On April 30th, KAIST hosted the joint seminar Passing Through Failure at the Yangseongtak Auditorium in the KAIST Academic Cultural Center, co-organized by the KAIST Center for Ambitious Failure (CAF) and the Center for Global Development in Science and Technology (G-CODEs). The seminar brought together Park Soryoung, founder of the content platform startup PUBLY, for an open conversation about the choices and failures of her ten years as an entrepreneur — and what it means to record and carry forward those experiences Park opened her talk by examining failure through a wide range of examples and perspectives, arguing that failure is not something to "overcome" but a process one ultimately passes through. What matters, she suggested, is not the failure itself but "what remains with you afterward." She reflected candidly on the misjudgments and moments of lost agency she experienced while founding and running PUBLY, and shared what she has come to understand about the value of revisiting and recording failure. From a line in a YouTube video — "failing just means play again" — to the hard realities of fundraising, investment, and organizational leadership, her talk invited the audience to question the assumptions we bring to the very idea of failure. The discussion that followed featured CAF's Professor Ahn Hyejeong and G-CODEs' Professor Park Gayoung, who extended the conversation beyond personal experience into the broader landscape of technology, content, and social context. Questions like "what makes content last?" and "what judgments must humans hold onto, even as AI-generated content proliferates?" brought a wider lens to the evening's themes. The seminar also gave sustained attention to how failure gets recorded. Park argued that failure documentation need not be a precise reconstruction of facts — what matters is the act of putting memory and emotion into words. Revisiting failure, she emphasized, is not an exercise in self-blame but a foundation for making better choices going forward. Taken together, the evening was an invitation to stop treating failure as a personal mark of shame or a simple outcome, and instead to ask what we choose, what we leave behind, and how we want to live in a rapidly changing world. Researchers, students, and entrepreneurs in the audience engaged actively, keeping the conversation going well into the Q&A. When one attendee asked what she would say to someone who finds it hard even to try, Park's answer was quiet and direct: "I think failure is unavoidable in life. But I believe that as long as you're alive, everything is okay. As long as you don't die, there's always another chance." The full seminar recording is available at the link below.    

“You always do your best in whatever you do.” To me, that sentence always felt like both a compliment and a responsibility. I like to think that I was one of the hardest working students at KAIST. Classes, research, extracurricular activities, department student representative, President of the Student Association, overseas volunteering, competitions—you name it. I always felt reassured whenever I was accomplishing something. My daily schedule was always packed, and I felt anxious if I stopped even for a moment. Naturally, the achievements piled up. I believed that my achievements allowed me to prove myself to the world. On the outside, everything looked perfect—I even thought so myself. I liked being busy. Every time someone told me, “You’re really something else,” it motivated me to keep on pushing. But at some point, things started to go awry. I became impatient and touchy over the smallest things. I didn’t feel refreshed after waking up from bed, and I no longer found myself playing the piano I once loved. My inbox began overflowing with unanswered emails, and my to-do list grew longer by the day. Yet strangely, I couldn’t bring myself to start any of it. I had become the kind of person who constantly calculated their future—not just tomorrow, but months and years ahead. That was who I had become. Still, I thought things were fine. “Everyone goes through a phase.” “This is an important moment in my life.” I tried to reassure myself with those thoughts, and I sometimes even scolded myself. Looking back, I was only fooling myself, and that was the most dangerous problem. My winter internship in Seoul was the final warning. Every morning, I got on the subway before sunrise, and I spent the day experimenting and reading papers. By the time I left work, my mind and body felt hollow. When I came home late at night, my mind was filled with all the mistakes I made that day, and the thought of tomorrow made me deeply anxious. And yet, I still believed I was fine. This was all part of the growing process, an investment for the future—or so I kept telling myself. Then one day, I came home for a short holiday. My parents welcomed me warmly since they hadn’t seen me in a while. Strangely, their warm expressions made me feel uncomfortable inside. The moment I saw their faces, which should have felt familiar and comforting, everything came crashing down. We were chatting at the dinner table, and the topic shifted to my plans for the following semester. Suddenly, I felt something surging up inside my throat, like I was about to erupt like a volcano. I tried my best to push it down, but there was no way to stop myself from bursting. I burst into tears and cried uncontrollably. I was completely bawling my eyes out. It would be an understatement to say that my parents were shocked to see me, their bright and confident daughter, fall to pieces. I will never forget the look on their faces that day. I can still vividly picture the shock and sadness in my mother’s eyes. Only then did I realize the truth that I had ignored for so long. “I failed after all.” This was not a failure in academics or research. “I had completely failed to take care of myself.” Looking back, that failure didn’t happen overnight. I always wanted to do well. No—I believed I had to do well to be a worthy person. I thought that was the only way to earn respect from others. I had convinced myself that without achievements, I was worthless. Because of this, I had shunned my emotions aside. Even when I was anxious, scared, and exhausted, I pretended I was fine. “Everyone else is enduring. It’s not like I’m the only one struggling.” That was how I kept forcing myself to push forward. Somewhere along the way, I became disconnected even from myself. I remember how my heart would race for no reason, and how I couldn’t breathe properly in the subway. At night, I couldn’t sleep and instead cried, though I didn’t know why. Still, I never thought of taking a moment to catch my breath. To me, stopping felt like losing. I was being so cruel to myself. That night, I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, I saw a KakaoTalk message my mom had sent in the middle of the night. Above the message, it said: “Wednesday, February 12, 2025, 1:34 AM.” My mom, who always went to bed by 11 pm, had stayed awake until 1:30 in the morning. She must have written, erased, and rewritten that message countless times, thinking deeply about what she could possibly say to make her daughter hurt a little less. I started to cry again the moment I saw her text. Written in that message was something I had never heard in my entire life. “Donyoung , it’s okay to rest.” “What you achieve and how fast you achieve them isn’t important. What matters more is whether you can smile and feel happy.” Never before had anyone told me that it was okay to rest. Not my friends, not my teachers, and not even myself. That was a luxury I had never once granted myself. “I’ve never stopped, have I? Not even once.”“I’ve never actually thought about taking care of myself.” My mom also wrote this in her text: “As long as you stay true to yourself and take things slowly, you’ll eventually see a faint light ahead. If the light is taking its time, then just sit down and rest for a while.” The moment I read those words, it felt like something finally clicked in my mind. On the following day, my mom launched a “Heal My Daughter Project.” She took me to her favorite restaurant and ordered all the dishes she loved. For the next few days, I did nothing at all and chatted with my sister after she came home from work. During the evenings, I sat at the table with my family, enjoying delicious fruit together. There was nothing special about those couple of days, but that was the first time I truly understood how comforting and precious simple, everyday moments could be. At first, I was still anxious. “Is it okay to let days go by like this?” “Everyone else is probably still pressing on—am I falling behind?” But strangely, as time passed, I gradually began to loosen up. Every day, my mom told me: “It’s okay even if you achieve nothing. It’s okay to be a bit slower than everyone else. I’m always on your side.” Those weren’t just words of comfort. They were the reason I finally began to understand myself. In those few days, I had undergone a transformation. I no longer felt like I was suffocating. My heart didn’t pound as violently in the mornings. And for the first time, I began saying things like: “It’s okay to do just a little today.” “Resting is also something that I need to do.” Now I understand. I just need to be myself. My achievements don’t prove who I am, they’re just one part of my life. More than anything else, my failure taught me a valuable lesson: My relationships are what give me strength. I learned how to take care of myself for the first time, and I did so thanks to the safest, most solid relationship I had—my family. After spending so long believing I had to be perfect and strong, what lifted me back up in the end wasn’t an accomplishment, nor was it effort. It wasmy familywho loved me unconditionally, without expectation.  Now I know this important fact. It is okay to struggle. It is okay to stop. I am just as good and worthy even when I am doing nothing. The truth is, I still waver sometimes even now. Whenever I do, I open my phone and reread that text my mom sent me at 1:34 a.m. I want to close my essay by sharing that message with everyone. In case you, the one reading this essay now, need the reminder too: You are already precious, just as you are.  

