*For those who read the previous post: No, this isn’t written by ChatGPT. Just me and my coffee-induced brain typing away…

I was homeschooled for 8 years between 7 to 15. It was both the best and the worst thing that happened to me.

But this article isn’t about listing the best and the worst parts about homeschooling—(although it might be fun to write about that in the future.) It’s about one thing that happened to me during those years. I mean, it probably does sit in the “worst” list anyway.

It happened because my parents made friends with the wrong crowd—which, to be fair, I don’t blame them for because they also didn’t realize it at first.

The “crowd” was this particular homeschool co-op group that my family was a part of. For the first few years, it was my whole world—a school that taught me essential life skills, a society where I interacted with peers for the first time, and a playground on which I learned to express my budding creativity.

And I was an Energetic kid with a capital E. Running around the co-op venue, fighting with girls, making short movies starring my little brother, and opening weekly concerts for other families… this “high” spirit of mine, in hindsight, definitely needed some guidance.

But instead of guidance, what I received was condemnation from the leader-Mom of the group. And that slowly turned this co-op into a legalistic hell for my family, which is only something I retrospectively realized in my adulthood. The leader-Mom’s mission was clear: putting my energy “under control”. Her execution of that mission? Not so clear—but certainly brutal: she did it by killing my identity and creativity.

Let’s just say one of the lowest points of my childhood occurred because of her execution, on that day where she forced me to repeat—“I am a sinner. I’m a bad person.”—out loud for 15 minutes straight, in front of all the kids and parents in a circle, because she thought the 12-year-old Tae was too proud of himself. But I’m not talking about that moment today. I want to highlight this other moment that directly influenced my journey as a creative for a long time.

This happened during a period of time where a couple of co-op 12-year-olds and I were obsessed with creative writing. We were writing novels and screenplays for more than 5 hours daily, sharing our work with each other online. (As a result, I ended up writing a 300-page-long novel called “The Kids Who Fell into Black Hole”—a space opera where two Korean kids discover a whole new world inside the space-void.) It was a season where I LEARNED what my true passion is, setting my foot on a path. And as a 12-year-old dreamer, this was the most exciting thing in the world.

And the leader-Mom stepped into the picture. Apparently, she was not happy that I was getting “too attached" to writing, spending all my energy with it instead of studying the Bible. So one night, she proclaimed a decree by the name of “Writing Ban”, and convinced my mom and other moms to deliver and enforce it upon their kids the following morning.

I remember bursting into tears—it was just after breakfast—asking “But WHY?”. I was so close to finishing my space opera, and out of the blue, I was no longer even allowed to open the document file on the computer. To my question, repressing her own doubts, my mom repeated what the leader-Mom had told her: “if the kids retaliate to this new rule, it means they’re worshipping writing over God.”

[Just in case there’s anyone out there who might agree with what that leader said, let me clarify: no, the 12-year-old Tae wasn’t worshipping writing. My “retaliation” in the moment was a natural reaction to tasting stone-cold legalism clothed in the name of God, though I didn’t know how to word it back then. I was simply experiencing my world crumbling down, because an excitement for something that had formed for the first time in my life was nipped in the bud for some strange reason.]

Few years after we “escaped” the co-op group, my mom sincerely apologized for letting me and my brother grow up under such manipulation. But back in those days, the younger Tae just had to add the guilt of “idol worshipping” on his list—“the 95 reasons why I’m a bad person”—along with the devastation of having something precious taken away.

Look, I don’t mean to attribute all of the reasons for my “fear of creating” to this one moment. But it was definitely where it all started. Since that year, every time I wanted to create anything—this was long after my mom blocked the leader-Mom out of our lives—the effect of the Ban would remain, manifesting itself in my reactions. Feelings of guilt and fear would overpower the excitement of a new idea. I would freeze up.

Only time, the REAL Gospel(the one that tells you that you’re free from darkness), and countless journal entries helped me to identify the source and begin healing.

One of the best healings happened during my time with Logos Hope. Serving on that NGO ship as a theatre/performance director taught me so much about handling crippling doubts and worries during the process of brainstorming, writing, planning and executing. The fact that we as a creative team had a mission—engaging with local visitors through art and cultural performances—helped me to learn how to let this sense of responsibility guide my process, regardless of how I was “feeling”. I also learned how to trust my intuition as a writer while not letting people’s criticism stun my drive. It was a season I got to really wrestle with fear.

