Reflection: Art and the Search for Greener Grass

The Dream That Wasn’t

In the quiet corners of my childhood, art was my secret portal to worlds unseen. With crayons in hand, I ventured into lands of imagination, sketching adventures where I battled mythical beasts and emerged a hero at the end of it all. Each stroke of color was a step into a universe where anything was possible—a place where my dreams took flight. Art wasn’t just a way to kill time; it was my language, my way of connecting with the world around me in a manner only a child could understand.

Yet, as the years passed, whispers of doubt began to cloud the vibrant landscape. It didn’t take long before the vivid scenes I created were overshadowed by the looming shadows of practicality. The dream of becoming an artist and inviting others to my world quietly retreated into the background, replaced by the more “sensible” paths that adulthood seemed to demand. And without the courage or confidence to stand my ground, I could only watch as the treehouse of dreams was replaced with iron bars that drew a line across the horizon. The artist inside me was boxed up, sealed away, while the world told me it was time to “grow up” and “get real.”

Get in the F*cking robot

Growing up doubting every decision, the world has a way of making choices for you. Computer science wasn’t a choice; it was an inevitability—society’s pre-packaged solution for the risk-averse. Wrapped in promises of stability and parental approval, I surrendered to it like a tired swimmer letting the current take them. And once I was in, there was no looking back, just more calculated moves forward. It felt safe. But in the background, there was always the nagging feeling that I wasn’t being brave enough to make my own choices. I wasn’t living; I was just existing in a box that someone else had drawn.

I couldn’t trust myself to take big bets. While others chased dreams, I measured cliffs, calculating costs and multiplying anxieties until they became too large to ignore. The sensible path had been chosen, and I followed it, convincing myself that this was wisdom, not cowardice. I had become too good at rationalizing my own fears.

The Other Side

My internship at Hanwha was a turning point. Surrounded by people from diverse backgrounds, I met students who were fearlessly pursuing their dreams in their respective paths, including the arts. Not only did they have the proper background and talent to pursue what they wanted, they had the confidence and belief that they would be able to stick it out no matter the outcome. Their stories resonated with me, stirring memories of my own abandoned aspirations. Seeing them thrive in an environment that nurtured their passions made me reflect on what might have been if I had taken a similar leap of faith.

Among these dreamers was a friend whose story could inspire a Hallmark movie. They moved abroad to attend an art high school in America, driven by a deep passion for creativity. Their journey was both inspiring and a bit bittersweet for me. Growing up, my family moved frequently, and each move felt like losing parts of myself—friendships, achievements, all left behind. But for them, moving was a sign of new beginnings, the start of something new and exciting. And although you could consider it to be a difference in perspective, I would argue that the difference between choosing to move and being forced to move without warning is something we can’t ignore.

This realization got me thinking about the “what ifs.” What if I’d asked my family to move for my own artistic dreams? But I suppose a recent conversation with my family would answer that without a doubt—I remember an offhand comment about wanting majoring in the arts if I ever won the lottery, only to be met with laughter—a reminder of my reality where such dreams are mere punchlines. The contrast between my friend’s supportive environment and my own left me contemplating the paths not taken and dreams deferred, a painter who never found their canvas.

The Grass We Water

But here’s the thing about looking over the fence: you miss the garden dying at your feet. I remember a time when I was so caught up in “what-ifs” that I nearly forgot to water my own plants. Literally. My poor houseplants were wilting while I daydreamed about alternate timelines where I’m someone I’m not and do things that, deep down, I know I would never do even if the opportunity came up. But reality has a way of snapping you back—like when you realize your once-thriving fern is now a crispy relic of negligence.

It was then that I realized, maybe that’s okay. The imperfection part, not the houseplants. Maybe the point isn’t to bemoan the paths not taken, but to understand why we chose the ones we did. Sometimes, it’s easier to fantasize about being a different person than it is to embrace who you are and the decisions that led you here. Maybe the real challenge isn’t in wishing we were someone else—it’s in accepting who we are now and finding ways to bloom where we’re planted.

I used to think the grass was always greener on the other side, but the truth is, it’s greener where you water it. If I spend too much time peering over the fence, I’ll never tend to the soil beneath me. That fern didn’t die because I wasn’t good enough; it died because I was too distracted, thinking about lives I wasn’t living. Maybe that’s the real lesson in all this—learning to stop fighting the person I am and start figuring out what that person needs to thrive.

And this realization doesn’t just apply to career paths or artistic dreams—it applies to everything. Whether it’s relationships, goals, or passions, nothing will flourish unless we actively nurture it. The dream of being an artist may never have blossomed for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find fulfillment in other ways. I may have traded my crayons for a bunch of zeros and ones, but there’s still creativity in the logic, still room for growth in the unexpected places.

So maybe the grass I once dreamed of is no longer the one I water. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make this garden beautiful, in my own way, with the tools I have.