I still remember the day I received my acceptance letter from the university in Korea. My entire neighborhood came alive with excitement, as if I had been chosen for something magical. Relatives I hadn’t heard from in years suddenly wanted to visit. Friends clapped me on the back and said, “You’re going to live your K-drama life now!” It felt surreal — like I had finally made it.
There were celebrations, gifts, hugs, and a hundred promises. “Don’t forget us when you become rich and famous!” someone joked. I laughed with them, hiding the nervous flutter in my chest. All I had was a scholarship, a plane ticket, and a suitcase stuffed with winter clothes I’d never worn before. My mother tucked a small pouch of her homemade spice mix into the corner of my bag. “When you miss home, cook with this,” she whispered, pressing my hands with hers. I didn’t cry at the airport. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But the tears came later — quietly, in a dorm room thousands of kilometers away, where nobody could see me.
Korea greeted me with lights, movement, and language I barely understood. The streets bustled with speed and rhythm. The signs, the people, the sounds — everything moved so fast. The first few days were exciting: new friends, new buildings, new foods. I walked through the campus with wide eyes and a full heart. But it didn’t take long for reality to settle in. Culture shock didn’t come like a slap — it came slowly, like a cold wind creeping into your bones. I thought I was just tired at first. But then I realized: I was lonely.
Classes were harder than I expected. Professors spoke quickly. I pretended to take notes but often just copied meaningless symbols I didn’t understand. Every day was a routine of lectures and confusion. After class, I rushed to my part-time job at a convenience store. From 5 p.m. to 11 p.m., I stood behind a counter, bowing to customers, scanning items, and apologizing for my awkward Korean. I smiled until my cheeks hurt.
After work, I returned to the dorm — tired, hungry, but with homework waiting. I stayed up until 2 a.m. most nights. Some days, I skipped meals to save money. Other days, I couldn’t afford anything beyond a triangle kimbap or cup noodles. Korean BBQ? That was for Instagram. For me, it was mostly instant rice, soy sauce, and whatever side dishes I could find on sale.
I missed my mother's cooking — the aroma of home, the warmth of a real meal made with love. I missed laughter around the dinner table. I missed arguing with my siblings over who got the last piece of fried fish. I missed being surrounded by people who understood me without needing subtitles.
Phone calls home became both a lifeline and a source of guilt. I’d force a smile so my parents wouldn’t worry. “Yes, I’m eating well. Yes, I have friends. Yes, I’m happy.” I never told them how I cried on the subway after failing a quiz. Or how I once walked an hour home because I couldn’t afford the bus and dinner in the same night.
People back home started sending messages asking for money, assuming I was now wealthy just because I lived abroad. “You’re in Korea — life must be amazing!” they said. I never told them I was surviving on less than $400 a month, carefully calculating every purchase, every subway ride. I never told them that I’d sometimes stare at my empty fridge and wonder if it was okay to cry over missing mangoes from home.
And yet, despite everything — there were small sparks that kept me going.
Once, an old Korean lady at my part-time job bowed and thanked me for helping her carry groceries. She didn’t say much, but her kindness filled something in me that had been empty for weeks. A classmate brought me coffee during midterms and said, “You look tired.” It was just three words, but I almost cried from the recognition. I joined a university club. I didn’t understand every joke, but I laughed anyway — genuinely, for the first time in a long while.
I started getting better at Korean. I learned to say what I meant, even if not perfectly. I began cooking simple dishes from home and shared them with my dormmates. One of them learned how to say “I love you” in my native language — and said it with a goofy grin. That night, something shifted. I felt seen.
I stopped pretending everything was okay. I started journaling. I began to understand that being alone wasn’t the same as being lost. I embraced the quiet in my room. I still cried sometimes, but now I cried with understanding, not confusion. I didn’t just endure — I grew.
Studying abroad isn’t the dream they show on social media. It’s not all cherry blossoms, stylish cafes, and K-drama moments. It’s waking up early, working late, missing your family, questioning your decisions, and still showing up the next day. It’s crying in a public restroom because someone laughed at your accent. It’s smiling when you hear someone from your country in a crowd, like a piece of home wrapped in sound.
But it’s also learning to rely on yourself. It’s building resilience. It’s making a life out of scattered moments and unfamiliar streets. It’s becoming stronger in the silence, braver in the chaos, and softer in your victories.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I write letters I’ll never send — to my younger self, to my family, to the friends I lost touch with. In one of them, I wrote:
"Dear Me,
You’ve made it farther than anyone expected — even yourself.
You’ve cried alone, but you’ve also laughed out loud.
You’ve survived the hardest parts, and you’re still standing.
One day, your story will help someone else hold on just a little longer.
Until then, keep walking.
You’re not alone."
And with that, I rest. Because tomorrow is another day — not of ease, but of strength. A day I’ve earned. A life I’m building.