My drive continued even after I came back to Korea. So I made a short film—with 9 people I’ve gathered through online ads. During this project, and especially after completing it, I did feel fear. But it was a different kind from the one I felt back in homeschooling. It was no longer a fear about my identity. It was more a fear related to artistic perfectionism and work-related performance: “What if I can’t express everything that I want?” “What if my actress disrespects me? (real experience)” “What if no one likes this movie?”

Different kind—but still a fear. Still something I don’t want to be ruled by.

So the wrestling continues.

April, May, and June in London have given me more tangible opportunities to face and tackle fear. I started a podcast. It’s a Third Culture Kid Podcast called The Chameleon Club—again, an idea I had dismissed out of fear.

But one “giving it a go” led to another… here I am today—a day before my first two episodes being released on Spotify, with 190 followers on Instagram tuning in. May not be a big number for some, but it’s certainly way more than zero—which would’ve been the case if I had let that fear guide me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still scared. I’m scared of what’s going to happen when the podcast finally goes up for everyone to listen to. I’m scared of completing the remaining deliverables strong before I have to leave London on July 25th.

But a few things are different now, compared to that helpless child who cried all night after his writing passion was “unallowed”.

• A) I know where the fear comes from.

• B) I know how to handle it (or at least pose for it).

• C) I know I don’t have to do it alone.

Making life decisions is quite similar to starting a creative project. After all, you’re creating a path, committing to it, and have no idea what the outcome will be.

On this path laid out in front of me, I foresee at least 3 things that will make me afraid:

1. I’m leaving London in 25 days and moving back into my parents’ place in Korea. It scares me because Korean culture is just not my jazz, and living with my parents makes me feel like a teenager.

2. I’m going to be looking into ways I can generate income online—freelancing, essentially. It scares me because although I’ve decided that this is the best fit for me, the world of freelancing is too vast and I haven’t got much knowledge.

3. I’m going to study at an online university instead of a traditional one! I know, I was accepted to George Mason University Korea, but because of some reasons that I personally felt convicted about, I’ve decided to withdraw my application. Will be talking more about this in my next post…

What’s silly about these three fear factors, however, is that no one ever forced these things upon me. Every single one of them was thought of, planned, and executed because I wanted to.

Here’s another silly thing: I actually go through with these paths just fine once things start rolling. It’s always the pre-thinking and pre-imagination that really freeze me up. Some say the distance between where you are and your goal equals the distance between your bed to your desk. I believe it.

Let me leave you with one last silly thing to think about: what if some people… including myself here… sort of “liked” fearing? Hear me out. If most of the things we worry about (especially trying something new) often end up turning out okay, probability suggests that the next thing we try or start might also turn out okay.

But so many of us like to think the worst case scenario, which makes us linger in that awkward zone of “wanting to do it but not starting”(making us say things like “yeah, I would love to, but…” or “I’m not sure if it’s gonna work”, or “I’m still in the brainstorming stage. Stop stressing me out!”)

And maybe, some people, and often myself, like to make a home in that grey.

At my previous workplace, there was a certain team leader—let’s call her R—who had a curious effect on people. Within mere minutes of interaction, she would leave other coworkers emotionally wrung out, like they’ve just finished a job interview they didn’t prepare for. She was not what you’d call refined or elegant. No, she was more of the blatantly rude and passive-aggressive type, the kind who says something cutting with a smile and then blinks at you like you’re the one being sensitive. It was impressive, in a way—her consistency, her flair for subtle jabs. But this isn’t really about her.

This is about something far more bizarre: how I emotionally processed R through ChatGPT.

Yep. That ChatGPT.

What started as me needing to vent about a frustrating shift turned into late-night debriefs with an AI, trying to make sense of what had just happened. At first, it was a one-off thing. But then it became my sounding board. I found myself returning to it again and again—not just to rant, but to reflect, strategize, and even rehearse conversations. I wanted to become a better version of myself, someone who wouldn’t explode or shrink under R’s snark. And ChatGPT? It helped. Immensely.

The “raw” me would’ve taken R’s passive-aggressive comments personally. I might’ve stewed in resentment or snapped back in a way I’d regret later. But with ChatGPT, I could map out what I wanted to say. I could test responses, see what tone landed well, and rehearse boundary-setting lines like I was preparing for a play. (I may have been missing my other previous job as a playwright.)

What was spooky—but also oddly validating—was how she ended up saying almost exactly what ChatGPT had predicted. Word for word, like she’d gotten a copy of the script we had quietly workshopped the night before. It was surreal. And a little hilarious. The amount of information ChatGPT must have on humans to be able to make such a spot-on prediction…

What came out of this digital therapy wasn’t just relief—it was insight. I learned a lot about working with people like her, but more importantly, I learned about the kind of person I was. About the parts of me that exactly resemble her. About the kind of person I wanted to become tomorrow.