Most stories we hear about failure are told from the other side—when the success has already come, the lesson is learned, and everything has somehow worked out. But what about when it hasn’t? What about when you’re still in the middle of it—when the disappointment is fresh, when the door has just closed, when the darkness still lingers? This is one of those stories. I grew up in church. Sunday school, youth group, retreats—I was immersed in a world where faith was closely linked to positivity. I was taught how to pray with a structure: thank God, praise Him, confess your sins, ask for blessings. But as I got older and life became more complicated, I started to feel like that kind of prayer wasn’t always honest. What do you do when you’re not feeling thankful? When you’re not sure what to praise? When the silence from heaven feels deafening? In 2019, I started my master’s degree at KAIST with the dream of becoming a professor. Continuing with a PhD felt like the natural next step. But my advisor was retiring, so I looked for a new lab. I found one that seemed perfect. The professor liked my research, and we had a good rapport. I felt hopeful. It felt like a door opening. I applied to the PhD program. On the same day I successfully defended my thesis, I found out I didn’t get in. That door I thought was open? Slammed shut. Thankfully, I was allowed to stay one more semester to figure things out. I found another professor who seemed interested. We started meeting weekly. It looked promising. Then, just after the application deadline passed, he told me his lab wouldn’t be a good fit after all. Another no. Another sudden halt. I began applying to schools overseas. I got accepted into programs in China, Australia, and the U.S. But I didn’t want to leave. I had built a life in Daejeon. I had a community. I had friends. Still, it seemed like everything was pushing me out. Eventually, I decided on the U.S. But because of my nuclear engineering background, my visa was delayed for additional investigation. I missed the semester. Another forced break. Another period of waiting. Another season of uncertainty. All the while, I was questioning everything—my path, my future, my identity. Was I really meant to do this? Did I even enjoy the research I was chasing? Was I trying to follow a calling—or just chasing a version of success I thought I was supposed to want? Eventually, I reapplied to KAIST. This time, I was accepted. I returned to familiar places, but with new challenges. I was in a different lab, with a different focus. I felt behind. I felt overwhelmed. I felt like I was constantly catching up, emotionally and mentally. And then, in the middle of all of it, someone said to me, "You're memorizing quotes and routines, but you're still depressed? How can you be strong and still feel this way?" That comment stayed with me. It shook me. It made me question not just my mental health, but my own expectations for how I was supposed to live, feel, and process struggle. Was I not allowed to feel confused, angry, lost? Was I failing not just in career but in character? This wasn’t just a crisis of circumstance—it was a crisis of identity, of connection. And not just with faith or tradition, but with people. Failure has a strange way of isolating you. You start to feel like you're the only one struggling, the only one falling behind, the only one asking the questions everyone else is too scared to say out loud. But in that darkness, I found something unexpected. I stumbled upon a talk by the late Timothy Keller on a passage from Psalms—a text that ends not with light or resolution, but with darkness. It ends with the words, “Darkness is my closest friend.”That verse hit me hard. Because that’s exactly how I felt. For the first time, I saw that even within the pages of ancient wisdom, there was space for confusion. For grief. For silence. For raw and unfiltered emotion. This wasn’t a cheerful, resolved speech—it was full of sarcasm, doubt, and despair. And yet, it was still preserved. Still respected. That changed something in me. Whether or not you're religious, I think many of us carry the pressure to be okay. To move on quickly. To turn our pain into wisdom without actually sitting with it. But what if we allowed ourselves to stay with the pain a little longer? To feel it, to name it, to speak it—even if our voice shakes? In my case, that rawness became the start of something real. I stopped pretending I was okay. I stopped trying to act like everything was fine. Instead, I started being honest. And oddly enough, that honesty brought me closer to something deeper than comfort—something like clarity. If you’re into MBTI, I’m 92% F—an emotional processor through and through. I’ve learned that feelings can be loud and misleading. They’re real, but they’re not always true. You can feel abandoned and still be loved. You can feel like a failure and still be growing. You can feel alone and still be deeply connected. Looking back, I still don’t fully understand why things happened the way they did. I don’t know why the first PhD door closed. Or why the visa was delayed. Or why that one comment cut me so deep. But I’ve made peace with not knowing. And that, in itself, is progress. Sometimes we don’t need the full answer—we just need the next step. Sometimes hope doesn’t look like a bright light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes it looks like sitting in the dark with a friend who won’t leave. Sometimes it’s just enough to keep going. Maybe your journey doesn’t make sense yet. Maybe the doors keep closing. Maybe the darkness hasn’t lifted. But if you're still here—still breathing, still trying, still hoping in your own way—then that’s something powerful. Failure isolates. But it also invites us to see who stays. To see who listens. To see who holds space when there’s nothing to fix. And sometimes, the most meaningful relationships—the ones that hold us together—are born not in celebration, but in the quiet aftermath of disappointment. So if you’re in that place, I want to tell you what I needed someone to say to me: You’re not broken. You’re just human. You’re not alone. Even in the silence. And maybe, just maybe, the darkness won’t have the last word.

