I Believe Her

This week’s Kavanaugh hearing has been heavy on my heart. I’m usually unphased by political matters, especially relating to the court, because so much of it is out of my hands as an individual citizen, but this one has reached me to my very core, and shaken me. It’s taken me all week to figure it out because I don’t consider myself a serious social justice warrior. I’ve never been to a protest, I don’t participate much in any shows of unity with ribbons, buttons, facebook profile pics, and so on, though I do care. I lost sleep worrying about the children separated from their parents at the border, the number of black men murdered at the hands of law enforcement compared to other races worries and angers me, especially because I know good police officers, and because I want justice and protection for them as well. I’ve cried myself to sleep when I had to call CPS, worried I’d never see a good student again, and if that child would be put into a more complicated and potentially worse situation. But this week, hearing Dr. Ford’s testimony, and watching the irrationality and belligerence of Judge Kavanaugh, I struggled to contain my own rage and grief. I’ve never been sexually assaulted, but I believe I carry the grief and pain that has come with at least one instance, through my mother.

When my mother died, I came upon some old journals she had from her years of therapy. Some of the entries were long and rambling, as journals are wont to be. She suffered from what’s known today as Dissociative Identity Disorder, a mental illness that focuses on changing identities as a defense mechanism. It results from anxiety from an unresolved trauma and is so rare, and due to the nature of the illness, could so easily be falsified, that many psychiatrists don’t believe it truly exists. Some even say those who suffer from it are just incredible actresses. Actresses. Why is it that women are accused of lying when injured or ill, even when they have nothing to gain for their “lie”? 

Some of her journal entries were very clear, vivid, and lucid. She wrote entries of full, long prayers for me, for my life, for my future husband, for my children, for my mental health. And in some entries she wrote her memories. In most of her memory entries, she was clear to say if her memory was fuzzy on a detail, or if she is just recalling snapshots. A big part of therapy for DID patients is talk therapy, and memory recall.

My dad told me once that she disclosed to him early in their marriage that “something bad” happened when she was younger — a teenager — and that it forever changed her relationship with her parents. He didn’t want to pry, and left her to share on her own time. She never did, and their marriage got harder. My mother’s moods grew more unpredictable, and she would seem to act out. This confused my father and wounded him deeply. They had me and my mom fell into postpartum depression. Dad told me once he tried to get her “to go see a shrink,” but he said she wouldn’t. She said her parents told her, “everything was all in her head.” My mother got worse, and eventually, my parents divorced.

She had been gone about two weeks when I first came upon her journal entries detailing what happened to her. She wrote that a man — someone she knew — a neighbor or nearby relative crawled through her bedroom window and assaulted her and her sister in the house she grew up in. She wasn’t sure who it was anymore, and even said she blocked it from her memory. She said she told her mother, but she didn’t believe her.

Her mother didn’t believe her.

There were also entries that detailed a visit with her parents present — where she confronted them and asked them why they didn’t believe her. I don’t know what happened that day, but I know what resulted. My grandfather left her a large sum of money for my mother and asked my grandmother to help her pay for treatment. My mother and my grandmother began to mend their relationship, and they remained relatively close until Mom died.

My mother’s mother passed away the same summer my mother did, and a cousin of mine took on the responsibility of going through old family photos. She found and sent me an old snapshot of my mother and her sister, sunbathing in the backyard on lounge chairs, each reading a book, in bikinis. The handwriting on the back says, “The girls — sunbathing — Sept.‘71.” My mother was 17. I keep it in a magnetic frame on the refrigerator. She looks so calm and beautiful and innocent in that snapshot, but knowing what happened to her — a man crawling in her window — it’s a harsh juxtaposition. Did she remember what happened then? Is the memory she wrote down the only memory she ever had? Was she already turning into the shell of the young woman she once was, before the assault? Or had it not yet even happened? Only God knows.