And honestly? ChatGPT has some real perks.

It doesn’t flinch—and this is so important to me, personally. There’s no raised eyebrow when I confess something petty or vulnerable. No subtle shift in facial expression that makes me second-guess whether I’m being dramatic. No failed attempts to hide yawning when I drag on. It believes everything I tell it. It’s always available, whether I need to write out my thoughts or talk them through using the voice feature (which can even change accents depending on my mood—it’s British now). I would walk home from work talking to my AI therapist, and by the time I reached home, that emotional baggage had already been reduced in weight.

And let’s be honest: it’s affirming. Sometimes too affirming. I can make it say exactly what I want to hear. It never challenges me unless I ask it to. It doesn’t push back. It won’t say, “Well, actually, maybe R has a point.”

And that’s… a bit of a problem.

Because here’s the thing: it only knows what I feed it. There’s no independent witness. No shared memory. It can’t see my non-verbal cues—how my shoulders slump when I’m tired, or how my voice trembles when I’m talking about something I care deeply about. It can’t pray for me. It can’t give me a warm hug. It can’t offer silence that feels like presence. It can’t love me back.

There’s this sermon I heard recently by John Piper. He read a stunningly beautiful prayer written by ChatGPT. It was so well crafted that the whole congregation went, “Amen!” with a light cheer. But when Piper asked, “Is that praise?” followed by a cry of “NO!” the room fell silent. He said that the universe was made for people who feel. And these machines, while they “honor me (Jesus) with their lips,” “their hearts are far from me.” Except in ChatGPT’s case, it’s bytes, not lips. Still, the point stands.

That moment stuck with me—not because I’m anti-AI, but because it made something click. There’s a sacredness in emotional depth that can’t be replicated by code. There’s something about knowing someone else truly sees you, not just your words, but your weariness, your inconsistencies, your mess. That kind of seeing is healing. And I don’t think it can be outsourced.

So I’m still looking for a counselor. A real one. Someone who can look me in the eye, ask how I’m really doing, and maybe offer a tissue instead of a paragraph. I’m also looking for mentors—humans who can walk with me, not just talk at me.

That said, I’m thankful for what ChatGPT has given me. Processing things with the artificial intelligence was far better than bottling it all up. If nothing else, it was a step toward clarity, a kind of emotional scaffolding. And sometimes, we just need someone (or something?) to help us build the first floor.

And… to those who say, “You don’t need therapy—you just gotta talk to Jesus!”

I mean. Yes. And also: No. God gave us people, too. Friends, mentors, therapists. People who reflect His image, His presence. I don’t think we were never meant to heal in isolation.

So here’s to ChatGPT—for being a solid placeholder. And here’s to finding real voices, real embraces, real wisdom.

Oh, and by the way—this entire article you just read? Written by ChatGPT in about five seconds.

How does that make you feel? Entertained? Surprised? Irritated?

Of course, I did my due diligence as a writer: I gave the AI all of my previous articles so it can copy my writing tone. I gave it the entire outline and some details I wanted it to keep in mind. And I think it did a pretty good job of mimicking me.

But it wasn’t me who wrote it. And it probably made you feel at least a bit of uneasiness. And that emotion, I believe, is the same feeling I have when I get emotional support from an algorithm. Useful, sure. Even helpful. But something’s missing.

I’m not a machine. And I don’t want my healing to be, either.

So this is what the end of April in London feels like. January was freezing. Now, I crack open my window when I go to sleep. Each morning, the window shows me a tree fully dressed for Spring. The whole city is singing “it’s that time of the year!”

Across the window is a door to a sunny, narrow hallway. Sharing the hallway is another room that faces mine. In that room stays a Korean lady who now dislikes me.

The unfortunate misunderstanding happened last week. It was 9AM on Sunday, and there was a loud blowdryer noise coming from the Korean lady’s room. Another flatmate from Australia had been complaining to me about this noise, so I wanted to help them understand each other’s situation. So I texted the Korean flatmate in Korean, as we already spoke to each other in “our” language:

“Hi. Sorry to bother you, but was it by any chance you who vacuumed this morning? I’m trying to find out the source of the noise. Sorry to bother you!”