When I was younger and less mature, I once tried desperately to win someone’s heart. Back then, I couldn’t manage my own emotions, let alone navigate something as complicated as love. I clung onto the relationship desperatelyㅜ, and in the process, I was erasing myself little by little. Back then, I didn’t know you could fail when it came to feelings and relationships. There are times when it feels like certain thoughts are stuck in my head, echoing inside my mind. It often becomes so bad that it starts to have a negative impact on my life. During one of those difficult periods, someone came into my life. Being with him was a welcome escape, filling me with emotions I'd forgotten and helping me leave my troubles behind. I couldn’t easily let go of someone like that. At first, I grew fond of him because he stood beside me during that rough time. I liked the way he made me laugh and how attentive he was. He listened to me, looked into my eyes whenever I spoke, and even matched his walking pace whenever he was with me. Over time, I didn’t just appreciate those gestures—I began to like him.When he shyly told me he wanted to be with me, part of me felt uneasy about liking someone again, and yet another part of me was happy that this meant I could know him better. As we grew closer day by day, I assumed this was going to be a story with a happy ending. We began by taking note of our similarities and were amazed at how much we had in common, given that we had only just met. I loved our endless conversations where we would affectionately exchange stories about our day. Whether I was getting ready in the morning, sitting in lectures, or walking across campus with my friends, I was always searching for a fun episode to share with him. All I could think about was telling him about my day. One day, he asked me what I thought love was. I said true love was when caring and sacrificing for someone else equates to protecting yourself. When I asked him back, he said he wasn’t sure what love was. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever truly been in love. “Something I previously thought wasn’t love now seemed like it might have been after all,” he said. When I noticed that we were having fewer conversations like this, I knew that something needed to change in our relationship. After a drinking party with friends from our department, we were walking across a pedestrian bridge when he (probably emboldened now that he was tipsy) said, “I really like you. What do you think of me?” Of course I liked him. But I wanted this conversation to take place when we were sober, so I instead said teasingly, “Ask me that when you’re not drunk.” But the next day, he said nothing. As our ssum(Korean slang term referring to two people who have “something” but haven’t actually started dating) dragged on, my anxiety became impossible to ignore. Feeling like I was suffocating, I demanded that we define our relationship. He said he didn’t want to date me but wanted things to stay the way they were. It was an incredibly selfish thing to say. Why start anything, then? Or maybe nothing had ever really started in the first place. To me, the options were simple: end this obscure relationship or make it official. I had made up my mind that this was not going to work. Yet somehow, it felt like I was breaking up with a lover, even though we had never dated. I told him how I felt, unable to stop my tears. He responded by saying, “Then… we don’t have to break up.” I hated the idea of letting him go when he already had a place in my heart. My rational side knew that if he didn’t want to start dating me, the only logical option was to cut things off. But emotionally, I still wanted to stay with him—however ambiguous our relationship. When reason won, I pushed him away and said we should stop, only for my feelings to swell again a few days later, bringing me back to square one. Maybe he felt just as conflicted. With such a shaky relationship, all we did was make each other feel even more insecure. We grew more comfortable the more time we spent together, and our affection grew. Yet, our relationship remained undefined. I also could feel that he was slowly losing interest. I told myself not to take things too seriously and instead control my expectations, butI kept hoping for him to reciprocate the same depth of feeling I had. When he didn't, I was left feeling disappointed and hurt all by myself. At some point, the act of liking someone began to make me feel smaller. Some days he was warm, other days so cold—it was like mixing hot water with ice to keep everything lukewarm. One moment he would say, “You are the person I care about the most,” making me feel warm inside, but then he’d say, “This relationship honestly doesn’t interest me as much!” in an icy voice. My emotions fluctuated constantly with the temperature of his voice. Whenever he said something that felt even slightly warm, my cool heart would melt instantly. However, the warmer I felt inside, the more I would crumble in the end. I clung onto everything he said like my life depended on it. His words and actions dictated my mood for the entire day. If he spoke to me in a kind voice, I felt happy and grateful. If he treated me coldly and distanced himself, then I would feel downcast all day. I hated this side of me, but I was still drawn to him. Every single day revolved entirely around him—I constantly thought of him even when we were apart. That sense of being connected to him, however fragile, felt good. The days and weeks went by like that. By then, our lives had become so intertwined that it was impossible to imagine life without the other. After we concluded our daily schedule, we naturally gravitated toward each other—not deliberately, just out of habit. It became a regular routine for us to meet and talk about how our day went over beer. Whenever either of us snapped back to reality, we wondered if maybe it really was time to stop. Time went by with us repeatedly saying “Let’s end this” and “No, let’s try to make this work again” back and forth like some kind of tennis rally. I think I was hoping that my feelings for him would one day fizzle out so that I could finally let him go. The word gyereuk(literally meaning “chicken rib,” a phrase used to describe something not particularly valuable to keep, but also not quite worthless enough to discard) comes to mind. To me, he was someone I genuinely wanted in my life, but to him, I was a gyereuk—someone he didn’t want to let go of completely, but definitely not someone he actually wanted. Our relationship was too bare to be called love, but it was also too much to be called friendship. It was clear that this relationship was a failure. Through him, I hit rock bottom emotionally and saw how far my pride could fall. The harder I tried to fully win his heart, the more he wanted to distance himself from me. When I got fed up and forced myself to push him away, he would eventually approach me again. Each time, I tried to put on a facade of reluctance as I returned to him, pretending I couldn’t see the bigger problem. This essay would be several times longer if I tried to recount every moment spent drowning in that confusing mix of dopamine and desperation, but I know I really liked him. Wanting reassurance, I asked, “Don’t you like me anymore?” He said, “60% of me doesn’t like you, and the remaining 40% does like you.” That 60% part stung quite a bit, but I was actually happy that there was still 40% that appreciated me. When I asked, “Why do you spend time with me if you don’t like me that much?” he said, “At this point, being with you has become a part of my daily life.” Truth be told, I was honestly overjoyed to know that I was part of his life. Even after hearing all that, I was more afraid of losing him than I was of losing myself. I was constantly scrutinizing my words and actions, taking care not to say or do things that he might dislike. I felt myself grow smaller and smaller, yet I convinced myself that it was fine. Sometimes, I would stare intently at his face when he was looking elsewhere, on the verge of confessing my love for him right there and then. However, I stopped myself from blurting out my feelings and instead acted like it was nothing. The more time I mulled over our relationship by myself, the more frustrated and hurt I became. Consequently, I lost the bright, carefree side of myself. I was constantly trying to guess his feelings, but that just made me feel even more anxious and obsessed. He couldn’t stand that. I realized later in life that this entire process wasn’t a failure of love, but a failure to look after myself. Only after losing myself in the name of protecting him was I finally able to admit that this relationship had failed. But the truth is, I wasn’t unhappy all the time during our so-called relationship. I genuinely had fun with him, and though it wasn’t truly comfortable, it was familiar, and that mattered to me. Sharing a drink at the end of the day and sharing our burdens was a significant source of stability for me. Despite our harsh words and actions at times, we lasted surprisingly long. I had long abandoned my pride in front of him. Was I afraid of losing him, or was I afraid of losing myself the more I loved him? So when he finally let go of the relationship I had been trying so hard to hold onto, the months and years we’d spent together made it hard for me to accept that this was really the end. He wasn’t just a part of my life; he wasmy life. I even went to his place once, desperate to keep our relationship alive. But the more I clung, the more resolute he became. For a while, I tried to deny my failure. I resented my own naivete for believing that our relationship was special and different from the rest. A part of me didn’t want the feelings I had for him to end up