Stories
When there are new challenges to rise up to, KAIST CAF will be at the very forefront.
Stories
KAISTian Stories
Darkness : My closest friend
Author
Pei Jia Pok(KAIST CEE)
발행일
2026-05-21 14:07:22
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.
썸네일 파일