All I know today is my mother was wounded very badly as a young woman, maybe even as a young girl, and she went to her parents about it, and they didn’t believe her. Or they did, but didn’t do anything about it. And it left her fractured and never really a whole person ever again. And because of that, I missed out on having my mother, on maybe even having a whole family. I don’t know what my life would have been if she’d been present and healthy, and free from danger, or if her parents believed her when she was young, but I know it would have been different, and arguably, better. God has been faithful to me and to her, but I’d rather a more just world. I’d rather a less broken world. I’d rather a world where we believe women when they speak up about sexual assault.

I’ve never been sexually assaulted. Harassed, yes, but never assaulted, and I hope I never will be. But someone I loved was. This week, I think of my momma, and the kind things her siblings told me about her after her death, and the pain they must have felt watching her fall away from who she was as a child. I think of the way her illness completely fractured my family, and I ask myself, if not now, when? When do we start believing women?

I think what I’m trying to say is, I believe Dr. Ford, and I don’t want a man with such little character as Judge Kavanaugh to be my Supreme Court Justice. Even if he is innocent — which I don’t believe he is based on his evasive answers, especially pertaining to willingly submitting to an FBI investigation — I have seen the damage of choosing not to believe a woman when she reports. I have experienced it. It is not what we should hope for our world, or our children’s world. The trauma and the grief will affect not just the woman involved, but her entire family, for generations. 

Dr. Ford is an American hero for the courage she showed this week, and I believe her. 


Moving Forward with Repatriation

I’ve been home for six weeks this Wednesday, while I love so many parts of being home, I find myself randomly crying or needing to just stop, sit, drink a coffee/water/tea, and recollect myself, a travel-habit I picked up one day last March when I found myself lost in Luzern. I feel like everyday is a delicate balance of productively piecing my life back together, and trying not to lose my mind. I am not depressed; I’ve faced the valleys of depression before and am well-acquainted enough with that darkness. I’m not even an anxious nervous wreck, though I do have moments of fear or panic. But I am going through something, the feelings of which are not quite placeable. I can relate some experiences to other previous ones, but none of them quite fit anymore.

The anxiety and the nervousness only amplifies itself when I realize not everyone quite empathizes or understands both the losses and the gains I’ve had in the past year. I am somehow not the same woman I was before I left. I am quite different. The way I think is different, the way I lean on others, the way I want to help others, the way I want to live life is drastically different than before, and I’m adapting. I’m attempting to make room for those changes in my life, and trying to make space for my friends and family to see and accept that part of me.

The last several months I was in Korea, I taught at a Christian school. It was a missional school, too, with missionary purposes. No, I didn’t have to raise support, but everyday was still a faith-walk. The last five months, we were a brand-new school as well. We built up a science lab, a library, a cafeteria, a curriculum, two soccer teams. I foolishly chose to live an hour away from the campus (many decisions were made in November, and some without full knowledge of the facts) and the public transport of three busses and one train was often times life-draining. I was often overwhelmed with the daily task list, the commute, the rhythms of life abroad and in a new school. But through it all, I was immersed in a community where we talked about God’s presence in our life everyday, every hour. This fact was not new to me, but for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who knew it, embraced it, and lived it out everyday.

They showed me how to live like that too.

There is no way I could have survived without their guidance, prayers, faith, testimonies, and love.

Even my fellow expats who were not Christians who essentially became my group of girls — who supported my pizza/tagine/wine habits — understood my dependence on Christ. They too, were fellow expats, and to live a life abroad requires a measure of faith. They know how terrifying the immigration office can be; they know how visa sponsors can seem somewhat irrational and stubborn at times. They know what it’s like to be a square in a world of circles and what its like to be forced into pretending to be a circle for the sake of niceties. For the first time in my life with a group of non-believers, there was no judgment. There was no doubting of my intelligence, no questioning that I was somehow brainwashed as a child. They believed and saw my faith was rational when necessary as well as emotional. They saw that it made sense.