meaningless. Another part of me hoped he had reciprocated equally deep feelings for me. I missed the way he used to smile at me, and how he always made me smile. I wondered whether things would have been different if I had acted differently. But above all, I was left disappointed in what I had become. I wanted to share with him my feelings and thoughts as a final goodbye, but he avoided even talking to me. So I pushed all those feelings down and sent him a long message, thinking maybe—just maybe—he would change his mind. But he replied, “You’re too much. Why are you taking things so far?” What hurt the most was having my sincerity dismissed—sincerity I had shown because I fully believed he was also just as sincere. He had been my everything, and I hated how suddenly we had become nothing. Yet he seemed unfazed by being apart from me. By the time I had exhausted myself enough to finally let him go, what hurt more than losing him was realizing how little I had cared for myself while I was with him. That was the first time I learned that even if a relationship fails, I shouldn’t fail myself in the process. I tried to remember what my life looked like before I met him, but nothing came to mind. I had to rediscover who I was. I naively leaned on him for everything. I had lived my life looking forward to the time we spent together every evening—so letting him go meant I was once again truly alone. I wondered why I was the only one struggling this much. Was it because I poured too much into this relationship? Part of me resented him, too—he was the one who said he liked me first, yet he pulled away as soon as my feelings grew deeper. I tried to get my mind off things by being busy. I focused on living my life and slowly began to rediscover who I was on my own. Through my failed relationship, I learned that I could be whole without someone beside me. Even though I didn’t have love in my life, I was still myself, and I realized that I should have been myself even when I was in a relationship. A healthy relationship should mean that you can be yourself more, not less. I promised myself that next time, I wouldn’t lose who I am. When I finally came to terms with the breakup, he seemed to feel a twinge of regret. But I knew it wasn’t because of anything about me specifically—it was probably because he felt the emptiness that comes when someone close to you suddenly vanishes. I didn’t let myself be fooled by his sudden change of tone. It wasn’t as though he was disappearing from the world forever; if we were truly meant to be, maybe someday our paths would cross again. It just wasn’t our time. He entered my life too early. I loved him so much, but we were both too young and inexperienced, and that immaturity resulted in us hurting each other. I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out if we met now. Maybe we could have had a steadier, more mature relationship. Or maybe we never would have started anything at all, refusing to reveal the rawest parts of ourselves. I still don’t know whether he left me or let go of me, or whether I left him or let go of him. All I know is that at some point we both realized we couldn’t be together anymore, so we decided to move on. When he left for good, he told me that time would dull the pain—that even if it felt like the world had ended right now, given enough time, I would be okay. And he was right. As time passed, the deep cuts of sadness healed, and eventually my heart was once again filled with happiness. The memories with him stayed the same, but nostalgia made everything seem a lot better in hindsight. My heart used to ache whenever I thought of him, but now I can smile when I look back at our time together. Sometimes I miss the version of myself who wore a bright smile whenever I was beside him, but I also know that I cannot repeat the same mistakes that resulted in my darkest days. “As the distance between us grew, I became closer to myself.”This is a line from a song I heard, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My failed relationship broke me, but it also rebuilt me. I experienced growth because of that love. A failed relationship isn’t always someone’s fault. At the very least, I can say that the girl who loved with everything she had did not fail. When my heart finally settled down, someone new came into my life. He gently landed beside me, like someone I’d known for a long time. If it had been the old me, I would’ve been too afraid of opening up, lest I get hurt again. But this time was different. I made a promise that I wouldn’t lose myself in the name of love. I had learned how to gauge another person’s emotions and wait patiently for someone who loved me as much as I loved them. I didn’t have to walk on eggshells or filter my emotions. With someone who respected my pace, I could laugh freely at the smallest things, stay true to myself, and love without abandoning who I was. That relationship eventually came to an end too, but I am confident that I will meet someone who will see me as I am, and the sincere love I desire. Until then, I will look after myself well enough so that I can love wholeheartedly like I was always meant to.  

Introduction In the competitive ecosystem of KAIST, success is measurable: GPA, internships, research papers, scholarships. From outside, I was thriving. From the beginning of my time at KAIST, I was focused on doing well academically. I wanted to get involved in research early, and build a strong foundation for my future. And I did exactly that. From my very first year, I maintained a high GPA, engaged in advanced research projects from my third semester, participated in Undergraduate Research Participation (URP) Program and won the Excellence Award, and even secured a six-month research internship at one of the most prestigious labs in the world in my field, LLR of Ecole Polytechnique, France during my sixth semester. All these are badges of academic merit. However, there was a strange void in the middle of these achievements. Somewhere in between the sleepless nights, skipped meals, and silent semesters, there was a missing piece, a strange emptiness. I had failed not in coursework or research, but in relationships. I did not join any clubs. I barely socialized. I slept irregularly and lived on caffeine and momentum. Now that I am about to graduate, I came to the conclusion that while I was succeeding by academic and career standards, I was failing in a much deeper way. I failed in building real relationships, in being present, and in taking care of myself as a person. This is the story of how I failed at relationships, not because I did not care about people, but because I never made space for them. And how, through one exchange semester and some unexpected lessons, I found a new way to live. A life that made me not only happier, but more successful in every sense. The Grind I never regret working hard; on the contrary, I appreciate it. In fact, it gave me a lot. It gave me confidence that I can do whatever I can, it showered me with opportunities and gave me a profound sense of direction. However, my execution was not a proper, or at least healthy one. During my early semesters, I spent most of my time in the lab, my room, or the library. I did not go to club fairs. I did not hang out much with classmates outside of group projects. I prioritized efficiency above all, and relationships did not feel efficient. I slept irregularly and lived on caffeine and momentum. I once spent four days straight without sleeping because I had exams. I was regularly consuming about a thousand milligrams of caffeine. From the third semester onward, I committed myself to academic excellence with the same intensity a professional athlete might reserve for training. I joined a research group early, attended advanced lectures, and planned my course trajectory with precision. Every A+ was a data point validating the system I had built for myself. My calendar was color-coded and optimized. Sleep was expendable. Meals were delayed. Friendships were… optional. While others joined clubs, I stayed in the lab. While they went on weekend trips or late-night walks, I stayed at my desk. While they built friendships, I built a resume. Looking back, it is hard to remember the names of people I sat next to in lectures… Not because they were not interesting, but because I never paused long enough to connect. At the time, I rationalized it all. Relationships, I told myself, were distractions. The rest was indulgent. The system was working – my grades proved it. And so, I kept grinding. At the time, I thought that it was fine. I convinced myself that friendships would just slow me down, relationships will curb my growth. Every hour spent socializing was one less hour for problem sets, coding, or literature review. As such, I cut those things out. My schedule was full, but my life was not. I did not notice it right away. The good grades and research progress made it feel like everything was on track. But over time, I began to feel it. A kind of dullness, like going through the motions without feeling connected to anything. I was not unhappy, at least not that I realized. But I was certain that I was not happy either. I was just tired – all the time. Well, three to four hours of sleep everyday for years cannot guarantee anything more than that. The Internship Wake-Up Call During my sixth semester, I left for a six-month internship. It was, albeit, a great opportunity, but also a lonely one. I was working in a new environment, surrounded by people I did not know, and I did not really try to make connections. I treated it like an extension of my academic life. I worked hard, delivered results, kept going. I thought it would be a crowning jewel in my academic journey. Instead, it became a mirror. The work was stimulating and aligned