The mother-in law test

Why college still defines everything in Korea—and what it means for us.

During our trip to Korea last month, my children and I visited my old friend, SoHyun. We go all the way back to college, when we were both Sunday school teachers at a Catholic church. SoHyun has always struck me as courageous and reflective. After majoring in social sciences, she pivoted to design, studied abroad, and eventually became an illustrator. About three years ago, she took another leap into painting full time, pursuing her artistic desire with quiet conviction. I wanted my children to see her in her element, her creative process and her way of life, quite different from my other friends in Korea. 

Over lunch, our conversation turned to college admissions in Korea. Her eldest daughter is currently in 재수, repeating the grueling college admission process for another year. “There are two main routes to get into college,” SoHyun explained. “One focuses on high school GPA, the other on the national CSAT exam. And each route has its own maze of sub-routes, with criteria that change every year.”

My kids and I were amazed by the complexity. But what surprised me more was how deeply SoHyun had immersed herself in her daughter’s application process. She had put aside her own work for nearly a year to support her child full time. Knowing her as someone who rarely lets others define her path, I expected her to be more hands-off. But the social pressure was overwhelming. “I just didn’t want to regret anything,” she said.

When I was applying to college in Korea, the CSAT was the sole gatekeeper. I still remember the pressure, the long hours in the dim private study space, the special meals from my mom. And I remember how my parents’ mood hinged on how I felt that day.

I expected that Korea would have moved past that. That the culture had evolved toward valuing happiness, balance, and more diverse definitions of success. But the system seems more intense than ever.

So why is the college entrance still treated like the single most important event in a person’s life? Why do families spend millions on private academies, move neighborhoods to be near star instructors, or let their children live in rooms smaller than a closet for one more chance at the CSAT?

The short answer: connections. Despite efforts to promote fairness, Koreans widely believe that the country runs on relational capital, especially school and regional ties. Which university you attend, people strongly believe, shapes not just your resume, but your entire trajectory: your first job, your future network, your social status, even your chances in marriage.

This is summed up in a common question among young adults: “Will my college and job pass the mother-in-law test?” That is, will my future in-laws approve of where I went to school and what I do?

It’s usually said with a laugh, but the anxiety underneath is very real. Years ago, when I was managing the Korean branch of a U.S. energy company, my American CEO and I used to joke about this. We half-seriously set a goal: to raise the company’s reputation high enough that it would help our employees pass their future mother-in-law tests.

That one question reveals so much about Korean society. That others, not you, and especially your parents, get to decide what’s admirable. That companies, too, chase reputation not just for profit, but for social approval. That even personal choices like choosing a life partner are often filtered through parental expectation.

A few weeks after meeting SoHyun, I watched an episode of Yoo Quiz on the Block, a beloved Korean interview show. The guest was JiWon Park, the youngest person ever to pass both levels of Korea’s notoriously difficult bar exam, ranking fifth among thousands—at just 20 years old. She had also been accepted to Seoul National University, which many see as even harder to get into than Ivy League schools.

She described her exam prep as brutal: “I studied whenever I wasn’t sleeping, about 16 hours a day, for 16 months straight. I just wanted to get it over with.” She became a lawyer and landed a job at a top firm. By 28, she had one of the highest salaries in the country for her age.

But she was miserable. She talked about the stress, the loss of autonomy, the emptiness of a path she hadn’t chosen. Eventually, she left the firm to pursue a career in translation, something she’d always loved. Her choice to self-author after so many years of living others’ life was so powerful. 

Another thing that stood out watching the show was the question the host asked after hearing about her career change: “What did your parents say about quitting the law firm? Are they okay with it?” Even at the point of a big life shift, the real question is still: what will your parents think?

In the U.S., Asian Americans make up a disproportionately high percentage of students at elite colleges. Anecdotally, I’ve noticed that most of my Asian American friends place more weight on college prestige than my non-Asian friends do. There’s nothing wrong with working hard or aiming high. But I wonder: are we still, consciously or not, carrying forward the expectations our parents and grandparents grew up with?

I believe our children, and we ourselves, can only thrive when we are connected to our own values, talents, and purpose. When we shift from living for approval to living with intention. That’s why I brought my kids to SoHyun’s studio. Not just to see beautiful paintings, but to meet someone who, in her own quiet way, is painting a life on her own terms.

If this reflection resonated with you, you may be interested in a project I’m working on:

I’m writing a book to offer a different perspective on Asian Americans and leadership. At its core, the book explores how self-authoring, a concept from Robert Kegan’s Adult Development Theory, is essential to effective and sustainable leadership. I connect this to the ways in which deeply rooted Asian cultural forces, such as filial piety, group-based thinking, and deference to hierarchical norms, often stand in the way of Asian Americans becoming self-authoring. The book also offers experience-based insights and practical suggestions for how we can move through, and ultimately beyond, these internalized constraints.