When Life Gives You Tangerines—A Personal Reflection
I did not expect a low-key little drama like *When Life Gives You Tangerines* would affect me so deeply. But it did — quietly, almost stealthily. It did not give me plot twists or screaming avowals of love. It gave me something far more powerful instead: peace, warmth, and a weird kind of healing I did not even realize I was lacking.
What the Story Meant to Me
The movie follows Ha Eun-ji as she goes back to Jeju Island when her life in Seoul appears to collapse around her. She doesn't have the grand dream anymore. She's exhausted, confused, and sick of herself. When she inherits her grandmother's neglected tangerine orchard, she doesn't do it because she wants to — she does it because she has nowhere else to be.
And I could relate to her.
I've felt that same pressure before — to succeed, to make people proud, to keep going even when my heart is shattering. There were moments in the drama when Eun-ji would just sit in the orchard, silently crying. Not because something awful had just happened to her — but because she finally had enough peace to let go.That broke me into tears. Because I've had those kinds of days too — when the world outside was asking too much, and all I needed was a quiet place to feel again.
How It Puts Korean Culture — and My Own
In Korean society, like in Bangladesh, success is everything. Young people are expected to achieve, be perfect, and bring honor to the family. Failure isn’t just personal — it feels shameful, like you’ve disappointed everyone. When Eun-ji comes back home, people criticize her. They gossip. She's a failure. This resonated with me because in Bangladeshi society, the same thing happens. A girl who goes to the city and "fails" may be gossiped about, criticized, or silently pitied. But what impressed me most was the way the drama slowly turns this on its head. The orchard, the quietness of nature, the friendship of old friends — these make her (and me) understand that life need not be noisy and action-packed to be significant. Silently growing tangerines can at times be more potent than shouting about your success.
We have that deep connection to nature and the countryside in Bangladesh too. And we're losing it, gradually, to urbanization. *When Life Gives You Tangerines* reminded me of my grandparents' village and how the pace of life permeated there — not slowly, but serenely. And how healing needn't be dramatic. Sometimes it only needs room. This drama is so different from other K-dramas like *Start-Up* or *Itaewon Class*. Those are ambition-driven, self-justifying, do-whatever-it-takes-to-win dramas. And I love them too—they're inspiring and exciting. But *When Life Gives You Tangerines* is about what you do when your dream shatters, and all you are left with is silence… and yourself. It reminded me so much of *My Liberation Notes* — that crazy yearning to just *breathe*. No hope, no worry. Just the mere act of being, slowly, silently.
Why Korea Makes Stories Like This — And Why We Need Them
Korea is a high-stress society — high competition, long hours, silent struggles. But TV shows like this are slowly permitting people to give themselves permission to get off the treadmill. To be able to say, "It's okay not to be okay." I feel that's what we all need — in Korea, in Bangladesh, everywhere. Even in my own culture, we don't discuss sorrow. We conceal our pain. We smile when our heart is breaking. This melodrama taught me that it is alright to slow down. That it is not weakness to be tired. That life will sometimes give you not lemons — but tangerines. Sweeter. Easier. Still full of life.
*Tangerine* didn't give me a story — it gave me something comforting and compassionate. It was like having a friend put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and say, *"You can rest. You can heal."*
And in a world that so often demands too much of us, that kind of story is a gift — and a rarity.
I did not expect a low-key little drama like *When Life Gives You Tangerines* would affect me so deeply. But it did — quietly, almost stealthily. It did not give me plot twists or screaming avowals of love. It gave me something far more powerful instead: peace, warmth, and a weird kind of healing I did not even realize I was lacking.
What the Story Meant to Me
The movie follows Ha Eun-ji as she goes back to Jeju Island when her life in Seoul appears to collapse around her. She doesn't have the grand dream anymore. She's exhausted, confused, and sick of herself. When she inherits her grandmother's neglected tangerine orchard, she doesn't do it because she wants to — she does it because she has nowhere else to be.
And I could relate to her.
I've felt that same pressure before — to succeed, to make people proud, to keep going even when my heart is shattering. There were moments in the drama when Eun-ji would just sit in the orchard, silently crying. Not because something awful had just happened to her — but because she finally had enough peace to let go.That broke me into tears. Because I've had those kinds of days too — when the world outside was asking too much, and all I needed was a quiet place to feel again.
How It Puts Korean Culture — and My Own
In Korean society, like in Bangladesh, success is everything. Young people are expected to achieve, be perfect, and bring honor to the family. Failure isn’t just personal — it feels shameful, like you’ve disappointed everyone. When Eun-ji comes back home, people criticize her. They gossip. She's a failure. This resonated with me because in Bangladeshi society, the same thing happens. A girl who goes to the city and "fails" may be gossiped about, criticized, or silently pitied. But what impressed me most was the way the drama slowly turns this on its head. The orchard, the quietness of nature, the friendship of old friends — these make her (and me) understand that life need not be noisy and action-packed to be significant. Silently growing tangerines can at times be more potent than shouting about your success.
We have that deep connection to nature and the countryside in Bangladesh too. And we're losing it, gradually, to urbanization. *When Life Gives You Tangerines* reminded me of my grandparents' village and how the pace of life permeated there — not slowly, but serenely. And how healing needn't be dramatic. Sometimes it only needs room. This drama is so different from other K-dramas like *Start-Up* or *Itaewon Class*. Those are ambition-driven, self-justifying, do-whatever-it-takes-to-win dramas. And I love them too—they're inspiring and exciting. But *When Life Gives You Tangerines* is about what you do when your dream shatters, and all you are left with is silence… and yourself. It reminded me so much of *My Liberation Notes* — that crazy yearning to just *breathe*. No hope, no worry. Just the mere act of being, slowly, silently.
Why Korea Makes Stories Like This — And Why We Need Them
Korea is a high-stress society — high competition, long hours, silent struggles. But TV shows like this are slowly permitting people to give themselves permission to get off the treadmill. To be able to say, "It's okay not to be okay." I feel that's what we all need — in Korea, in Bangladesh, everywhere. Even in my own culture, we don't discuss sorrow. We conceal our pain. We smile when our heart is breaking. This melodrama taught me that it is alright to slow down. That it is not weakness to be tired. That life will sometimes give you not lemons — but tangerines. Sweeter. Easier. Still full of life.
*Tangerine* didn't give me a story — it gave me something comforting and compassionate. It was like having a friend put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and say, *"You can rest. You can heal."*
And in a world that so often demands too much of us, that kind of story is a gift — and a rarity.