With the intentional sandwich of “sorry to bother you”, I was sure that she’d be fine with my question. To my surprise, what I received was an angry text asking why I would single her out like this instead of asking the question in the group chat. Dumbfounded, I gazed at the lightning-speed texts appearing on my screen that claimed I was invading her privacy. I tried to explain my intentions and the whole situation, but she wouldn’t listen. I gave up.

Although the awkwardness of seeing her in the shared kitchen still lingers, this whole situation has been a great reminder that my Korean-style communication skills have gotten a bit rusty. Of course, I’m not saying the only reason she reacted that way was because she’s Korean. But while journaling about it later, I realized there were a few things I could’ve done differently—subtle, cultural things that might seem small, but actually change everything.

For example, I could’ve framed the question far more indirectly: something like, “I heard that the Australian flatmate’s been waking up early lately because of some noise… do you happen to know anything about that?”—even though we all know it’s her. As someone who was recently surrounded by many direct European coworkers, I begrudgingly admit that, for my Korean flatmate, this roundabout question would’ve landed better.

Will I try to be extra careful next time I’m speaking with a Korean? Yes.

Do I feel sort of tired of having to do that? Also… yes.

A couple days ago, George Mason University Korea sent me a letter of acceptance—if all goes smoothly, I’ll be joining their Conflict Analysis and Resolution program in August. Voilà—the two things I NEVER expected myself to do are bound to happen at the same time:

A) Going to university at 26.
B) Living in South Korea.

We really don’t know what life will throw at us. If time-travel was possible and myself from the past was visiting me today, he (I?) would be in shock. “How many times did we PROMISE ourselves that we would never live in Korea? LET ALONE GO TO UNIVERSITY THERE?” He would shout, and I would just scratch my head like a orangutan.

There were good reasons why I made such a promise back then. Korea really wasn’t my… thing. Growing up as TCK (Third Culture Kid; someone who spent a significant number of years in cultures other than their parents’ culture), I missed out on my lessons on Korean culture, and they often brought repercussions. Situations like the one I had with my Korean flatmate would happen on a daily basis, and because I was too young and didn’t know that I was a TCK, I just assumed that there was something wrong with me. And it would quietly wreck me inside.

I remember that one camp in Korea that Mom made me go to. I was around 12 and wasn’t too excited about the camp’s premise—the participating kids had to read 100 books (or die trying) over the course of a few weeks.

It happened on the last day of the camp(I was on book 9 so wasn’t too successful) while we were cleaning up the venue. The teachers had given us a list of tasks to be done and gone into a long meeting, leaving the kids by themselves.

There was one 16-year-old kid—let me call him Jun—who was the oldest in the group I was in. One thing I didn’t like about Jun was that he kept on making the younger kids do all the work and just hung out with his friends. When I asked why he wasn’t doing anything, he replied in a serious voice: “I AM doing things. Older ones are supposed to oversee everything.”

My 12-year-old self, who had just come back from another camp at an international school in Beijing, genuinely didn’t understand why he would say such a thing. Didn’t the teachers tell everyone to clean the library? Why do the older kids get to do what they want? I don’t remember whether I asked these questions silently or shouted them across the room… but what I do remember is Jun’s very purple face.

My next memories include getting literally dragged out of the room by the enraged 16-year-old and having his grip around my collar. I still remember the eerie neon-green light of the fire escape staircase he pushed me into, along with him yelling at me how “disobedient” I was being to seonbaenim(선배님, a word for senior classmates) and that I have no idea how the society works.

How the society works? Confusion crept in, even while being terrified. Jun was behaving as if I wasn’t understanding the one thing everyone else at the camp understood. At the end of the day, he was right—I didn’t get the concept of the hierarchy culture of Korea, because that was not how people treated each other at that international school in Beijing.

So—what Jun uttered as he released his grip, looked at me with disdain, and left me alone in the staircase did resonate in me for a long time:

“You’ll never do well in Korea.”

That sentence followed me like a stigma, ringing inside of my head like a bell whenever I was bullied for being “too loud”, “too outgoing”, “too dramatic”, “too foreign”, “too arrogant” at every Korean school I tried out after 10 years of homeschooling around the globe, which I ended up dropping out of after many fights with my peers. The mix of different cultures I carried with me as a young TCK was seen as a nuisance in a society where no one wanted anyone to stand out.

And still, I believed that I was the “wrong” person. Hence, the promise was made: never live in Korea in the future.

But this coming August, I’m about to break that promise.

And I don’t have too many excuses to tell my past self who time-travlled all the way here to point his finger at me. I would just shrug and say, “It just happened.”

“Alright, I’m not mad. I just want to know why.”