Very recently, I’ve agreed to take a job in a new city in Texas, near my hometown. I haven’t lived in Austin for 12 years, but here I am. I used to live in Fort Worth, and have most of my friends there. Friends that became my family in ways my own family cannot quite replicate. It’s a new adventure, and even though I love new adventures, I wasn’t ready for the last one to end, and I always kind of planned on going “home” to Fort Worth when it was over. I grieved leaving Texas a year ago, and I grieve leaving Korea now, but I find myself grieving leaving Fort Worth all over again.

I called my friend and colleague when I was first offered the job, and she said, “If we accept the opportunities God places before us, we let God grow us and stretch us in ways we never imagined.” I wasn’t crazy about the opportunity before me, and it’s a good opportunity. But my grief is overshadowing my outlook, I recognize. In the days after we received our deportation orders, I listened to a sermon from my old church in Fort Worth, and the pastor said, “Sometimes, God ruins our plans to make way for a greater blessing in our lives.” It’s a hard truth to hear when you’re in the mess of the ruined plans.

Years ago, in the midst of a breakup, a friend of mine wisely comforted me by saying, “Grieve. Cry it out. And then continue to move forward.” It was during that breakup that I had a dream one night, that years from then, I was living in Korea, very single, and very much in love with my life. I awoke and could not fathom the idea of being in love with my life without that relationship. Slowly, God made it bearable, and then enjoyable, and then unimaginable that I could have wanted that relationship in the first place. Before I left last year, I remembered this dream, and I recognized that God ruined my plans to marry that man only to allow me to experience the blessing of my time in Korea.

So moving forward; this is what I’m doing everyday. And in some ways, people try to comfort me by talking about the wonderful things in Austin, which, deep-down, I truly cannot wait to discover and rediscover, but like an old flame, Seoul is impossible to remove from my head and my heart. She is a multi-faceted siren of a city, and I cannot replace her. But when we’ve truly loved like that, there’s never replacing that former lover, is there? There’s only gleaning from their lessons, being grateful for them, and moving forward.


I didn’t intend to come home from Korea this year. In fact, I wasn’t planning to come home any time soon. I’d gotten a taste of living life abroad and loved it. The freedoms that come with living as an expat are often difficult to put into words, but one of the things I loved most about living in Korea specifically was how little the locals expected me to assimilate. It was understood that I was a westerner with my own set of western values, and I could not be expected to conform. Sure, I was expected to take note of some cultural everyday norms, but they were small things such as mastering chopsticks and bowing as a greeting. I also loved being able to put to rest the cultural norms I dislike about home, and choosing to partake in the ones I do like. And I also loved the communal feel of living life as an expat. We were all in the ride of expat life together; friendships formed faster and more meaningfully than they ever had in other aspects of my life, even college. Truth be told, I would have been perfectly happy at the school I was at for the next several years. I had good students, I had the freedom to teach essentially what I wanted within reason, I liked my colleagues, and I liked Korea.

But sometimes, life throws curveballs. Things outside of our hands come our way and disrupt our best-laid plans, with little care for the livelihood we’ve created. It’s no secret South Korea recently went through their own political hailstorm. The former President Park has been impeached and now awaits trials against her for various crimes against the country. However, impeachment in Korea is different from impeachment in the states; when the Korean president is impeached, there is a new election. The prime minister acts as president until the new one is elected, and then the entire cabinet and everyone working under them leaves office. So in May, a new president was elected, President Moon. One of the things President Moon promised to do was to reform the schools in South Korea.

School in SoKo is significantly different than school in the U.S. Sure, public schools have a bad reputation for being unsafe at times, and have plenty of cliques and bullying, but there’s also immense pressure for students to be the best in their class, and get ahead of their peers in any way possible. In addition, the public schools are flooded; many classes have 30-40 students per class. There’s also strict emphasis on rote memorization, with very little room for fostering creativity or critical thinking. This is fairly commonplace with most of East Asia, maybe even all of Asia.

