Sojin Park

From a young age, I was never really into exercise. During middle and high school, my classmates would rush out to the schoolyard during gym class or lunch breaks to play soccer, jokgu, and basketball, while I mostly just walked a lap around the track or stared blankly out the classroom window. Honestly, exercise just didn’t do much for me. I figured that spending time in the blazing sun kicking a ball around with friends was a worse use of my time than sitting in the classroom getting through one more page of a book I loved.

These days, though, I work out like mad. Not long ago, I set a personal record of 1 hour and 56 minutes at the Seoul Half Marathon. On weekday mornings, I quietly make my way to the gym for strength training, and on weekends, swimming and running are as much a part of my routine as anything else. There was a time when I couldn’t stand running under the hot sun — now I seek it out myself. Sure, building fitness is part of it, but lately I find that I simply enjoy running and swimming for their own sake.

Why did I avoid exercise in the past? Looking back, I think it comes down to an innate dislike of situations that invite comparison and judgment. Competitive team sports, in particular, make comparison and judgment practically unavoidable. Who’s the team ace, how well is our team playing, what’s our weak link, what am I better or worse at than the average — it never ends.

I think there’s no finish line to that kind of comparison and judgment. As the saying goes, there’s always someone better, and shortcomings are always ready to reveal themselves. No matter how well our team plays — even if we top the league — there are better teams out there, and there’s always something to improve in my own play. Comparison and judgment may be par for the course in competitive sports, but personally I find the whole process exhausting. At least when I’m enjoying sports as a hobby, I wanted to be free from that kind of thinking.

That’s what makes swimming, running, and strength training so appealing to me. These kinds of exercise let me focus entirely on the battle with myself. If I swam 1 km nonstop last time, I tell myself to do just 100 m more this time. If I ran 10 km in 60 minutes, I set a goal of finishing within 58 minutes next time. I can do it alone, with no need to compare myself to others or be judged by them — focusing only on being a little better than I was yesterday.

I think there’s a fundamental difference here: competitive team sports are inevitably discussed in terms of “relative value” — how you measure up against others — while sports like running and swimming are discussed in terms of “absolute value” that you build entirely on your own. And I want to live in a world of “absolute value,” where I can step away from others’ comparisons and judgments and focus purely on my own journey.

This way of thinking has carried over into something I’ve been mulling over lately: moving and finding a new neighborhood. When I ask colleagues, “What’s a good neighborhood to live in?” the language of “relative value” shows up without fail. There are fixed, universally accepted criteria for what makes a neighborhood “good”:

Is it close to work?
Is it near a subway station?
Is it safe?
Is it affordable?
Are everyday amenities nearby?
Is it flat?
Is there a park or stream close by?
…

Every neighborhood gets evaluated and ranked according to these uniform standards. So people who live in so-called “good neighborhoods” are envied, while those in less desirable ones sometimes make self-deprecating remarks. (Things like, “It takes me an hour and a half to commute…”)

But listening to people talk, I can’t help wondering whether it’s really right to evaluate “a good neighborhood to live in” so uniformly. I currently live in Jamsil, which meets most of the commonly cited criteria for a “good neighborhood.” I can get to work in ten minutes; the area is flat and safe; and everything a person living alone could need — from everyday amenities to parks — is right there.

Even so, I don’t think the neighborhood I live in is so ideal as to be perfect. Jamsil is cut through by wide roads that segment the area, so crossing the street always means navigating a massive crosswalk. The enormous apartment complexes loom like fortresses, each walled off from the rest, giving the place an exclusionary feel. Even the apartment names are strange. The famous “Ricenz” complex is apparently an acronym for “River Central Zenith” — which, if you actually think about it, is a pretty absurd name. I don’t think a neighborhood this artificial and contrived is necessarily a great place to live. Maybe that’s why, even after nearly two years here, I’ve never felt truly at home.

The kind of neighborhood I idealize is somewhere like Yeonhui-dong or Yeonnam-dong — a place that feels alive, with a genuine human warmth to it. The buildings are low-rise and settle into natural harmony with one another. The streets are narrow enough that crossing them feels effortless, and tucked into every alley are little gem-like shops just waiting to be discovered.

I think my past self had internalized a “relative value” mindset — accepting things as good simply because other people said they were. When thinking about where to live next, I would unconsciously compare and rank neighborhoods. But lately, I’m trying to think in terms of “absolute value” instead. Asking myself questions that are focused entirely on me: What are the things I genuinely find valuable? What kind of neighborhood would make me happier?