years earlier than our solar system, they might even support life that is more evolved than humans!

The last planet we’ll talk about was recently discovered in January 2020. Orbiting around the star TOI 700, TOI 700 d is the first earth-sized exoplanet discovered in the Goldilocks zone. TOI 700’s other two planets are so close to the star that all their water will boil away, while TOI 700 d luckily sits in the habitable zone with liquid water. Out of all the exoplanets in their star’s habitable zones, there aren’t many with the same size as Earth, which makes TOI 700 d one of the best options for settling. However, the distance of 101 light-years hinders us from visiting in the near future.

All three of these exoplanets have a possibility for harboring life. Even though the possibility that any of them are habitable for humans is very slim, we will continue our discovery of exoplanets. Only about 30 years have passed since we first discovered planets outside our solar system. This is only a start, and we can hope that astronomers will find a new exoplanet with the same conditions as Earth. Who knows? Maybe someday in the far future we will settle on a Goldilocks planet outside our solar system.

By Evan Jee, age 12, grade 6, South Korea. Evan writes: “I am interested in this topic of studying space and planets in school classes. And I usually read science novels or watch movies to understand the detailed aspects. As an international school student, I sometimes have time to discuss with foreign friends as well.”

References and Recommended Resources:

  1. NASA May Have Found the Goldilocks Planet of Goldilocks Planets: TOI 700d https://time.com/5763768/toi-700-d-goldilocks-planet/ 
  2. Earth, our Goldilocks Planet; Datasets from ‘Science on a Sphere’ https://sos.noaa.gov/catalog/datasets/earth-our-goldilocks-planet/
  3. Goldilocks Meets Desidero by Carl Spetzler, 2011

Art Essay by Jaeyeon Kim

Life is a journey.
“Standing at the many crossroads of life, my decisions would add up, changing my life and being. Fortunately, my friends and family have often been on hand to support and guide me through the toughest decisions and transitions. When it comes to art, I draw upon memories for inspiration and create with a strong sense of appreciation for the significant others and cross-cultural influences in my life. In this sense, my works are a collection of nostalgic thoughts, emotions, and experiences, as I look back on my life and hone in on influential fragments of time and space that have come together to define me as a human being.”
Jaeyeon is a fine artist who works to claim spaces for the public to engage with art without difficulty. Her work often revolves around detailed paintings, installation art and sculptures, which become a place for social engagement and visual communication.
—Jaeyeon Kim, 19, was born in South Korea, and came to the U.S. as an international student at the age of 15. She currently studies at the Parsons School of Design in New York. 

1. CrossRoad Korea

Seoul, where I was born, is a big city. There are many cars and people at the crosswalk. When I saw a crosswalk, its ‘X’ shape reminded me of our society. Our community is connected like the shape of ‘X’ and also has a system like a red/green light. Also, everyone has a different destination in life.

2. Subway Korea

In Korea, the subway is the lifeblood of the city, as in other countries. Many people go to the heart of the city by subway, and it is always crowded. Koreans liken these crowds to the appearance of ‘beansprouts’ which have to grow in a dense environment and survive well in it. I capture a scene of the subway and its passengers. People in the subway have various backgrounds–different ages, genders, occupations, attires, and emotions. Most people feel tired but, well, there is a will to live today.  

3.  Identities

There are many identities within us. Regardless of age, from a girl to a lady, there are various images of women in one person, based on the situation and culture.

—Art and writing by Jaeyeon Kim, 19, was born in South Korea, and came to the U.S. as an international student at the age of 15. She currently studies at the Parsons School of Design in New York. 

It was Good to be Back

By Benjamin Kwack, age 9, Illinois.

Hi. My name is Billy and my family was visiting Seoul which is in Korea and I loved everything about it. As soon as I heard that we were staying here for the entire summer vacation plus three months into the school year, I was so excited. Partially because I was going to not have three months of school. But anyway. I was going to be in Seoul because ever since the Korean war started and the fighting began, America had sided with South Korea. My father, who actually had joined the army 15 years ago, had to stay in South Korea to help, just in case the Northern part of Korea attacked again. I hoped I would enjoy my time, especially on the holidays. In America, holidays were still fun but this was a whole new country with different traditions so I couldn’t wait to be in Seoul.

The first holiday I witnessed was the New Year. Everyone stayed up really late until after midnight and in the wee hours of the morning. I was sleepy but tried to stay awake just to see what happens. I saw a big bell that was right next to a street and people had gathered around, cheering as they jumped out of their houses running to it. The only light was the light from thousands of cellphones, and they glowed brightly in the dark. The night was silent until somebody started talking into the mic. I felt a little nervous. The person with the mic stopped talking as someone rang the gigantic bell with a mallet that was hooked onto a chain. The big shouts of celebration filled the air, and children ran around with big smiles on their faces. I heard noises like, “It’s the New Year already!” and “See you next year!” The bell rang 33 times before it stopped. The sound of the heavy gong filled my head even after it ended but I was too excited, so it actually didn’t really matter.

Finally, everyone went back into their houses and went to sleep. When we woke up in the morning, my mom realized something. She said that we should have gotten a traditional food, called Tteokguk (It is a soup with sliced rice cakes inside it). I walked up to my mom and said that we had to try some of the soup because if this was a tradition, then I wanted to try it. She said, “Of course Billy. Why not?” So that was the reason why we rode to the supermarket in a taxi. The supermarket wasn’t crowded because everyone already had Tteokguk prepared a few days before. Luckily for us, one container of Tteokguk was still there sitting on the shelves. We quickly bought it. The cashier said, “Annyeong.” We said that we didn’t speak Korean so it was kind of difficult talking to the cashier but we finally managed to understand each other.