One of the ways the wealthy elite insures their children get into one of the coveted American Ivy League schools is by sending their child to English-speaking private school. However, there are citizenship or time abroad restrictions on Korean national students for all of the international schools in Korea. (And I assume International Schools outside of SoKo as well, but I’m not an expert on this.) If they cannot get their child into a larger international school due to citizenship reasons, then they for years have been sending their children to smaller, locally owned international schools. Essentially, these schools are owned by a Korean, have a certain kind of license called a hagwon license, but are credentialed through British, Canadian, or American overseas credentials, and hire certified teachers from those countries.

President Moon has long been against these smaller international schools, claiming they give the wealthy an unfair advantage over those who come from lesser means, and make public schools underperform, kind of akin to the mainstreaming argument popular in public schools at home today. It’s the idea that the “gifted” kids push the “average” or “below average” kids to do better. Having been in mainstreaming classrooms, I can adequately say this rarely happens. More often than not, the “gifted” students end up bored, the “average” kids succeed, and the “below average” kids wonder why everyone is getting information so quickly, and the teachers are exhausted. And yet, the theoretical idea in Korean schools is that the “above average” students are taken away from the “average” students, but it’s not based on actual ability or intelligence, but socio-economic class. Of course, for most students around the world, the higher your socio-economic class, the higher you perform in school, most of the time. But I’ve been in schools long enough to know this isn’t always based on ability or intellect. It’s usually just related to accessibility to resources. In other words, forcing students in private school to attend public school won’t actually solve the public school problems in Korea. They’ll only add to them. But what do I know? I’m just a schoolteacher from the top nation in the world with the largest public school crisis. It’s not like I have made a few observations as to why our system is falling apart.

Granted, statistics support the claim that the wealthy elite students do better than the public school students, but those same statistics exist in nearly every other private school vs. public school scenario in most countries. Regardless, an overwhelming majority of the country voted him into office.

In Korea, there are two different visa types for teachers: the E2 visa, and the E7 visa. The E7 falls under a category of skilled work, and is eligible for up to 2 years’ stay, and is renewable. Most of the larger international schools such as Korean International School or Yongsan International School of Seoul provide these visas for their teachers. However, the smaller schools, such as mine provide the E2 visa, and have done so for the past several years.

The interesting part about the E2 visa is how vague the criteria are for an E2 visa holder. It says it’s for teachers of conversational English. That’s it. It doesn’t define conversational English for the visa seeker or holder, it doesn’t give parameters of what constitutes as conversational and what doesn’t. So the law is vague and has always been left up for interpretation. In fact, this law has been so vague that the language academies that employ most of the foreign English teachers in the country all have their teachers on E2 visas, and have their teachers teaching not only English, but Math in English, Science in English, reading comprehension in English, etc. This is considered best practice for ESL; teach the subject in the language the students are learning. The parents want it, and the schools are willing to supply it. Because of the vagueness of the law, several international schools have popped up over the last 15-20 (?) years, employing hundreds, if not thousands, of foreign certified teachers over the years. In other words: this has been perfectly legal for quite some time.

Until now.

In early April, I was coaching soccer for our girls’ soccer team. One day, we played a team in the international school circuit from British Columbia. The boys’ coach and myself went to meet their coach upon their arrival to shake hands and chat a bit. Upon meeting, he mentioned that he’d had a rough day: all of the teachers at their school had been called into the Immigration Office and were forced to sign affidavits of willing departure within 30 days. He said if they hadn’t have signed, they would have been escorted to the airport and deported immediately. We were shocked of course, and it hit the news in the international community in Korea fairly hard.

Around that same time, the Ministry of Education began conducting searches of smaller international schools such as ours, and started requiring changes. They wanted us to specify that all classes were, in fact, taught in English. Art was no longer Art; suddenly, it needed to be English Art. That specification seemed nit-picky to us, but if experience had taught us foreigners anything, it was that sometimes it’s best to play along with what the Koreans want because Koreans value appearances. It’s no use to ask why, just go along with it. In addition, the MOE required our school to close for five consecutive school days and pay a fine because we didn’t have the criteria required of a school with our licensing. But we were a new school. We all figured hiccups like this were bound to happen. Fortunately, there were a series of national holidays coming up that we hadn’t planned to close school for, so we just worked that in. All in all, we took off Buddha’s Birthday, Children’s Day, and Election Day. At the time, it was like a second spring break for us.

