29th Gapper Go Ara
11-month gap year
A gap year spent pausing my major in ballet to do volunteer work abroad, including Mongolia.
Motivation
#1. “That 'deaf' person is truly someone who will make her dreams come true.”
Have you ever imagined combining the art of 'ballet' with the element of 'hearing impairment'?
If you ask where my connection with ballet began, it's hard to say. I've been doing ballet since I was very young, and back then I loved wearing umbrella-shaped tutus and dancing on my toes. But when I came to know 'real' ballet that required advanced training, I began to become aware of the disability I had forgotten.
It was because of the 'lack' of hearing that is absolutely necessary for dancing. Then, after attending the Moscow State Academy of Choreography in Russia during middle school, I regained my passion for ballet. Throughout that process, the people around me would say, "Go Ara is really someone who will achieve whatever she dreams of." There was a 'story'.
#2. Straying, and another kind of beginning
Like many others, I had a dream.
I spent over 20 years on stage—from art high school to graduate school—wearing pink toe shoes and aiming to take the spotlight. But by relentlessly pursuing dance, there were many things I had to give up to achieve my dream.
I believed it was natural to give up things others could enjoy if it was for dancing, and I mistakenly thought I had to live holding on to conviction, pride, and even solemnity—the exact values instilled by the rigid education I'd received—seeing it as the obvious life goal.slumparrived.
My undergraduate years, spent faithfully focusing only on dance, ended with doubts about whether this was the college life I truly wanted. While in graduate school I even tried out for a supermodel contest, won World Miss University and Miss DEF Korea, and represented Korea at Miss DEF World (Czech Republic). During this process, my dream twisted and became something terrible. Everywhere I tried to go collapsed, and the more I tried to fix things the more they fell apart; I was treated as that kind of person.
Even while experiencing recurring chest pains and mild panic attacks multiple times a day, I was writing my thesis. Moreover, I had to pour my energy and time into an exclusive 'their-only' league that insisted on maintaining a pyramid structure rather than advancing the art, finding no motivation there.
Also, the tight schedule felt like 'exhaustion' rather than growth, and even after receiving countless shining ovations—the reward of the stage—I began to question whether I had truly enjoyed being on stage; that's when I decided my school life was over.
One day, while I was barely holding onto my 'spirit', a Mongolian friend's gesture set my unplanned 'gap year' in motion.
Gap year story
#1. Three weeks in Mongolia
I flew 2,000 km, my heart fluttering as if I were going to meet a childhood idol, and stayed in the land of wind and steppe. Used to Korea's neatly paved roads and acrid smoke, the expansive races across the grasslands made me forget modern urban civilization. The vast steppe stirred an instinct to run wildly, but my body was fragile and the space felt endlessly vast.
The steppe becomes a road with endless lanes,
The path I travel and the path my car travels will become new roads.
And one will create their own new path behind them.
I think the phrase 'the future is bright' is meant for moments like this. The unavoidable choice of going off-road was slow and inconvenient, but it was humane, warm, and profound. In fact, when I thought of 'Mongolia' the first things that came to mind were the empire ruled by Genghis Khan—who conquered more than half the continent yet was inexperienced in governance—and its relations with Goryeo, the vast steppes and the blue sky that embraces them, and the desolate deserts. Embarrassingly, I couldn't think of more about Mongolia. That was all I imagined; all Mongolia appeared to me.
However, surprisingly, it was difficult to encounter relics of Genghis Khan in Mongolia. There were almost no monuments, because Mongolians historically lived a nomadic life in movable homes called gers and left behind no artifacts or relics related to themselves. Perhaps for that reason, debating civilization or relics on this land quickly feels like a futile endeavor, and forcibly leaving something behind to commemorate can sometimes be a vain act.
Inside the ger there were only two beds on a carpet, a small cabinet, a kettle on the stove, a water container and some small utensils, and a bag. The moment I realized that all of this was the bare minimum for shelter, food, and clothing, I faced the fact that I owned far too much and chastised myself for being unable to readily let go of the things I clung to. I could simply discard the unnecessary and live lightly.
On the last morning I was offered suutei tsai (milk tea); usually it tastes savory, but that day it was as sweet as the milk left after finishing cornflakes. And rather than the shallow historical knowledge of Mongolia—Xiongnu, the Göktürks, Russian and Qing rule, the socialist revolution, democratic elections, urbanization—it was the times steeped in the smell of arol and airag's fermentation, and the peace, serenity, and humanism of Mongolians who, while crossing a water-scarce steppe, care for children and prepare meals and carry out countless other household chores unseen by the eye, that helped me understand Mongolia better. Above all, 'shaman' became another code through which to understand Mongolia most deeply.
In fact, the unseen 'time' as an entity is something we arbitrarily set—one o'clock, two o'clock—and live according to those times. But when I came here, freed from the everyday life of being chased by and clinging to the human-made segmented system called time, it seemed as if time itself became distorted. I stopped worrying about how time flowed and simply felt with my body that the sun rose and set.