with my goals. But without even the shallow routine of KAIST dorm life, I found myself completely alone. I would go entire days without talking to anyone except in professional contexts. My only company was study, code, coffee, and a to-do list. But something shifted. Without even the small bits of social interaction I had at KAIST, I felt isolated. I would come home from work and realize I had not spoken to anyone all day in a personal way. The silence was loud. The empty evenings stretched on. For the first time, I asked myself: “What am I even doing this for?” That is when it hit me. The success I was chasing did not feel like success anymore. It felt mechanical. I was achieving, but I was not growing. I was not living. I knew something had to change, but I was not sure how – not yet. Exchange Semester: A Turning Point The real change happened during my seventh semester, when I went on exchange to KTH Royal Institute of Technology at Stockholm. I was not expecting anything transformative, far from it. Rather, I was preparing for another grinding semester, to build up connections for my graduate schools and new research projects. But deep down, I just wanted a break from the routine. Little did I know, it turned out to be one of the most important decisions of my life. There, I met people who lived differently. They worked hard, but they also valued life outside work. They hiked on weekends, went climbing after class, kayaked in nearby rivers. I joined in – hesitantly at first, then fully. We cooked together, laughed over nothing, stayed up late talking about music and philosophy. I traveled, I danced, I fell in love with mountains and rivers. I could enjoy the outdoors, build friendships, and have deep conversations. All the while, I kept up my academic and research responsibilities. My brain worked better when I was not constantly stressed or sleep deprived. It was not just about activities. It was about learning to be present. I stopped measuring my day by how many tasks I accomplished; instead, I started measuring it by how I felt, what I learned, and who I connected with. That semester, I discovered what I now call sustainable excellence. Success, I realized, is not about the number of hours I put in, but the quality of attention I bring and that attention is only possible when I am nourished by relationships, rest, and joy. For the first time, I was not just “doing well.” I was well. Back at KAIST: Living Differently Coming back to KAIST, I did not want to go back to how things were. I committed to live differently. I started sleeping enough. I spent time with people. I built real friendships. I also began a long-term relationship with someone who has become a very important part of my life. One moment stands out clearly. My girlfriend once told me, “You should sleep properly.” It was not the first time someone had said that. My roommate, professors, even doctors said the same. But this time, I actually listened. I had already seen how a balanced life improved my performance during exchange. So, I gave it a try. And it worked. My productivity did not drop – it soared. I focused better, solved problems faster, and felt less anxious. What once seemed like lost time was now a source of power. I could concentrate better, work faster, and did not burn out as easily. The idea that sleep was wasted time turned out to be completely wrong. The results showed up in my academics too. My last semesters were the best in terms of grades during my entire time at KAIST and the last one my best semester so far, with only one A0 and the rest all A+. And this time, I was not running on fumes. I had energy. I had peace. I had people in my life who I cared about and who cared about me. What I Learned Looking back, my failure was not due to malice or arrogance. It was a misunderstanding that success and relationships were a zero-sum game. I thought I had to choose between them. In reality, they are symbiotic. Relationships are not distractions – they are amplifiers. What I used to think of as “failure”, getting less done, taking breaks, spending time on relationships, was actually the key to real success. I had failed before not because I did not try hard, but because I did not understand what mattered. Relationships are not side quests in life but quite the opposite. They are the core of what makes our lives meaningful, and they also help us succeed better in the long run. Having people to talk to, laugh with, rest beside changes how I approach everything. I realized productivity does not mean squeezing every drop of energy, every bit of inner force out of myself. It means building a life where my energy is regularly refilled, be it by joy, by people, by purpose. I realized it is about quality of attention, emotional stability, and the energy you bring to each task. Before, I thought I had to choose between being successful and having a full personal life, but it turns out to be a fallacy. Since I started taking care of myself and connecting with others, I have become more resilient, more creative, and more motivated. Above all, I am more productive than ever. And most importantly, I stopped measuring success by measurable output alone. Instead, I began to ask different questions: Am I kind? Am I present? Am I growing not just in knowledge, but in wisdom? Conclusion I do not regret the work I put in during my early years at KAIST. But I do regret not realizing earlier that relationships are just as important as research and grades. I used to be afraid of failing an exam. Now I think real failure is going through life without really living it. I still care deeply about academic success. But I have redefined it. A perfect GPA means little if I am disconnected from myself and others. Excellence, I have learned, is only real when it is human. Now, I sleep well, spend time with people I love, and enjoy the world around me. I still, of course, care about my work, and I still work hard but not at the cost of everything else. Rather, my life is more balanced, and that has made all the difference. I failed in relationships when I thought they were optional. Now I know they are essential. And because of that, I am not just a better student; I am a better person. This is a kind of success no transcript can capture but it is the one I will carry for life.

Writing code is a lot like writing a story. Faced with the same problem, one person might craft an elegant recursive loop, while another moves steadily forward with a sturdy iteration. A narrative that once sprawled over eighty lines—written across multiple sleepless nights—can suddenly shrink into three crisp lines of monologue on a Friday morning. And just as how several stories written in different styles can come together to form a single book, different lines of code—each written with unique grammar and rhythm—can be woven together into a single program that is then released into the world. But there comes a point when the boundaries close in on you, limiting your freedom. Imposed on me were expectations to achieve more with fewer resources, and in a world where only speed and efficiency are valued, “creativity” started sounding like a clumsy excuse. Forced to live up to others’ expectations, I squeezed myself into the mold of a perfect interview candidate to earn good interview scores. I felt the tightening grip of quantitative standards that have become even more suffocating due to the cold arithmetic of artificial intelligence. I also had to learn how to endure harsh judgments byclinging to the only kind of potential others were willing to acknowledge. My love for computers remained, but doubt smothered me. Was I even qualified to write code anymore? Like a closing bracket appearing before I could write anything down, the stories that once bloomed in my mind lost their momentum before they made it onto the screen. I became less passionate about the work I once valued, and like an old footnote left in the corner of the screen, my drive would soon be erased. I picked up and dropped computer science several times. One side of me kept tapping away at the keyboard, while the other batted my hand aside and whispered that I should quit. Some days I turned on my computer with excitement; on others, even putting my fingers on the keys felt exhausting. The stars that twinkled in my mind vanished before they could form constellations, and with nothing left in my mind but pitch darkness, I would shut down my computer. Last December, I was offered an internship at a startup that develops network security services. For someone who had only finished their second year in university, the concept of “networks” felt foreign and awkward. I tried to sound confident as I fumbled with unfamiliar terms I’d picked up from tech blogs, but deep inside, I was full of self-doubt. Even when my friends congratulated me with envious smiles, I felt anxious and tense just thinking about what lay ahead. Leaving behind my warm dorm room, my daily life, the friends I had just begun to grow close to, and the school I was finally getting used to—it all felt overwhelmingly daunting. The week after the fall semester ended, I suddenly became a “Platform Development Intern.” That title wobbled next to my name like an off-balance weight. Sitting in front of my monitor on the first day, my excitement was drowned out by doubt. Do I belong here? What if my code or my decisions end up hurting someone? Because I was at a startup, even an intern like me was given more authority than I could have imagined. Realizing that every keystroke could directly affect the program, I lost what little confidence I had. The first two weeks were spent going through an onboarding process. Even setting up the environment wasn’t easy, and a tiny typo would send the console into the red. Reading through the company’s