What Matters? Artistic Merit Winner Claire Heo - nestled in the numbers

Photo by Sally Tsoutas, The Whitlam Institute

This week, we were thrilled to attend the awards ceremony for The Whitlam Institute’s What Matters? Writing Competition for young people, to award Claire Heo the Artistic Merit Award for her piece, nestled in the numbers. Varuna is proud to support the Artistic Merit Award, offered each year to a submission that possesses special imaginative qualities, achieved through exceptionally creative use of language and/or an outstanding concept.

Inspired by Gough Whitlam's commitment to involving young people in shaping Australia's future, the What Matters? writing competition is open to school students in years 5 to 12 from Australia. Responding to the simple question 'what matters?', entrants are free to express their views on any matter they care about.

We were so impressed by Claire’s submission, and enjoyed meeting her and celebrating these young writers.

nestled in the numbers

Claire Heo
Tara Anglican School For Girls

*buzzzzz*

My phone vibrates on the table. A message from my mum. "시험 점수 나왔어?" Did your test results come out?

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I already know what she wants to hear. A number—preferably a high one. A number that will make her smile, let her relax, reassure her that I’m not falling behind.

I don’t reply. Instead, I scroll through my feed, past pictures of other people’s perfect scores, their trophies, their awards. The numbers are everywhere. I turn off my phone, but they don’t disappear.

There are many things I hate in life. Things such as the texture of capsicum, the smell of blue cheese, the taste of celery. But out of everything, the thing I hate most is numbers.

No, not maths—although, to be fair, it isn’t my favourite subject. I mean the numbers that follow us everywhere, the ones that seem to decide our worth before we even get a say. Test scores, weight on a scale, the number of likes on a post. The ticking digits on a clock when you’re running out of time. How much, how long, how many.

인생은 가끔 너무 힘들어서 그것들에 대해 생각도 할 수 없는 것 같아.

At school, numbers whisper from the corners of worksheets and report cards. Ninety feels like relief, eighty is fine, seventy is a warning, and anything lower feels like failure. At home, numbers hover in the air—my parents don’t say them out loud, but I can hear them in their pauses. In the way my mother scrolls through KakaoTalk, glancing at photos of someone else’s daughter, straight-backed and smiling, the caption boasting an exam result higher than mine.

Numbers are everywhere. They chase me down supermarket aisles, on nutrition labels and clothing tags, reminding me what I should weigh, what size I should be. They glow from phone screens, counting likes and views, making me question how visible I am, how much I matter.

Some nights, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, trying to remember a time when numbers didn’t define me. But I don’t know if that time ever existed.

But lately, I’ve been learning.

행복은 자기 마음속에 있다.

I've been learning from the scent of roasted sweet potatoes and hot chestnuts on winter nights, the way they remind me of my grandmother’s hands, always peeling, always offering me the softest pieces. I’ve been learning from the rhythm of my father’s voice when he speaks, steady like the waves that carried my ancestors across oceans. From my mother’s quiet humming as she stirs doenjang jjigae on the stove, the same way her mother once did.

I've been learning that there’s more to me than numbers.

I don’t speak perfect Korean, but I know how to count. I know how to introduce myself, ask for things, string together a clumsy sentence in my parents’ language. And yet, somehow, I’ve never learned how to say I am enough. Maybe there isn’t a word for it. Maybe no one ever thought to teach me.

But maybe—just maybe—numbers don’t have to mean as much as I think they do.

Because some things can’t be measured. The warmth of my best friend’s arm slung over my shoulder. The way my dad peels apples for me, even when he’s tired. The rush of speaking Korean with my grandmother over a glitchy video call, her voice tinny and harsh, but full of love.

Numbers may always be there, ticking, measuring, judging. But they don’t get to decide who I am.

Not anymore.

Because now, I have learned.

나는 중요해.