We’d been back for a full week when Immigration came for us. I was off during 7th period, and casually wandered over to our counselor’s office to share some funny details of my 7th grade class. We got into conversation with the high school history teacher and we enjoying some bonding moments as teachers. Then we watched an Immigration official walk into my room and take pictures of my board. He didn’t introduce himself or ask whose room it was – it was all very peculiar. We continued chatting, but kept an eye on him. He wandered the hall some more before he finally came to us and asked if we worked there. (Duh.) He said he was looking for four teachers, and showed us their pictures on their visa applications. All in all, he was looking for our elementary music teacher, our athletic director, our high school history teacher, and our principal. We all agreed to separate and go find them for him.

It wasn’t long before all the E2 visa holders, myself included began to congregate in the chapel because the immigration officials wanted to speak with all of us. There it was decided they would take those four to the Immigration Office for questioning, along with their spouses, for a total of six people. The rest of us would be required to come into the Immigration Office the next day. I remember standing in the foyer crying and hugging my colleagues, watching as they took our friends, colleagues, and fellow expats away. I truly did worry that would be the last time I’d ever see them, and prayed I was wrong. This is one time I’m glad I was.

The whole evening, we received updates on their interrogation, and they were finally released around 11 PM that night. We were told we didn’t have to go into work the next day unless we wanted to, and that those four who had been called in could not go back to work at all.

The next morning, I called two friends before going in. I needed their support. I needed to hear that God had a plan, even if it wasn’t the one I’d wanted. One told me to go in and see my sweet students one more time. It wouldn’t be the last time I saw them, but it was the last time I saw them as their teacher. After lunch, we all climbed into the school busses and made our way to immigration, just as our friends had done the day before.

Upon arrival, we were handed a questionnaire packet, and an affidavit of departure. We were told to fill out the questionnaire and then sign the affidavit. It was clear the questionnaire was intended to appear to be our defense for our case for teaching outside the [new interpretation] bounds of the E2 visa, but when paired with the affidavit, it was also clear they had no intention of reading our responses. In their eyes, we were already guilty. Guilty with no chance to prove innocent.

Just like the British Columbian school a month prior, the affidavits specified that we were guilty of breaking E2 visa law and that by signing, it was a confession, and we were required to leave the country within 30 days. We asked what would happen if we refused to sign.

“You’ll be detained and escorted to the airport and sent on the next flight to your home country. It may not be your home city, either.”

It should be noted the trek to Incheon International Airport is a big deal when forced to come in from Seoul. Imagine if DFW International Airport had been built between Fort Worth and Weatherford. It would be great for Fort Worthians, but terrible for Dallasites. Likewise if DFW International had been built between Dallas and Mesquite what it would be like for Fort Worthians. That’s what it’s like going to the airport from Seoul. The hassle is arduous and long, and I’ll admit, the idea of a free ride to the airport sounded a bit appealing. Score! A free ride to the airport! I wanted to shout. However, I figured that might not go over so well. That and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be stopping at my house so I could pack my bags.

Naturally, we all signed our forced guilty confession.

We were then escorted into another room while they prepared our departure documents for our signature. After signing, they took our mugshots and our fingerprints, and we were informed we had to leave the country by June 17 and we could not return for 365 days.

At some point while we were in the Immigration Office, we found out our school was second on a list of about 12 schools in the city of Seoul alone that would be “hit” or “raided” by Immigration for breaking E2 visa law. Many of these schools had been open for several years. Then, we discovered, after all the schools in Seoul were hit, Immigration would move on to the other provinces, until all the schools like ours had been “cleaned up.” Korean news sources are finally starting to write about this, and supposedly many teachers at these schools have been put on “gag orders” requiring the teachers to maintain silence about all of this. I never received such orders, or if I did, never received translation of them, and hence, have remained silent until I’ve returned to the U.S.