intricately woven code felt like tracing constellations born in someone else’s mind. Those stars, specifically the individual functions and classes, each held meaning where they were placed. A constellation I interpreted as Pisces might have looked like Leo or Scorpio to someone else. I wanted to understand this company’s story and the stage upon which it performed, so I connected the stars in my own clumsy, mismatched language. During a developer’s meeting in my second week, I had to explain the infrastructure underlying the company’s code. I felt words coming out of my mouth, but my heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear my own voice. To make matters worse, I couldn’t grasp half the questions and explanations that followed, which made me feel like I was sinking into the ground. I read code every day, checked logs, made small fixes, but the world of networks was vast and unforgiving. Feeling guilty for barely being able to contribute anything, I sat quietly in my seat, completely invisible as I watched the team function perfectly well without me. I felt like someone lingering alone onstage after the play had ended, murmuring their lines to an empty audience. Don’t get me wrong—I never wanted to leave. At first, I stayed because I liked my colleagues. They were always kind to me, even when my task was a one-person job, even when mistakes weren’t allowed, even when my questions sounded foolish. During lunch, they talked about AI, stocks, and games—topics I wasn’t very familiar with—but it was still a great opportunity to bond as a team. Under their warm guidance, I slowly learned and improved, so I was motivated to keep going. I remember shuddering at the thought of facing the same problems again every morning as I commuted to work, and the winter felt especially long and cold due to all the mistakes I made. Nevertheless, I eventually completed my first task. It was a small but solid feeling of accomplishment that melted away my fear, and I could finally take a bit of pride in how much I had grown. The longer I worked at the company, the more comfortable I became. At some point, the work even became fun. It felt rewarding to see the functions I had built actually appear in the service. I could recognize my code in the logs, and it was a special feeling to see my work woven smoothly together with the code of my teammates. When someone asked me about my work or requested me to make a decision, the responsibility that once felt crushing now grounded my thoughts instead of weighing me down. I no longer feared mistakes; I wanted to learn, improve, and contribute more. Code reviews felt less scary and more like something to be grateful for—after all, they allowed me to keep growing. It was the first time I learned that fear and passion could align. I no longer get caught up in fear. This doesn’t mean that failure no longer hurts—I just know my passion for coding will remain unhindered even if I fail. The internship rekindled my curiosity and joy in coding. It placed a comma at the end of an anxious sentence, and I could continue the story from that point. I became curious about what was in store for me. As the nine-week internship neared its end, I asked for it to be extended for another semester—and to my surprise, they agreed right away. It was a chance to learn more knowledge, grow closer with colleagues, and add another chapter to my story that I was eager to continue writing. One day, I heard an English interview in a nearby meeting room. A few weeks later, during lunch, I met H for the first time. H had just joined the business team as an intern, but they were nothing like the developers I’d grown used to. Although I spent most of my time with the development team, I always felt a step behind them. I had achieved some results, but I was always wary of the fact that there was so much I didn’t know, whether it was technical knowledge or the workplace culture. I was scared of making mistakes, being exposed as inexperienced, or failing to keep up. In the office, I spoke less and tried to appear formal. I learned a lot, but I always felt slightly distant from everyone else. In contrast, H approached people without hesitation, including me. I was still cautious. To me, the company was still a place where you couldn’t make mistakes, a place where I couldn’t simply be myself. So in front of H, I kept my polite, formal, and careful mask on. Then, one ordinary Friday night at the end of May, I talked to H for the first time. What first seemed like a meaningless conversation took an unexpected turn, and we were soon sharing deep, light, and not-at-all-short stories all night. As the sun began to rise, the walls I had carefully built around myself melted just a little, and this made me think for the very first time that maybe it was okay to throw away the mask and be myself. As my four-month internship drew to an end, I requested another extension. This time, I truly wanted to stay. I wanted to take on more challenges, learn more, and continue my story as I was not ready to conclude it. A few weeks later, a message arrived late at night: “We’ve decided that an extension will not be possible this time.” The words cut through me like a breakup text. I read the email over and over. Did I miss something? Where did I go wrong? I had tried so hard not to be rude, not to burden anyone, to do my best, to endure even when exhausted—and yet I was greeted with this devastating result. This position wasn’t my only goal, but it was, if nothing else, the path I had grown familiar with—with this rejection, I had been quietly pushed off it. The workplace was colder, faster, and harsher than I had imagined. The small sense of familiarity I had begun to feel dissolved instantly. I feared starting over. I dreaded having to explain myself again. Failure leaves an emptiness that lingers longer than the consequences. Picture a performer sitting alone in the empty seats of a dark theater, unable to bear the idea of being let go, repeating their final lines even though no one is listening. But someone else was still in that theater even after the last curtain call. It was the one person who had seen me behind the mask: H. Because H was on the business team, they once casually asked if I could explain the company’s service from a developer’s perspective. “Could you walk me through how the program is structured?” What surprised me was that the question didn’t scare me at all. There was a time when I couldn’t answer anything. During the second week of the onboarding process, I remember struggling with documents, consoles, and repositories before falling silent, unable to answer a question about the program’s structure. But that day, I could explain it. Over the past half-year, I had found my way through that maze, and now I could tell someone else the story of that journey. H said my explanations were still helpful. That single compliment was like a tiny seed settling gently into the rubble left inside me—one that grew into a small but strong tree. All those days spent doubting myself and going through a roller-coaster of emotions with every criticism thrown my way hadn’t all been for nothing. The lines I wrote were being read and thus still meant something to someone. That realization alone helped me get back on my feet. We continued talking after that—about technical questions, about the stories I hoped to write someday, and sometimes about trivial things. H listened to everything I said, and their attentiveness granted me the courage to speak honestly without my mask. Someone who had once been just a “coworker” became a person who understood me at a deeper level, and through that trust, I learned to believe in myself again. People often ask this question about failure: “So, what did you learn from it?” They ask this as if deriving a life lesson is the only way to make failure meaningful. But some failures can give you something more valuable than a lesson. It can grant you something quiet, invisible, and lasting: a special connection. My failure broke me, but someone stayed with me to gather the broken pieces and helped me believe they could form a whole again. Thanks to their kindness, my story did not end in ruins, and I was encouraged to start writing my next chapter. The greatest gift this internship gave me was not an impressive career or achievement; rather, it was the understanding and respect that I shared with my colleagues regardless of title—a human connection that can endure through failure. I am grateful to my teammates who were always there for me, and I am especially grateful to H, who saw my potential and believed that I still had a future ahead of me. Now, I am ready to fire up my laptop and start writing again. I was scared when I started the internship, and even when I was buried in embarrassment and the rubble of my crumbled confidence, I didn’t quit. I had people who lent a helping hand through my failures, so now I am able to pick up the pen again. In the past, I ran under the crushing pressure of seeking perfection, forcing myself into someone else’s standards until I could no longer continue. But now, I trust myself. This story—filled with failure, connection, and my own growth—is written from the heart in my own language. I am not a developer chasing perfection; I am someone who dreams of understanding and connection. Now I understand: when one door closes, you don’t have to rush to open the next. As long as you have someone standing with you in front of that closed door, then even the wait becomes meaningful. The mere presence of such a person is enough to help you try again. My colleagues helped me believe in myself once more—and that belief gives me more strength than any success ever could. The bracket may have closed, but it doesn’t mean I can’t continue writing my story.

