Between Passion and Talent

Standing at a new starting line

To my son, J.

I’m writing this on the train heading back to the airport, after dropping off your heavy suitcases in that unfamiliar dorm room. As you waved goodbye, that slightly tense, awkward smile of yours stayed with me the whole way. Staring at the empty seat beside me, I felt a quiet pull to write down a few thoughts I really wanted to share with you.

About a year after finishing my military service, when I was in my early twenties, I tried to give music one more shot after a crushing failure. Day and night, in a cramped little corner room on the outskirts of Seoul, I wrestled with instruments, cables, and computers.

Then, almost by accident, I started recording and posting video tutorials on music technology online. (Keep in mind, YouTube didn’t even exist back then.) My intention was simple and humble: I just wanted to be of some small help to the people around me. But the response from the other side of the glass was explosive, far beyond anything I could have imagined. Praise and recognition came pouring in, the kind of applause I had never once experienced in my life.

Yet the louder the applause grew, the more unsettled my heart became.

"Should I really keep pursuing music? Or should I change course and teach, where people are showing me so much appreciation? Or can I somehow hold on to both?"

The pure joy of doing what I truly loved, and the quiet pride of being recognized for what I did well: I couldn’t understand why these two didn't come as a package deal, why they kept pulling me in opposite directions. Back then, I had no answers.

I still remember the dull ache whenever I couldn't pour my hours into music, and the quiet emptiness that crept in whenever I collided with the hard limits of my own time and talent.

The world, of course, didn't wait around for me to figure it out. Seasons came and went, and here I am at fifty. And if I’m honest with you, J, I still don't pretend to have life all figured out.

There is one thing I know for certain, though: there was never a single, flawless answer waiting out there to begin with. If my twenty-five-year-old self had only known that, I wouldn't have spent so many sleepless nights drowning in self-doubt and anxiety.

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You’ve probably come across this somewhere online or in books while preparing for college, the Japanese concept of Ikigai (生き甲斐), which translates loosely to "a reason for being" or "the joy of living." Most people know it from that famous Venn diagram with four overlapping circles:

Ikigai (生き甲斐, the reason for being)

1. What you love
2. What you are good at
3. What the world needs
4. What you can get paid for

The premise seems straightforward enough: find the sweet spot where all four circles meet, and you will build a life that is steady, meaningful, and fulfilling. The prize is supposed to be that magical crossroads where your passion, your talent, your service to the world, and your livelihood all click into place.

On paper, these four circles make a wonderful compass. They point out where to channel our finite energy. If what you’re doing doesn't touch even one of those circles, it’s worth pausing to ask why you’re spending your precious days on it. In that sense, it acts as a healthy safeguard, keeping you from drifting on inertia or living out someone else's expectations.

Still, treating it as a static diagram misses something essential. Life isn't a frozen, two-dimensional graphic; it is a living journey flowing down the river of time. These four elements don’t arrive all at once. They unfold one by one, like the changing of the seasons.

Each of these four callings has its own right time in a human life. Asking an eight-year-old "what the world needs" or "what you can get paid for" sounds absurd, doesn't it? By the same token, telling someone in their fifties to "go discover your hidden talent" feels just as out of place.

So, as you step across the threshold into adulthood on this brand-new campus, which season are you entering right now?

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What comes next is something you won’t find in any textbook or career guide. This is simply Dad’s own hard-won philosophy.

If we view the entire arc from your early childhood through these four college years as one long season, I have only one wish for you:

Pour every ounce of your energy into exploring the two inner foundations: what you love and what you are good at.

I’ve seen too many people rush headlong into the outer rings, chasing external applause (number 3) and quick money (number 4) out of restless anxiety, before their inner foundations ever had time to cure and set. That premature leap almost always exacts a steep price.

The daily joy that breathes life into our day-to-day lives comes from doing what we love. And the quiet, unshakable self-respect that lets us look the world in the eye springs from doing what we are good at. When you chase social acclaim and a paycheck on top of a shaky foundation, you might look successful from the outside, but sooner or later, often well into your forties or fifties, you run into an immovable wall of emptiness. I have seen that happen more times than I care to count.

So while you're in college, don't feel rushed by the hurried timetable of the world outside. Dedicate your whole heart to exploring what you love and what you are good at, and spend your youth lavishly on that one great adventure: figuring out who you truly are down to your core.

Because you have chosen the brave path of an artist and a designer, I know this search won't always feel romantic. There will be late nights when you sit alone before a blank sketchbook or a glowing screen, and that cold whisper creeps in: "Do I actually have any real talent? Is this passion of mine just an elaborate delusion?" I lived through that exact same darkness in my twenties, cooped up in that corner room.

Whenever that fear knocks, remember this: passion and talent aren't ready-made gifts you unwrap on the day you're born. They reveal themselves only through the doing. When you take a studio class, throw yourself into it without holding back. Pull an all-nighter wrestling with an assignment, and when the semester wraps up, step back and ask yourself the honest questions:

"I gave this project everything I had, but my pulse never quickened. This isn't the craft I want to spend my life on."
"No one had to push me; I lost track of time completely because I loved every minute of the struggle."
"Through this class, I unlocked an artistic instinct in myself I never knew was there."

Never forget that a letter grade is merely a byproduct of genuine immersion. If you walk away with a transcript full of straight A's but haven't found any answers to those deeper questions, then that "A" doesn't mean very much. The real grade is whether you discovered something true about yourself.

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To be completely honest, as I started writing, my head was brimming with all the practical advice a father loves to give. (You know better than anyone how much Dad loves to nag!) Things like how to find great mentors, how to safeguard your artistic voice in the age of AI, the right questions to ask in critique, and how to manage your studio hours. But sitting here, staring at the empty seat beside me where you were just sitting, it hit me: all those things are just small pebbles. They are stepping stones we can talk through together, one conversation at a time, whenever you need them across the coming years.

What matters right now isn't discovering some flawless answer that doesn't exist anyway. It is pouring your honest effort day by day into discovering who you are, and simply staying on the path, because the journey itself is the true destination. Over the next four years, I hope this truth becomes an anchor that keeps you steady. And remember: no matter where that path leads, Dad will always be walking right beside you.

These four college years might turn out to be the brightest, most exhilarating chapter of your life. Make sure to have fun with your friends, too; laugh until your ribs ache, so that years from now, you can look back on this time and smile: "Those really were the best days."

I'm in your corner, cheering you on through every single step as you take your bold first strides into this wide new world!

September 6, 2026. Waiting for the flight back home.
Dad