In my house, Korean isn’t just a language; it’s the atmosphere. It fills the kitchen when my mom calls me out for dinner and slips into conversations about school, chores, and everything in between. English, meanwhile, lives outside - at school, in textbooks, and in my fast-paced teenage life. I move between these words constantly, not by switching languages with my parents, but by switching identities. Growing up in that space taught me something more important than speaking fluently: it taught me how to listen.

Listening came before confidence. Even though I speak Korean at home, there were moments when my vocabulary lagged. I learned to rely on tone, pauses, and expression as much as the literal words. When my grandmother said “괜찮아,” I learned to hear whether she truly meant it or if she was hiding discomfort. When my parents discussed something serious, I learned to pay attention not just to what they said, but to how they said it: the small sighs and hints of hesitation.

I didn’t realize it then, but this ability to listen between the lines shaped how I communicate everywhere else. When I joined my school newspaper, The Accolade, I learned that strong reporting wasn’t about sounding certain or impressive; it was about hearing what someone wasn’t saying out loud. During an interview with a student who had transferred schools multiple times, I noticed her shoulders tense whenever she mentioned “starting over.” That detail reshaped my entire approach to the story.

I carried that lesson into Voices of the Field, the project I founded to bring students face-to-face with professionals. Every conversation began with listening. Before I asked about résumés or responsibilities, I paid attention to what sparked their excitement or softened their voices. Some speakers opened up about failures they had never talked about; others reflected on unexpected turns that shaped their careers. Those moments didn’t come from perfectly crafted questions. They came from patience and genuine curiosity-skills I didn’t learn in a classroom but by growing up between languages.

Listening even changed the way I played tennis. Moving from singles to doubles meant I couldn’t rely on instinct alone; I had to read my partner just as closely as I read the ball. A slight shift in her stance or the way she bounced the ball before a serve told me more than anything she could literally voice in the middle of a rally. Winning points depended on reading subtle cues and responding properly. What looked like quick reactions on the court was really a quiet form of communication-another version of the listening I’d practiced my whole life.

Growing up bilingual never felt like balancing two separate worlds. It felt like learning two different ways of understanding people. Korean taught me to hear emotion woven into tone; English taught me to articulate what I observed. Together, they shaped how I approach leadership and how I move on a tennis court. As I think about my future, I want to bring this way of listening with me. It’s the skill that has shaped every meaningful connection I’ve made-at home, in the newsroom, on the tennis team, and in every conversation where someone trusted me enough to tell their story. Between two languages, I learned not just to communicate but also to understand, and that, I’ve realized, is where real connection begins.

<Alice Chae 서니힐스 고교 11학년>