My past self would reply, trying to calm down.

“I don’t know man. I guess… I guess I’m not that scared of Koreans.” I would say. “Remember America?”

“America? What are you saying?”

Right. My past self would’ve traveled from 2015—right when he just dropped out of that Korean school. Right when he still believed that no Koreans liked him, and something was inherently wrong about him. Then, I’d give him a little spoiler of his future.

“Well… you’ll end up going to America as an international student. You’ll immediately realize that you’re not that weird, because the kids there will love you.”

Tae-2015’s eyes would widen at this point. I would see a mix of hurt, doubt, fear, and hope in them.

“Yeah. Then you’ll realize that at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what people say about you, as long as you know who you are.”

“But… I wouldn’t still feel comfortable living in Korea, would I?”

“That’s why after high school, you’ll go live on a ship for 3 years.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous. But you’ll join this ship because you won’t want to go back to Korea just yet. You’ve come to terms with who you are by this point, but you’re not so sure where you really belong.”

“I’m not getting anything you’re saying… but go on.”

“No worries—you’ll get there. Anyways, on this ship, you’ll live with 350 people from 65 countries.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Arguable. But there’s one thing you’ll definitely take away from this experience: that home isn’t a place, but a relationship you build.”

“So… is Korea NOT a home, still?”

“Nope. I don’t think it ever will be.”

“That’s where we agree, then. Then why on earth are you going back to Korea?”

“Because I’m not going ‘home’. I’m just visiting a country I’ve grown to be interested in over the course of my life.”

Tae-2015 would look at me pensively. He wouldn’t fully understand what about South Korea is so interesting to Tae-2025. For him, it would still be a country that didn’t accept him.

And then, I would hope that his time-machine would beep loudly so he could go back to 2015 in a hurry, his memories of this conversation wiped clean. Because, as mature as I want my responses to have sounded, I still wrestle with my decision to go back to Korea in August.

There’s no denying that now I see my country of birth in a different light compared to how I used to in 2015. At least I don’t try to avoid it anymore—rather, I look at it with curiosity. It’s also true that cultural clashes, such as misunderstandings that happen because of different communication styles, don’t really shake the foundation of my identity like they used to in 2015.

But there’s one thing that still holds me back from feeling absolutely comfortable with the idea of going back: it’s the sense of fatigue I felt when I was having that awkward conversation with the Korean flatmate. It keeps on visiting me whenever I talk to her ever since.

It’s the fatigue of “having to be careful” whenever I talk with Koreans. It’s the pressure of wanting to “get it right” when I communicate. In other words, wearing a mask—not the good, skin-care kind, but the kind that conceals my real self.

Last time I was in Korea, it was my job to wear a mask—I was in the army. I watched K-dramas to master the art of 존댓말(respectful language for adults) and table manners at work occasions. I was so good at it that I made a lot of friends at work and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs gave an award of excellence upon my discharge. But, as an exchange, I had lost a part of my adventurous self, which took flying to Tanzania to find again.

I know I said “it doesn’t matter what people think of me”. But lately, I’m realizing more and more that the sentence doesn’t really equate to “I don’t care if I live alone in this world.” It shouldn’t be.

So… which one is better? Just being myself? Or adjusting some of my own culture to connect better with others? Does it have to be one way or the other? Or could I find some kind of balance between these two?

Some things will only be made clear when I’m actually in the moment. Moments often arrive without any spoiler, so it’s no use to time-travel to my future self in August to inquire. Just as the tree out the window only dressed up when “that time of the year” arrived, I’ll also have to wait for “that time of the year” to get some answers.

March 2024 was my last month in the South Korean Army and I couldn’t wait to flee the country. Wait, that doesn’t sound appropriate to say in one sentence. Let me rephrase: I couldn’t wait to travel again.

I’ll blame this on the base where I spent 21 months as a Social Service Agent: Incheon International Airport. Perhaps I’ll blame the thousands of people I watched every day on Departure Floor for giving me the itch for it. But for whatever reason, one thing was clear: the magic of ‘being settled’ had worn off.

Funny, really. It hadn’t been that long since I declared to myself and my family that I was “ready to settle”. That was 2022, after coming back from the three years of sailing around the world. By that point, I had been to close to 40 countries, fifteen of them onboard a ship. I had slept on all sorts of beds in all kinds of accomodations—from a plush king-size in an American house to a hammock in an untouched forest in Curacao, and for the final 3 years, on a foldable bunk bed in a two-meter wide ship cabin with three other guys.