After we were done, I skipped out of the supermarket, and we rode another taxi home. It was a while for us to get back there but we unloaded the food and started cooking. I drooled. We waited and it was finally cooked thoroughly. The soup had a natural taste that felt rich as I rolled the pieces of sliced rice cakes around in my mouth. The soup warmed me inside and made me feel calm after all the excitement. I was thinking about the New Year. I tried some more, and it felt plain but at the same time, strong. I saved some for later; I didn’t want to eat all the Tteokguk in one meal.

Then, I watched as people came back out onto the streets again. But this time, a lot of older people also walked onto the streets. I followed them with my mom and my dad. The children bowed to their elders saying, “Saehae Bok mani badeuseyo!” and the elders smiled back, and they gave the children a little money. This went on for a while and when the last coins rattled, I held my breath with a little disappointment because I thought everything was done.

It wasn’t. There was one other thing. It must have been really meaningful because everyone went to visit their grandfathers and grandmothers or their ancestors who had passed away by going to their ancestor’s graveyards. Their family members who had lived in other cities also came and joined them. They laid food by the graveside and prayed for them. The family members chatted for a while and ate some of the food together and waved to each other for a long time before finally leaving. I was struck with a little confusion because this was a new thing for me, and I only knew a little of what was happening. That’s why everything made me feel awestruck and amazed. I actually liked the Korean way of celebrating the New Year. It soon became dark, and I went to bed and gazed up at the ceiling smiling waiting for the next holiday.

“What?!!!!!” I yelled waking up the next morning. My dad had announced that he had received an early retirement. It was such an honor to turn it down. Plus, my dad had been wanting to go back to America as soon as possible. I just sat there on my bed and scowled, but there was nothing I could do.

I gloomily walked to the airport with the family, boarded the plane and looked out the window. I had actually begun to like Korea and didn’t want to leave. Helplessly, I just flew back to America and cried to myself.

20 years later…

Billy had been in the army for four years. He had been sent to Korea to serve there. The happy smiles and laughs struck him and he smiled. It was good to be back!

“My name is Benjamin Kwack. I am 9 years old and I really like to draw, to do math and most of all, I like to write. I like to write fantasy, fiction and I really enjoyed reading informational books in class this school year.

In my story, ‘It was Good to be Back ,’ the main character, Billy, is a boy from America and his dad was in the army for 15 years. His dad was sent to South Korea to serve the army. Billy enjoyed the Korean New Year celebration because this was a new country with a new culture and traditions for him.

I wrote most of the story from Billy’s point of view except for the last two lines. I thought that way, it would seem special and more like a real story.”

Our Awareness of Zoom Fatigue

By Ryan Kim, age 16, Seoul, South Korea.

The rampant spread of COVID-19 caught even the experts by surprise. Without even direct contact, by simply being in the same room together, many became helplessly vulnerable to the pandemic. In order to mitigate the spread of the virus, we all had to adapt to a new norm. As the lockdown dragged on, we became more dependent on video conferencing platforms than ever before. Applications such as Zoom have boomed over the last year, providing an alternative solution for activities that once require face-to-face interactions. Many expect that these platforms can replace the traditional interaction where physical presence was once required. Despite all the positive aspects of Zoom and similar platforms, we need to understand that these platforms are viable alternatives we have only in the context of the pandemic. They should not and can not permanently replace the traditional human-to-human interaction.

            Despite the Zoom overload, the term “Zoom fatigue” is not familiar to many. In February of this year, Stanford University researchers uncovered a new phenomenon called “Zoom fatigue.” The unnatural close-ups of the face and the simultaneous view of others and self are unnatural to the human brain causing psychological overload and fatigue. Because of how Zoom became the new normal of our life, we have been inconspicuous of how dominant and fatiguing the effects are to us. Many are unaware of the feelings of exhaustion after repeated exposure to video-conferencing apps.

            In this new reality, as students are Zoom’s dominant users, they are the ones that are significantly burdened with Zoom fatigue. In virtual school, every day seems quotidian and senseless, slowly yet rapidly draining the most pivotal time of our lives. The small chatter among friends before class, walking down the hallway in between classes, and even the three-dimensional experience of being surrounded by other peers seem trivial and inconsequential until they are removed. They are a big part of the mental and psychological breaks available to students as we engage in learning.

            Institutions expecting students to follow along in the virtual setting with the same effectiveness and focus as the offline is similar to expecting a runner to run the same distance and pace while carrying a weight on his back. In these challenging times, there are no perfect solutions. I am not bashing platforms such as Zoom, nor am I suggesting that we should not have virtual classes. However, we do need to be aware and mindful of the new challenges we face in these alternatives. We must treasure the little things we did not notice until they became no longer available to us. Virtual interactions should not replace physical interactions. And most importantly, Zoom fatigue is not an excuse.

By Ryan Kim, age 16, Seoul, South Korea. He entered this article for the 2021 Youth Honor Awards program.

Work Cited:

University, Stanford. “Four Causes for ‘Zoom Fatigue’ and Their Solutions.” Stanford News, 1 Mar. 2021, news.stanford.edu/2021/02/23/four-causes-zoom-fatigue-solutions/.

Singer, Natasha. “Online Schools Are Here to Stay, Even After the Pandemic.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 11 Apr. 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/04/11/technology/remote-learning-online-school.html?searchResultPosition=6.