One quiet, powerful, hopeful step at a time
I still remember the day I received my acceptance letter from the university in Korea. My entire neighborhood came alive with excitement, as if I had been chosen for something magical. Relatives I hadn’t heard from in years suddenly wanted to visit. Friends clapped me on the back and said, “You’re going to live your K-drama life now!” It felt surreal — like I had finally made it.
There were celebrations, gifts, hugs, and a hundred promises. “Don’t forget us when you become rich and famous!” someone joked. I laughed with them, hiding the nervous flutter in my chest. All I had was a scholarship, a plane ticket, and a suitcase stuffed with winter clothes I’d never worn before. My mother tucked a small pouch of her homemade spice mix into the corner of my bag. “When you miss home, cook with this,” she whispered, pressing my hands with hers. I didn’t cry at the airport. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But the tears came later — quietly, in a dorm room thousands of kilometers away, where nobody could see me.
Korea greeted me with lights, movement, and language I barely understood. The streets bustled with speed and rhythm. The signs, the people, the sounds — everything moved so fast. The first few days were exciting: new friends, new buildings, new foods. I walked through the campus with wide eyes and a full heart. But it didn’t take long for reality to settle in. Culture shock didn’t come like a slap — it came slowly, like a cold wind creeping into your bones. I thought I was just tired at first. But then I realized: I was lonely.
Classes were harder than I expected. Professors spoke quickly. I pretended to take notes but often just copied meaningless symbols I didn’t understand. Every day was a routine of lectures and confusion. After class, I rushed to my part-time job at a convenience store. From 5 p.m. to 11 p.m., I stood behind a counter, bowing to customers, scanning items, and apologizing for my awkward Korean. I smiled until my cheeks hurt.
After work, I returned to the dorm — tired, hungry, but with homework waiting. I stayed up until 2 a.m. most nights. Some days, I skipped meals to save money. Other days, I couldn’t afford anything beyond a triangle kimbap or cup noodles. Korean BBQ? That was for Instagram. For me, it was mostly instant rice, soy sauce, and whatever side dishes I could find on sale.
I missed my mother's cooking — the aroma of home, the warmth of a real meal made with love. I missed laughter around the dinner table. I missed arguing with my siblings over who got the last piece of fried fish. I missed being surrounded by people who understood me without needing subtitles.
Phone calls home became both a lifeline and a source of guilt. I’d force a smile so my parents wouldn’t worry. “Yes, I’m eating well. Yes, I have friends. Yes, I’m happy.” I never told them how I cried on the subway after failing a quiz. Or how I once walked an hour home because I couldn’t afford the bus and dinner in the same night.
People back home started sending messages asking for money, assuming I was now wealthy just because I lived abroad. “You’re in Korea — life must be amazing!” they said. I never told them I was surviving on less than $400 a month, carefully calculating every purchase, every subway ride. I never told them that I’d sometimes stare at my empty fridge and wonder if it was okay to cry over missing mangoes from home.
And yet, despite everything — there were small sparks that kept me going.
Once, an old Korean lady at my part-time job bowed and thanked me for helping her carry groceries. She didn’t say much, but her kindness filled something in me that had been empty for weeks. A classmate brought me coffee during midterms and said, “You look tired.” It was just three words, but I almost cried from the recognition. I joined a university club. I didn’t understand every joke, but I laughed anyway — genuinely, for the first time in a long while.
I started getting better at Korean. I learned to say what I meant, even if not perfectly. I began cooking simple dishes from home and shared them with my dormmates. One of them learned how to say “I love you” in my native language — and said it with a goofy grin. That night, something shifted. I felt seen.
I stopped pretending everything was okay. I started journaling. I began to understand that being alone wasn’t the same as being lost. I embraced the quiet in my room. I still cried sometimes, but now I cried with understanding, not confusion. I didn’t just endure — I grew.
Studying abroad isn’t the dream they show on social media. It’s not all cherry blossoms, stylish cafes, and K-drama moments. It’s waking up early, working late, missing your family, questioning your decisions, and still showing up the next day. It’s crying in a public restroom because someone laughed at your accent. It’s smiling when you hear someone from your country in a crowd, like a piece of home wrapped in sound.
But it’s also learning to rely on yourself. It’s building resilience. It’s making a life out of scattered moments and unfamiliar streets. It’s becoming stronger in the silence, braver in the chaos, and softer in your victories.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I write letters I’ll never send — to my younger self, to my family, to the friends I lost touch with. In one of them, I wrote:
"Dear Me,
You’ve made it farther than anyone expected — even yourself.
You’ve cried alone, but you’ve also laughed out loud.
You’ve survived the hardest parts, and you’re still standing.
One day, your story will help someone else hold on just a little longer.
Until then, keep walking.
You’re not alone."
And with that, I rest. Because tomorrow is another day — not of ease, but of strength. A day I’ve earned. A life I’m building.
One quiet, powerful, hopeful step at a time