Spring 2025 began with a sense of accomplishment. I had just been selected for the well-known Global Entrepreneurship Summer School (GESS 2025), a project I worked hard on for many months. Shortly thereafter, our team was notified that we would be heading to Silicon Valley for our second module—if there was any bucket-list destination for anyone hoping to pursue entrepreneurship, Silicon Valley would be it. To be able to travel to Silicon Valley with everything I had been taught; to embrace my passion for entrepreneurship; and with my background in both aerospace technology and business—my dreams were becoming closer to reality, and I felt like the years of hard work were beginning to pay off. And then it crumbled. I was denied the U.S. visa. Just like that—gone—three months of hard work, late nights sessions, and passion. I still remember the moment vividly. The visa officer asked me only two questions. He glanced at my passport, told me he didn’t need to see the original documents backing my statements, and handed me an orange letter of rejection. I could not grasp it. I had been aware of friends who were denied a U.S. visa earlier and I had always given them emotional support. But I could not do that anymore, I was experiencing it for myself. I was dumbfounded. Stupefied. When I walked out of the embassy and initially allowed myself to embrace the disbelief, I was quickly overwhelmed by tears. They ran half down my cheeks and half trying to stay within the boundaries of my eyes making everything blurry. I called my parents right away, stuttering as I spoke. They tried to calm me down, but I was in public and felt as though I couldn't just fall apart. I tried to hold it together and swallow down my tears, but they felt more insistent when they were hidden. I booked the next train to Daejeon and waited at the train station. On the train, I sat next to an 아줌마. She may have seen the storm in my eyes because she asked me softly, "학생, 괜찮아요?" ("Student, are you okay?") I nodded barely and whispered, "네". That tiny gesture by a total stranger touched me. It was as if she saw through the thin mask I was wearing. When we were getting close to Daejeon, I was sitting on the aisle side and my shoelaces were open. I had noticed it earlier but didn’t really care to tie them up. Suddenly she pointed it out and before I could reach to tie it, she suddenly bent over and tied it for me. I was blown away and didn't know whether to cry harder or be thankful for the unexpected tender kindness. When I finally left the train, I felt wrecked, and I walked like a ghost. Instead of taking the taxi I took the bus—I told myself I was broke but really, I felt so messed up, I couldn't justify the comfort of the taxi. I had to transfer once to get to KAIST, and as I sat in the intense afternoon sun waiting at the bus stand, a 할머니noticed me and quietly moved her seat over to share her umbrella. She had to be in her late eighties, but I was surprised to know that she spoke little bit of English. She asked, "Korea, how much?" Probably wanting to ask me how long I have been in Korea. I said, "Three years." She asked, "Nara?" I said, "Indo." She lit up, "아, 카레를 정말 좋아해요!" We both laughed. That little moment didn’t resolve anything, but it was something of warmth, which is something I can never get enough of. It felt that day, that the universe, was giving me silent little reminders that I wasn't alone. Later that day, I visited the Global Initiatives Office at KAIST, as they asked me to reflect on my trip after I return. When I met Miss Sooa and Miss Jinkyoung, they softly asked, "How was the visa interview?" That question opened the floodgates. I was no longer able to hold it in. I collapsed in tears –uncontrollable and shaking. It was the first time that day that I allowed myself to feel completely vulnerable. I cried and relayed how the officer barely looked at me or asked any questions, how I felt my efforts were tossed aside in seconds; how afraid I was to have risked my status because I was focusing on GESS preparations rather than keeping up with my courses. My GPA hadn't been that great anyways, and I was terrified I had taken it too far - I was so worried about disappointing my parents and to some extent myself too. They sat with me and listened, even sharing what they were struggling with, both participants getting rejected and what they had personally experienced in life. “It’s okay to cry,”they said. And I trusted them. I went back to my dorm and my roommate asked me, “Did you get the visa?”I replied with forced disinterest, “Nah, got rejected. Whatever.”The strain of both the early morning trip and the admission of my emotional upheaval was too much. All I wanted to do was to get a little sleep. As I lay on my bed, the tears fell once again. I tried to cry as quietly as I could so my roommate wouldn’t hear me. But she did notice me muffling my sobs, and she said gently, “Bro, just cry it out. You will feel better.”That was all I needed to hear; the tears fell freely now. She gave me a tight hug, and we went out for some ice cream later that night. It was not a lot, but it was the act of kindness behind it, and it felt big. I had informed my team of the visa by that time. The messages flowed in- support, sadness, anger all at the same time. I mentioned I would not be coming to the presentation the next day-- it was just mid-check, nothing serious—as I did not want to bring any negative energy or break the momentum of the team. They understood my situation and respected my decision. The next day, I received a message from our team leader: "Aanya, we really want you to come to the presentation. You do not need to speak, just show up. Your presence will make the team stronger." I hesitated and asked for some time to think. I was not ignoring them because I did not care anymore, it was because I was afraid that it could be a trigger. Afraid that I would see them and lose it. But then I thought: these people never left my side. They did not desert me during my lowest of lows. If I did not show up, I would let them down, not because I skipped the presentation; but because I could not let them be there for me. I went. When I walked into the venue, the organizers looked surprised—as I earlier told them I won’t show up. But I explained that I had taken time to process everything and that I wanted to continue my participation in the domestic part of the program. My teammates hugged me tightly. “It’s just one unfortunate event,”they said. “But this team is for life.” The presentation went smoothly. After the finals, we kicked off the domestic program. It turned out to be more insightful and heartwarming than I’d imagined. Throughout the three days, we worked on our business idea refined it and got valuable feedback from mentors. I sometime wonder: had I not received that warmth, that emotional support, would I have even found the courage to attend? Towards the end of the program, as others were talking about what they would pack for Silicon Valley, I felt an intense emotion of FOMO. Yet, instead of feeling bitter like I thought I would, I felt something softer-gratitude. Grateful that I had people who wouldn't let me spiral. They were like cushions between me and the impact of defeat. “Don’t worry, Aanya,”they said. “We’ll bring you lots of chocolates.” And they did. A week later, my friends came back with a bag of chocolates, and a special present—a Stanford T-shirt. I was dumbstruck and teary. It was symbolic. I did not get to walk around Stanford, but they brought a part of it back for me. Our team also went out for dinner and arcade. To add to all this, our team leader made notes of all the lectures in Silicon Valley so I wouldn’t miss anything. That kind of thoughtfulness, caring, and friendship made me wonder what good deeds I did in my past life to get such people around me. The visa denial was more than just a hurdle for me. It was a rupture - an injury to my pride, my preparations, and even my identity. For a while, this made me feel like I did not belong. New members were substituted to go instead of us, and it felt as if I am getting distanced from other participants, from my own team, and from the endless opportunities that I could have earned from going there. It made me doubt myself. I had invested so much in this dream that I felt evaporate in the time it takes to register something in your mind. It was as if everyone and everything carried on while I sat frozen at the edge of my disappointment. But then the reconnections happened. The