100 Days

“There are 100 days left till our contract ends,” read the text message on my phone. It was quickly followed by a concise reaction that encapsulated my reaction, “Damn”. My heart gave a twinge. One hundred days? How could it be so short? I thought about the first 100 days in Korea which went by in a flash. Would my last 100 hundred days be over so soon?

One hundred days is an important milestone in Korean culture. Families celebrate a baby’s first one hundred days (baek-il, 백일) with a party . In the past, children often didn’t survive until 100 days so baek-il was a significant marker of time and meant the child was more likely to make it through infancy. 

In romantic relationships, 100 days is also significant. It is usually the first anniversary that new couples celebrate together. Many young Koreans have counting apps on their phones to count the days from the start of their relationship. Some couples buy matching promise rings to show their commitment to each other. 

But these celebrations mark the first 100 days of something. What significance do the last 100 days of something hold? 

Most of the time we don’t know when the last 100 days will be. Whether it be our relationships or our own lives, we don’t know exactly how much time we have left. 

That’s why we mark significant anniversaries, to celebrate the time we’ve had and wish for a long and happy future. How does knowing when it ends affect our enjoyment of that time?

In some cases, it can induce excitement or relief. An impending graduation you’ve worked for or a final day at the job you finally found the courage to resign from are moments that we anticipate. 

But when that message came across my phone, my first feeling was dread. I don’t want it to be over yet. I’m not ready. Then came the regret. There’s still more I wanted to do. I thought I would be better at Korean by now. Why didn’t I travel more? Why didn’t I make deeper connections with my coworkers? Why didn’t I write more blog posts?  Then anxiety. I’m running out of time. If I don’t do all the things I want to do here now then I’ll never have the chance to. What am I going to do when I go home? What if I miss my life here when I leave? Will my friends at home feel distant? Will my friends here forget about me? Then grief. Although I haven’t technically lost anything yet. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I was losing something: an opportunity I didn’t take, a future I hadn’t lived, friends I didn’t make, relationships I hadn’t had. 

The past few months, I’ve grown comfortable being in a state of indecision. I’ve been debating the possibility of resigning my contract for another 6 months. Usually indecision drives me crazy. But the future possibilities felt infinite and there was a comfort in that. I was waiting for a decisive reason to stay or to go. I hoped it would come by way of a calling or a new found sense of purpose, to study Korean or to pursue other opportunities elsewhere. Perhaps, I would meet someone and begin a new relationship that would call me to stay a while longer. 

Since the new year, I have been teetering between choices. I would have a particularly frustrating day at work and decide I was going to happily end my contract in August. The next day my classes would be particularly rewarding and I would change my mind. I would decide I wanted to stay here and at least finish out the school year in February. 

Finally I made up my mind, but not for the reasons I hoped. My father needed surgery. Could I come home? I booked my flights and flew home for one week (all the time I could manage in the middle of the semester). Before I left, my co-teacher told me the deadline to decide to extend my contract was May 12th. She needed my answer before I left. I told her decisively, but not without regret, that I would not be extending my contract. August 25th will be my last day as a teacher in Korea. 

I knew I made the right decision. My family has always and will always be the most important thing to me. Besides, hadn’t I already been leaning towards leaving anyways? 

But inside I felt shattered. I kept thinking about the allegory of the fig tree from Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” which has been seared in my memory since I read it at the too young age of fourteen. I felt like I was watching the fruits of my potential futures shrivel up and die. Last week the possibilities felt infinite, now they were finite. I was really going to leave Korea. I was going home. 

It was a decision I needed to make sooner rather than later and I probably would have made the same choice regardless of the circumstances. Still it felt like life had stolen the choice from me. I had wanted a definitive reason to stay or go. I should have been more careful about what I wished for. 

Was this all a bit melodramatic? Of course. But it’s how I felt. When one is confronted with mortality, their own or another’s, is it not natural to find oneself drawn towards existentialism? 

I’d like to say I’ve snapped out of it entirely. But that would be untrue. I’m still anxious about the future. I’m worried about my father. I am terrified that I will have to live with regret. 

But that fear of regret is a large part of why I came to Korea in the first place. And also why I am choosing to leave. 

I watched my first K-drama in 2015. For the past ten years, I’ve been interested in Korean culture but I kept it hidden like a dirty secret. Some of my closest friends back home reading this probably don’t even know this. 

When I graduated from university, I researched teaching jobs in South Korea, but ultimately decided that it seemed too foreign and too scary. I decided to teach English in Israel, a place I had already visited, where I knew people, and had a basic understanding of the language and the culture. But I never completely let go of my dream to try living in South Korea. 

After I returned from Israel, I worked for two years in Chicago. It was my first full time job and I learned a lot from it. But I reached a point where I knew it was time to make a change. Should I find another job? Should I apply to grad school? Should I … move to Korea? 

I knew that it was now or never. I was feeling burnout and overwhelmed in my current job and felt unsure about my future and passionless about the things I used to want to pursue. It was unlikely that I would take a teaching abroad position after grad school so why not go for it now? 

I still remember the elation and childlike giddiness I felt when I received my acceptance letter. It felt right, like all the pieces of my life had finally slipped into place. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t partially an escape plan. An escape from the intensity of my work as a Jewish professional in what was possibly the worst year to be working as Jewish professional. An escape from my own internal pressure to decide on a career path and make strides towards my success.

More than an escape it was a reward. A reward for all of the hard work I had put into my academic and career success up to that point. A reward for the emotional labor I did to accept and acknowledge my deepest held desires and to honor them. A reward for my bravery to continue to make bold decisions and act on them. 

I don’t for a moment regret moving to South Korea. And with the time I have left here, I’m going to do my best to ensure I don’t have any regrets when I leave either.