The temptations of Mongolia are many. Genghis Khan's empire, and yet despite there being nothing but wind and steppe to see, it is full of both emptiness and fullness. At night the sky seems ready to pour stars over your head—how wondrous that is. I call that dreamlike place 'Mongkol (the shape of a dream).'
The road I have traveled fades faintly at the edge of the horizon,
While the road I must take stretches endlessly in the opposite direction.
It is as if this is the path I have lived and the shape of the way I must live.
#2. Another Encounter – Becoming a Civilian Diplomat
After visiting Mongolia at its greenest without planning, I was recommended by the KF Korea Youth Delegation and once again sought out an unfamiliar encounter. I wasn't particularly remarkable, but by joining this program—whose main purpose was 'exchange'—I went to China as a civilian diplomat. For reference, this program includes both non-disabled and hearing-impaired participants, which had the advantage of not only learning and understanding China's history and culture but also finding common ground as fellow human beings.
A muted white, chalk-like tone, and very old stone floors. Wandering through the alleys, there were unusually many walls and buildings with pronounced textures; that place was Hangzhou.
'The road' leads to the square, and the road in turn creates 'direction.'
If you follow that direction, you meet another road and new people.
And the most memorable thing was that tears had been forewarned in this program. In the presence of something great, whatever it may be, one is often left speechless. In fact, as a deaf person I grew up in hearing society and only entered the deaf community two years ago, so I did not know sign language well. During this encounter, a song performed in sign language—the language of the hearing-impaired—rendered me silent and made me cry.
Magnificently, each fingertip conveyed sound and melody, and for them it was 'music.' The consolation of this soundless music was profoundly deep—in that it did not use words, or rather it transcended words. I also comforted myself for doing my best as a group leader, and thanks to the precious people who accepted and supported my many shortcomings, I felt more grateful than ever in many ways. It was a time when each of us was a little lacking and each filled the other a little. I'm glad it wasn't perfect. After that, I embraced China and embraced people.
#3. A Mentor in Name Only on the Desert
Have you ever heard that you can plant trees in the desert? After embracing China and its people, I went to China once more as a mentor for Future Forest (Korea-China Youth Cultural Association), which organizes this program. However, I had not realized until going to the desert that I lacked the qualifications to carry the title of 'mentor.'
This place is an infinite, barren desert
How much farther must we walk before this thirsty desert ends?
Having never been to a desert, and without imagining how lonely and arduous it would be to walk one, I took a train from Beijing to a desert in Inner Mongolia. There, in the middle of the desert, I trudged along and sometimes walked backward. Seeing the footprints of the others who had walked with me, I took comfort in knowing that I had endured and had happy companions.
As I crawled up the dry sandhill on all fours, the grains of sand found their way into my shoes and even into my socks, and I had to contend with them. When grains of sand are added one by one they become heavy—so why does the world tell us to become heavier? The grains I met in this moment, when perhaps I wanted to grow heavy myself, seemed to be trying to tell me that because they are light they are not bound by anything and can fly far to see the wide world.
While planting a young tree in the desert, I felt that even very small things can become great. That people should respect and understand each other, and that everyone has the right to meet and communicate willingly. Thus all that I have experienced became grains of sand, and I came to carry a desert in my heart.
Gap year, and what came after
#1. My story and the process become my credentials
In an educational environment that didn't give me the chance to discover what I truly wanted and without knowing the reason for life, I used to work hard all the time out of fear of falling behind; no one told me why I had to do that. But as time went by I realized that people are running toward their own goals, and I, rather than doing things reluctantly just to build a resume, pursued what I wanted and naturally went through variousprocessesAs I went through them, my credentials began to accumulate one by one.
In other words, my 'story' became my credentials. When I tried to obtain only results without enjoying the process, it was painful. Because I enjoyed the process, good results came naturally. Thanks to that, I'm fortunate now to receive requests for talks as well as performances and documentaries. In fact, I still often pour out my complaints to friends who know me well.
#2. What I know, what I don't know, and what I realize
Sometimes knowing feels like medicine, and sometimes knowing feels like a disease, but there are moments when I feel that not knowing is truly a sin. I used to think travel began the moment you stepped outside the house, but the idea that you have to leave home to see and feel many things actually made travel feel burdensome.
Especially, life in Mongolia, where my gap year began, taught me that even within everyday life—rather than travel—it's valuable to sometimes let go and take time to reflect. How fortunate it is that at some point in a life that's run breathlessly you can sit back and catch your breath. While running you can't see or feel what is valuable because you're busy running. Also, the inner conflicts I had experienced were all meaningless compared to the endless, boundless grasslands. I learned from the descendants of Genghis Khan that trying to fill up too much does not equate to completion.
And I realized something in the middle of a barren desert without signposts. Each grain of sand I met in the desert dominated my mind, but the moment I returned to flat land and shook out my shoes and socks, the countless grains that poured out were, in the end, the 'processes of life' I had lived through. It meant I had endured that long time with countless unseen feelings.
Living a once-in-a-lifetime life like a one-way trip, I realized that I didn't lose my way because the path had disappeared, but because there were too many paths. Thus I am staying in the middle of a 'self-made gap year(sabbatical)
#3. In the end, it's just 'a part of life'
Even so, I still love art, and now I have learned that it doesn't have to be something solemn. I have come to understand that for anyone, in any time or place, it is simply a part of everyday life and a 'part of life' that blooms from every action.