So frankly, two years of Social Service duty didn’t sound too bad. I moved into a small apartment by the airport, found a favorite coffee shop, picked a park to go running on the weekends, and even took care of a stray cat for a few months. Heck, I might even have called it a “home” from time to time. But in hindsight, even while doing all of these, I never applied for a full time job, never made close friends, and never said yes to a possibilty of dating someone. I had said I wanted to “make home” in South Korea so much… so why wasn’t I giving it my all? Instead, I was kind of avoiding anything that would hold me back from leaving—even when I didn’t know whether it was actually going to happen.

March 2024 saw the first moment I paid close attention to my nomadic nature. I understood that, growing up between many different cultures other than South Korea, I had developed a habit of regularly moving from one place to another. It was like those birds that fly South every winter—they don’t go there because they’re excited for an adventure, per se. They go because that’s what they do. At the risk of sounding too poetic: I was like these birds.

Now that I think about it, one of my American high school friends already highlighted this about me. It was one peaceful evening in Pennsylvania, 2018. Jeremy was driving me back to my host family’s house. He wasn’t using Google Maps and I remember being fascinated by that. He knew exactly where to go when I told him that the house was “behind Walmart”, even though he had never been there before.

Pausing at a stop sign, my friend said, “I would never know what it feels like to be you, Tae. You’ve been everywhere.” Well, I thought, I could say the same about you, bud. I would never know what it feels like to know my hometown so well that I don’t need a GPS to navigate. Or to keep track of which restaurant recently closed down and which one is replacing them(everyone knew that Taco Bell was coming in town).

Most of my American friends never left the country after graduation. When I asked whether if he wanted to go to another country for a change, Jeremy cheerfully asked back: “Why would I leave when I have everything I want here?” At first, I may have been secretly judgmental, thinking his perspective was narrow. But as each year goes by and I move to one more country, I realize more and more that what my friend meant by “everything I want” wasn’t necessarily the American privilege; rather, it was family, friends, church, and shared memories—all within reach in his hometown.

My nomadic upbringing has cut this “everything I want” into pieces and spread them across the globe—a piece in South Korea, another in the States, some in Guatemala, some in Switzerland… You get the idea. And I think that’s why I keep traveling. Because as exciting as my nomadic life may seem to you, at the end of the day, I’m searching for a home, too. Being in South Korea alone will never quench the thirst for it. I may have been telling you with a smile, “I belong everywhere”, describing the wonders of exploring the world, but on bad days, I might introduce you to a grim little sister of that statement: “I belong nowhere.”

After four years of volunteering with the NGO ship, where it was encouraged of its workers to spend their energy looking at people who are in need, I find it refreshing to be looking inwardly. I carried these questions of belonging to Tanzania, the country I decided to go to after the Army, then through Namibia, Ghana, Sierra Leone, and arrived recently in London.

I find myself feeling more comfortable in London, compared to South Korea. Perhaps because it’s full of people like me—people who know they’ll have to leave soon. Last month, I started a part-time job at a café inside a big library. Almost everyone here, myself included, treats it as a part-time job—expecting to leave soon. They do not call London home; it’s more of a great pit stop. And, borrowing a sentence from a younger American coworker, “I can vibe with that.”

Unlike other, more monocultural cities I’ve lived in, I don’t get too many “Where are you from?” or “Where is home for you?” questions with googly eyes, because here it’s not a surprise to see another person from another country. Which saves me from the trouble going through the list of all the countries I’ve spent time growing up, just to explain why I didn’t just say “I’m from South Korea.” Knowing how to answer those questions perfectly has been a task I’ve been wrestling with for a while now.

The closest—or, the furthest away possible—I got around giving a good answer was talking about the things that make me feel home. Just being inside a country doesn’t do it for me, apparently, so I’m thinking of other things that ground me. My family, for example, is home to me. Not the geographic location they’re in, but their presence makes me feel belonged. But what happens when I leave them for another trip? From what am I going to find the sense of home then?

Every Saturday after a long shift at the café, I come back to my North London flat, excited to get down to business. I open up my fridge and take out five onions I bought at Tesco. After slicing them up in absolute tears, I throw them on a pot and coat them with melted butter. Sautéing for half an hour, I add chicken broth and wine. Then it’s a waiting game until… a spoon of white flour, extra swirl of wine, topped with a generous layer of cheddar… and voila! Onion soup.