ajummas on the train and at the bus stop. The staff members of GI. My roommate. My friends. My teammates. They each gave something intangible. Compassion, warmth, time. These small gestures stitched me together. They didn't offer me solutions. They offered me a presence. They didn't take away the failure. They created meaning. Reconsidering, the rejection didn't take everything. It gave me something much more sustainable than a trip to Silicon Valley: a fresher perspective on what sustains us when success fades. We are not who we are because of our successes or failures, but because of the people we are connected to. It is easy to treat failure as a personal void, a rupture in the events of who we are to become. But failure brings with it a special kind of silence- a silence which is important amidst the noises in our busy lives –a pause which makes us hear our own voice better, to reflect what went wrong or what can be done better, and most importantly that silence shows the true colors of relationships. Some people disappear in that silence while others move closer in. To those who stayed and moved closer—you are the reason for my healing. You taught me we are not meant to deal with our failures and disappointments alone. You reminded me that strength is not the absence of tears, but it is the decision to keep showing up even when it hurts. And for anyone reading this and feeling alone in your failure: let me remind you that failure is not the end of the story. It is sometimes just the page that turns into a small quiet corner of your life, revealing who walks beside you. It sometimes is the fire that will burn down your pride, gifting space for humility, vulnerability, and connection. Remember that you are not the things that didn’t work out. You are not the orange letter. You are the conversations that stayed, the people who showed up, the love that found you in your lowest moment. That is what truly lasts. And that, perhaps, is the hidden gift of failure, it doesn’t just teach us about limits and corrections. It teaches us about love, the power of staying by someone’s side, the power of connections, the power of human touch in this growing competitive world, and the fact that it is okay to feel low, vulnerable and to cry or let it out in front of people. It is not a sign of your weakness; it's a sign of the trust between you and the person that allows you to show every part of you no matter if it is success or failure.

KAIST has announced the recipients of its third annual Awards for Ambitious Failure. First launched in 2024, the Awards for Ambitious Failure recognize members of the community who have created meaningful change not through outcomes alone, but through the process of challenge and learning from failure across research, education, entrepreneurship, and administration. Awardees receive a presidential citation along with a monetary prize. This year’s Grand Prize was awarded to Dango, an undergraduate startup team in the entrepreneurship category. The team was highly recognized for prioritizing a deep understanding of real-world problems over short-term results, and for consistently transforming repeated failures and rejections into learning opportunities. During their early startup phase, the Dango team experienced elimination in preliminary rounds due to immature ideas and limitations in problem definition. They subsequently faced a series of setbacks, including changes in business direction, the departure of a key co-founder, and repeated negative feedback from the market. At one point, the team’s very survival was at risk following the loss of core talent. However, led by Wontae Song, the team chose to rebuild and take on the challenge again. After restructuring, the team developed ideas such as a “coupon app” and a “loyalty management app” aimed at improving marketing for small restaurant businesses. Yet again, they encountered substantial negative feedback. Rather than dismissing this as mere opposition, the team interpreted it as a signal that their underlying assumptions were flawed. They returned to the field, conducting in-depth interviews with dozens of restaurant owners. As a result, they boldly abandoned their initial hypotheses and pivoted their business model toward directly connecting local business owners with loyal customers within neighborhood commercial districts. This shift led to the acquisition of paying MVP customers and tangible progress, culminating in a Gold Prize at the KAIST App Startup Program. The Center for Ambitious Failure (CAF) commented, “The Dango team exemplifies the spirit of the Awards for Ambitious Failure most clearly in that they neither romanticized nor avoided failure, but instead treated it as something to be managed and learned from. Their process of building stronger execution capabilities through failure itself was the key reason for their selection as the Grand Prize winner.” In the research category, the Failure Award was presented to Kyungran Jung, a postdoctoral researcher at the K3I-KAIST AIPC Research Center. Despite experiencing career interruptions in her 30s and 40s, repeated rejections from academic programs, and severe financial hardship during her doctoral studies, Dr. Jung persisted in her research journey. Rather than choosing safer paths to minimize failure, she embraced failure as part of the learning process. Drawing from her own experiences, she has expanded her work into the topic of organizational learning from failure. She was recognized for demonstrating how one’s attitude toward failure can transform both the individual and their research, rather than simply highlighting success after failure. The Failure Award in the education category was awarded to Sung Yong Kim, Associate Professor in the Department of Mechanical Engineering. In pioneering education in the relatively underrepresented fields of Earth and ocean sciences at KAIST, Professor Kim faced challenges such as low awareness and limited institutional support. Rather than simply extending existing curricula, he developed new courses, published textbooks in both Korean and English, and launched online lectures through KOOC, steadily building educational assets. In particular, his repeated efforts to translate complex subject matter into accessible language and relatable analogies for students were recognized as an example of expanding opportunities beyond existing limitations. In the administration category, the Failure Award was given to KyungJin Min, Administrative Staff, Information & Communications Team. In response to recurring civil complaints and system overloads, Min initially attempted to introduce technical solutions, but these efforts were repeatedly blocked due to budget constraints and decision-making structures. However, through these failures, Min identified that the root cause was not technological limitations, but inefficient user behavior driven by misinformation and rumors. By analyzing complaint patterns, correcting information, and redefining operational principles, Min implemented step-by-step improvements to administrative processes. This led to measurable outcomes, including reduced call wait times and a more stable complaint management system. The Awards for Ambitious Failure are not intended to simply console or glorify failure. Rather, they aim to transform failures encountered in the process of challenge into learnable lessons and to disseminate these lessons as valuable assets for the broader community. The stories of the 2026 award recipients once again demonstrate that failure is not the endpoint of frustration, but a starting point for better judgment and more effective action. KAIST will continue to foster a culture where failure is openly shared and actively learned from.   2026 KAIST Awards for Ambitious Failure Recipients   Grand Failure Award Team Dango - School of Computing: Wontae Song, Hyewon Hwang, Jaeyoung Heo - Department of Industrial Design: Jueon Park, Eun Ji Shin - School of Electrical Engineering: Hyunwoo Hwang, Dongseok Ji Failure Award Research: Kyungran Jung (K3I-KAIST AIPC Research Center, Postdoctoral Researcher) Education: Sung Yong Kim (Department of Mechanical Engineering, Associate Professor) Administration: KyungJin Min (Information & Communications Team, Administrative Staff)  

Winning essays from 2025 KAISTian Failure Story Contest Vita incerta,  mors certissima Erisu  (KAIST Department of Bio and Brain Engineering)

Winning essays from 2025 KAISTian Failure Story Contest The Seventh  KAIST DNA ○○○ KAIST School of Freshman