Dance and writing are also, ultimately, embedded in life. Even clumsy skills, if you pour passionate love into writing, can be art in themselves. I no longer feel the need to assign a single meaning to all these small acts of life that are so naturally woven into daily life. I also came to accept that just because the word 'art' is attached, you don't need to adopt a solemn, intense passion as if standing before a sharp blade.
#4. The thing that's easiest to forget
I spent years filled with anxiety, feeling that if I didn't grab everything quickly it would be taken away, and I thought that was naturally how one should live.I discovered my foolish self whose uncontrollable greed tried to embrace too many things and who thought far too many things were mine, even though I couldn't possibly keep them all.
So when saying 'I am most grateful,' the thing that is easiest to forget ismyselfI was. Of course, there was support from people around me in living diligently, but I also feel that much of it was thanks to my own ability to overcome things. Living busily with countless tightly packed schedules, I kept telling myself inwardly 'just a little more, one more time' and with stubborn grit I overcame everything and was able to stand tall on my own two feet. Only now do I truly value how much I have matured and grown through many trials and errors.
My growth period clearly ended long ago, yet conversely I feel my eyes and ears are expanding. Although I have a disability, what I believe 'true disability' means is being unable to respond when the heart becomes inflamed. And the opportunity during my gap year to reorganize the small broken parts of my tangled life has ultimately had a positive effect on me, and for this moment I am allowing myself a bit of 'leniency.' I am happy that the precious times and people inside me are steadily accumulating as my own.
A word for those reading this.
#1. Concern - the moment when everyone becomes equal.
Because I've done ballet since I was a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I said 'a ballerina.' But now that I'm fully grown, I give a more realistic answer: 'Now is not the time to make a firm decision, but to go through trial and error.' There are many paths I haven't taken yet, so trying this and experiencing that isn't a bad thing. Nothing lasts forever. If you go through as much trial and error as possible, won't you worry less later on?
What I regret most is that I was fearful like a child and couldn't summon more courage. If I had taken a gap year earlier, I would have lived more joyfully and worried less. I might have played more and been less anxious. Even if what I attempted ended in failure, I could have believed and waited for something better to appear later. And as a result I would have surely danced better and felt more grateful and happier.
Accepting what cannot be changed, letting go of what cannot be overcome, not ignoring what changes. Where do the stars go when the night ends, where does the wind disappear when it stops, what becomes of the other side of the mountain peaks, what happens when waves break on the sand?
The world doesn't completely end; it is born elsewhere or transformed into another form. So I am putting down the weight and worries of twenty years for a while. Of course I am also doing the minimum to make a living. At the same time, I want to say that it is necessary to occasionally make time for yourself.
#2. Living boringly is a crime against youth.
I don't know if I was racing at 20 km/h because I spent my twenties staring at a single stage and rehearsing, but that doesn't make me feel like I leisurely enjoyed life. I remember constantly hurrying and feeling anxious, always nervous about what might happen. Even while floundering and unable to set principles or plans, my passion and curiosity boiled endlessly. So during undergrad I worked really hard without knowing much. If only I had driven properly, the speed of my life might not have been a problem.
Of course, as long as you live there will be no ultimate peace and rest, but sometimes opening the window to feel the breeze, thinking of loved ones and smiling, looking at the scenery beyond the car window and being grateful that you can head toward your destination—that might have been all I wanted.
Going slowly, savoring each step as you advance, might actually be the faster way and the way to possess more. And there may be no need to go fast or to have a lot. What I think is important now is that living as if tosavoreach step is truly enjoyable, happy, and comfortable. And I wonder if that is what 'stability' is. I am enjoying that now.
#3. The 'deepest' relationship you can have in a lifetime.
Negative news spreads quickly. So if you don't leave the house, it's easy to fall into the illusion that the whole world is in chaos. I think it's good to try to create news that truly warms the heart. Beautiful and wonderful stories are being made countless times in places you can't see.
Also, everything you experience is a good opportunity to gain perspective and wisdom in life, social skills, interaction with others, and consideration; this is what I think the twenties are. It is probably the most precarious time as well.
Go slowly, but do not step backward.
Let the steps you take carry greater courage, and the feet you stand on firmer resolve.
May the recharge of time become the catalyst that fills me with so much eagerness that even my roots are stirred.
It may sound clichéd, but I believe I still have much to learn and I'm not there yet. The 'uncertainty of life' happens beyond whatever you can imagine. But each time you face it with your own strength, I want to share that I always keep the phraseA child becomes an adultin mind.
And I am proud of the way I wander as a young person in this era I live in; even if I sometimes drift recklessly, in that time little by little mytrue selfI think it's because things are piling up. I like how I look now.
At this moment in life—after running breathlessly—when I can sit back and place that pause, I am truly happy to be able to share with you a life that makes the heart flutter rather than leaving your legs trembling. And I will continue to keep searching for answers.
As always.
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