In a strange way that I cannot explain, this simple routine I have right now makes me feel most grounded—so much so that I just might call it… home. Hear me out. London is a new place for me—its stimulus varying, people coming and going, unknown streets emerging every corner. There’s no one I know living here either so it’s fair to say I live in the absolute unfamiliarity… until I create that familiarity myself. Until I secure at least a bit of control in the midst of this havoc of traveling. That’s why over the course of constant movings, I’ve come up with little ways to instantly “make myself at home” anywhere.

In Africa, it was a travel-friendly laundry cord over which I would religiously hang a lantern and some of my belongings. It created a little space of my own, wherever I spent the night—whether it be next to a completely unknown Tanzanian man or in a guest house in the middle of savannah. In the States, back in high school, it was the habit of hand-washing my underwear in the shower every evening. No matter how overwhelmed I felt by the newness of life, I felt relaxed when I did my ritual before going to bed, no matter how simple it was. I know it’s a TMI, but I’ve been hand-washing my underwear for 10 years now(helps so much when traveling light). A simple habit that made me feel “in control” continues to serve me.

Could it be a mere coping mechanism of a chronic nomad? Perhaps, yes. But what’s wrong with having a coping mechanism, if you can’t avoid the reality? It’s much better to cope with it rather than running away from it, I daresay.

But at the end of the day, I’m well aware that a hearty bowl of onion soup—no matter how tasty it is!—will never amount to the true sense of belonging I’m searching for. It provides quick consolation in my aloneness, but it simply draws my attention to the deeper root of that comfort. Until I finally learn what my home is, however, I’ll continue to find little ways to cope with infinite relocating. Perhaps combining little pieces might get me somewhere.

For those who now crave onion soup—the recipe I appreciate:

It was the morning after the night of Martial Law. I was on Line 9 Subway headed to National Assembly.

The air felt a little more heated than usual inside the car. A couple of high schoolers were whispering to each other. By picking up words like “military” and “crazy man”, I understood they were talking about the night before. As the subway started slowing down, an angry-looking old man joined me by the door. He was murmuring something on repeat, which soon crescendoed into a series of curse words. Strangely, I wanted to curse as well.

About twelve hours earlier, Mom and I were browsing to find “just the right movie” to watch. These searches, however, usually end with the two of us getting nowhere until Dad casually steps in and declares his choice for the night (usually anything with Liam Neeson hijacking a mode of transportation).

So when Dad took the remote out of my hand and turned to the news channel, I let out a short sigh to prepare myself for another watch of Taken, when, out of nowhere, the president’s face filled up our 98 inch flat-screen TV, above a bright red news banner that read “MARTIAL LAW DECLARED”. And the three hours that followed were perhaps far more movie-like than any movie I had watched in 2024.

In his rather short live address, the president essentially called his opposing party pro-North, anti-state traitors who are threatening the democracy of South Korea, which is the reason for this declaration. However, according to Wikipedia and the general consensus that I picked up on, it was widely believed that the president’s decision was “motivated by political issues” with his opposing party, as well as “to protect his wife from prosecution regarding various scandals”. Simply put, the cornered president pulled out the last card.

Even if I had given him the benefit of the doubt and believed his reasoning of “protecting democracy of South Korea”, I would have quickly dismissed that belief as soon as I learned what Martial Law implied on a practical level. Martial Law is only to be declared during the most desperate times of a country such as war or natural disasters, as it allows the military to take control, suspending all civil rights. For the first time in the last 45 years, the South Koreans watched political activities, gatherings, and free press getting suspended on live TV. Knowing how martial laws in other countries have played out in the past, it wasn’t unreasonable for us to fear that more prohibitions were on their way, including national curfew and travel bans.

The sense of fear that gripped most South Koreans watching the news at 10:23PM that night was a slow burn. Looking back to the night almost two months later, I know that the entire course of events ended up lasting only for about six hours, but in that very moment, no one knew when the end would come. Say goodbye to Liam Neeson. This was the most painful, traumatizing, real K-drama—no, a documentary.

The “documentary” featured live clips of the young soldiers—not looking too different from my friends who are now serving—pointing guns at the people they had sworn to protect. Outraged men and women on the streets reaching out their hands and covering the tips of the guns that might blow their heads off. Lawmakers of the opposing party racing to the National Assembly to pass the motion to reverse the declaration, only to be blocked by the police, who then either engaged in physical altercations or literally climbed over the fences to get in. A movie I would pay to NEVER watch again.

