There’s a hill you have to climb to reach Seoul National University—and I don’t just mean that figuratively.

When I first told people I’d be studying at SNU, the responses came quickly and almost always in the same rhythm. “SNU? That’s Korea’s top university. You’ll be surrounded by the brightest students.” I didn’t quite

know what to make of these responses. Where I come from, academic prestige exists, but it rarely shapes casual conversation. Names of universities don’t echo with quite the same resonance.

When I arrived at SNU, something about these reactions began to make sense. I quickly realized that SNU isn’t just a university; it’s a culture. And the climb to campus, literally and figuratively, sums up much of what it means to be part of this institution.

Walking Into SNU’s University Culture

Every morning, students pour out of SNU Station and move toward the incline ahead. The climb up Gwanaksan is steep—one of those slopes that wakes up your legs and doubles the weight of your backpack. Around me, students walked with purpose: headphones on, coffee in hand. No one rushed, but no one paused either. You didn’t need to see a sweatshirt with “SNU” printed on the back to know who belonged. You just had to watch how they paced themselves on the hill—and how they never stopped to catch their breath.

As an exchange student, I tried to match their rhythm: quick, steady steps with my breath held back just enough to keep from sounding out of place. I wasn’t sure if their rhythm came from habit, pride, or something unspoken, like a rule that says you don’t show struggle on the way up. The pace seemed natural to them, but to a new student, it felt almost punishing. It takes time before you start to recognize the shortcuts. The stairs behind the SNU Museum of Art. The narrow hill up to the dorms. The little paths that some students swear cut five minutes off. The hill never got easier, but it started to feel familiar.

I’ve come to rely on those shortcuts: not just to get to class faster, but to navigate a culture that still feels steep and unfamiliar. Small things like when to bow and how deep. At first, I wasn’t sure how to speak up in class, often second-guessing whether to raise my hand or just listen. Cafeteria etiquette, the expected silence in the library, even how students dressed—it all reminded me that I wasn’t from here. I was adjusting not just to the altitude, but to an unspoken system of codes and expectations, just like the hidden stairs behind the Museum of Art; I had to learn where to look to move with greater ease.

When Effort Becomes Who You Are: The Deeper Meaning of Noryeok

SNU is a place that attracts top students and carries with it the reputation of academic excellence. However, when you speak with students here, the reality of daily life isn’t always about honors or big achievements. Instead, it’s about the grind, the small, often unnoticed moments that shape the student experience. The idea of noryeok, or hard work.

Noryeok (노력) directly translates to “effort,” but speaking to some students, I’ve come to realize that the concept is a little more nuanced than that. A graduate student preparing for a PhD, whom I met in class, told me that for her, it means improving yourself by being patient and addressing your weaknesses to overcome your struggles. Another student said that while the process can be exhausting, “noryeok won’t betray you.” Even if she’s not at the top of the class now, she believes that steady effort is what built her foundation and taught her discipline, and “that’s what will carry [her] forward.” On that note, noryeok doesn’t seem to be just about ambition or output. It’s also not simply about working hard, but about pushing yourself to the edge—without expecting recognition in return.

In Germany, a country where academic pressure doesn’t carry quite the same cultural weight, there’s less honoring of commitment. People value balance more, or at least pretend to. So when I first came to SNU, it felt different. There was an expectation to stay on top of everything—academics, appearance, emotions—without showing that you’re overwhelmed. Often, I see students’ heads fall onto their desks during the 15-minute break in a 3-hour class, to squeeze in a fast, efficient nap before class resumes. I even met someone taking eleven courses at once; she didn’t even sleep in her dorm because she stayed out studying most nights. In all instances, however, no one complained. No one said it was too much. In fact, there seemed to be pride in managing it all quietly. Back home, you’re allowed to admit you’re tired. You’re encouraged to talk about the burnout. But here, the silence around the struggle felt like part of the struggle itself.

So, back to when I first started walking up the hill to SNU, I thought it was just that: a hill. A steep, annoying stretch of pavement between me and my classes. But after a few weeks, I started seeing it a bit differently. After a while, the hill felt less like an obstacle and more like an introduction to how things work here. The expectation to try harder, to push more, to manage yourself neatly is almost built into the fabric of Gwanaksan. Even before you reach the big SNU gate or see the view over the stadium, you’ve already proved something just by walking uphill. Some mornings, I find it oddly motivating. “Honestly, it feels good when you get to the top,” a student once told me. It’s like doing something that counts, even if no one sees it. Other days, I wonder how everyone else keeps going without pausing. Or is it just me who feels like stopping halfway?

The feeling of being overwhelmed eased once I realized that many SNU students shared the same struggle. No one ever really said, “I’m struggling” out loud, but in those ten-minute conversations—in the eye-rolls, the sighs, the agreement that it’s a lot—it was understood. Like during breaks mid-lecture, when we would always end up at the same cafe near the building, grabbing coffee and talking about how buried we were in readings or how confusing the first half of the lecture had been. Thus, effort, or noryeok, is both an obstacle and a source of pride at SNU. The constant push to keep going, to never stop, isn’t just a personal burden. It’s felt by everyone here, and in that shared struggle, there’s a sense of solidarity that makes it feel a little less isolating, a little less heavy. Like we were all dealing with the same weight, just without saying it. 

Still, not everyone romanticizes it. There’s a tension here between the pride in surviving the climb and the danger of letting struggle become routine. When you normalize exhaustion, you stop questioning it. You keep going, not realizing how tired you are until you crash. That’s what makes it dangerous: when effort becomes identity, burnout can slip in unnoticed. The constant pressure to do more, be more, and endure more becomes ingrained in everyday life. Admitting that you can’t keep up is not an option.

At SNU, that weight is the same. The university’s prestige doesn’t just open doors but also raises the bar. Once you’re here, you’re expected to live up to it. “Even after getting in, it’s not like it’s all over,” an engineering undergraduate friend told me over lunch. “It’s a never-ending climb. There’s always more to do. Grades, graduation, internships, jobs. There’s no real top.” I asked her if she ever felt like she couldn’t stop, as if resting might mean falling behind. She replied, “I feel like I don’t deserve to take a break.” For the first two years, she struggled with impostor syndrome, convinced she wasn’t good enough for this kind of education. “I had to push myself just to be an average student here.”

There are outlets: “I think they either drink or go karaoke,” one of my peers in class said when I asked him what students do when it gets too much. Temporary escapes that help blow off steam, but ultimately lead to nobody actually addressing the underlying issue. If anything, those coping mechanisms only seem like a way to momentarily reset before being able to start climbing again. But the climb doesn’t get less steep. And the silence around struggle doesn’t make it go away—it just makes it harder to name.

How We Keep Going and Why We Don’t Always Have To

I never planned on turning a walk to class into a metaphor. And yet, here we are. Maybe for some students, SNU’s hills are just part of the campus landscape. Maybe for others, it holds a bit more meaning. Gwanaksan is not the official symbol of SNU. But for me, it has gained this sort of meaning. It’s a reminder that here, ambition and exhaustion often travel together. Some days, pushing through feels empowering. Other days, it feels like you’re climbing just to keep up. And that’s the tension. The hill doesn’t just take strength; it quiets the struggle and makes the effort feel expected. You walk it because everyone else does. And yes, the view from the top—that sense of pride, of arrival—can feel like it’s worth it. But maybe what matters just as much is knowing that the climb doesn’t define you. That it’s okay to pause, to question the pace, and to remember that reaching the top isn’t the only way to belong.