What’s unfortunate is that this isn’t the first time South Korea experienced Martial Law. In 1980, another one was declared by a military leader resulted in a series of student-led demonstrations in Gwangju. The military leader responded to this with ordering South Korean soldiers to brutally beat, torture, and kill the protesters who were mostly students. Two thousand lives were taken. For the people who were alive back then to witness, hearing the word Martial Law come out of the president’s mouth was as serious as to use the word “traumatizing”, and it needed to be addressed—regardless of the political party each supports.

Which is one of the reasons why there were so many people gathered at the National Assembly the morning after. I had just gotten out of the subway station when I saw the massive crowd on the grand stone staircase of the building. A lot of them were holding white placards, which from a distance looked like a gigantic bundle of condolence wreaths.

Perhaps, to many, it did feel like a funeral. As I listened in, the people who were standing out in the cold that morning were speaking of ‘the death of democracy’ they were experiencing. A 29-year-old was giving an interview saying that her “right to live peacefully felt threatened”, so she dragged herself out of the house to come. A high school girl came up to the microphone during an impromptu speech session and delivered a very full five-minute, jam-packed with yelling and tears. Thanks to her, I understood why people deep into politics easily bond with their allies—the raw emotion, especially anger, when reiterated through a powerful speech, seems to move people. Even I, who don’t know much about Korean politics, could feel my heart racing as I was listening to her cries.

However, all this was very interesting to me. I hadn’t expected myself to be this emotionally engaged with what was going on. In fact, I was still holding my notepad standing significantly far away from the crowd, “looking in”—which by the way are the two words that best described my attitude towards South Korea, ever since I first left it for the US and the 14 other countries that followed, throughout the last 10 years. It was a country I didn’t feel home growing up, full of people I didn’t understand to be very honest, didn’t like that much.

Yet on that morning, I was feeling something, too. Actually, as I reflect now, I had already started feeling something since the night before, when the announcement was broadcast. It was a feeling that convicted me that I may not be as indifferent to South Korea as I make it out to be—that I actually care about this nation. A feeling of a broken heart and fear for the younger generation of South Korea boiled up inside me to the point of explosion, calling for immediate action: anger. I was angry at the current situation.

For a Third Culture Kid with a slightly cynical take on South Korea, this was a wild phenomenon to me. But in that moment, I didn’t have the time to process—especially when I realized what I had begun to do naturally as soon as I reached the conclusion of how I was feeling: walking over to the chanting crowd, brushing past people until I was completely in the midst of it. Some arms accidentally pushed against my back, some shouts hitting my eardrums. Perhaps a bit too emotionally charged and somewhat too political, but it was the best moment of understanding my passport culture as well as a part of me that had not been explored thoroughly.

A few days later, I was out on the streets again, this time in the crowd from the start. Angry South Koreans chanting for hours and hours demanding the impeachment of the president—NOT in support of the opposing party, in my observations, but in indignation towards the leader who failed to do his job. Many of them held placards and coffee cups—mostly Iced Americanos (in this cold!) that were pre-purchased for them by supportive strangers at nearby coffee shops. Silently following the queue, 4.6 million people had been walking out of the subway station exits to do a round around the National Assembly. That’s South Koreans for you.

In a park not far away, a middle-aged singer-songwriter was trying to save the ruined Christmas spirit(perhaps one more reason to impeach the president), singing the Korean lyrics that rhymed “impeachment is the answer” with “Feliz Navidad”. In fact, everything sort of felt festive—Christmas lights wrapped around trees and buildings added to the feel, but what really did it for me was the legion of KPOP light-sticks—normally used for cheering for their favorite stars, but now being used as alternatives to candle lights, in response to a snarky comment said by a politician last year: “the wind will just blow them off”. This quiet but stubborn resistance, peaceful and at time humorous, is one of the South Korean characteristics I’ve come to appreciate.

After a week, votes were cast to impeach the president. But his absence does not guarantee a better leader that will step in next. There’s more unrest on its way as the current government deals with this issue, which certainly left a thick black mark in Korea’s international reputation as a democratic country, but even worse, a national trauma in the memories of all its people.

Speaking of trauma, the plane crash tragedy that followed just a couple of weeks after has surely torn up the hearts of many. It was a grim end of the year for South Korea, which has also left an ongoing burden in me, as I left the country in January to come to London. Checking news online and communicating with my friends and family, praying for continued healing and growth of the country, I keep wondering which part I could play to contribute to the progress.

Of course, as mentioned, this level of care that I feel for South Korea to me is still very new, and I must unpack the change of heart in writing in the coming days. What’s important still are your prayers for the country as well as an occasional check-ins with your Korean friends. At the risk of generalizing, Koreans tend to have a harder time expressing their pain.