It’s been one big tragic mess. I’ve cried so much; my heart hurts leaving my students behind, leaving Korea behind.

My pastor asked me before I left if I would have made the decision to leave my old hagwon for the international school, knowing then what I know now.

“Oh yes,” I replied, and very simply said, “I’ve had the time of my life.”

But it’s more than that. It wasn’t just fun I had, which is true. But I learned about myself. I saw myself change and grow as a teacher. I pushed myself to full discomfort in so many aspects. I coached soccer, despite all my lack of qualifications. I made major curriculum decisions. I tailored lessons for specific classes. Shoot, I tailored future units in 8th grade for the 7th graders the following year. I clung to Jesus (not always very well) in ways I’d never done before, nor imagined I’d ever need. I mentored, I life coached, I laughed, I prayed and I pushed students like never before. I saw my heart begin to crack open out of love for students in ways I’ve only seen in inspirational Lifetime movies or The Ron Clark Story. I do not recognize myself as a teacher anymore. I do not recognize myself as the same woman and follower of Christ anymore. Everything is different. Suffice it to say, this next year without my Korean students, without my expat colleagues and friends, is already turning out to be a painful one. And yet, for the first time in my teaching career, I am inspired to keep pushing myself further professionally, personally, physically, and spiritually. That’s all we can ever hope for in any tragedy in life.

Yes. I’d absolutely do it all over again.


I am home now. My family met me at the airport with a full greeting committee of hilarious and wonderful poster boards followed by a trip to a favorite Tex-Mex place for enchiladas and margaritas. Upon returning home, I crashed around 10, only to realize the ceiling fan was circulating too high at 3 AM. There are no ceiling fans in Korea, and for an entire year I lamented this fact, especially in the summer months. But now that I have one, it feels like it’s too much and wakes me up at night. So now, it’s 4 AM and I’m sitting at the kitchen table writing, and there are nectarines in the fruit bowl. Their scent floods the room, and it’s intoxicating. There’s also the sound of crickets. Recently, now that the weather has warmed up, I would sometimes hear people in the street below my apartment late at night, chattering away, drunken or nocturnal, and I’d allow the cadence of Korean to lull me to sleep. That is not here. Did you know crickets sing all night long? To me, they’re deafening.

Upon landing in DFW, I did something I haven’t done in nearly a year: pick up a conversation with a stranger while in line. I met so many great fellow travelers while in baggage claim, customs, security, at my terminal, in the seats behind me. For the past year, I haven’t been able to do any of that, at least on a relatable level that didn’t require lots of gesturing, which can be exhausting. I could simply converse without any major language barriers. And also, Americans are generally very smiley people, but genuinely so. We Americans take a lot of flack for that in the international community, but having been in the land of many smiles, and each one means something different, I feel confident in speaking on the sincerity of our smiles. But I think perhaps The American Smile may have developed from our years of major immigration. Language barriers are tough, and perhaps the smile softened that barrier and allowed our own culture to develop. I see only beautiful things about this if it’s true.

I remembered something my pastor said recently upon returning home from a trip to Texas: There’s too much land there. I scoffed at it then, but it was all I could think about on my flight from DFW to Austin. While I’m a far cry away from saying there’s too much land here, I feel overwhelmed with how much there is, which is how I felt about people, buildings, and neon lights in Korea at first. I now feel like I understand why the Native Americans wanted to live here, why Europe wanted to colonize here, and why the pioneers wanted to frontier here: The amount of land here is so vast.

In college, I took an American Literature class, and I remember we read primary documents of early settlers or conquistadors, and they described the vastness of the land as if it were sexy and endless. I never thought anything of it at the time, really. In my lens of hindsight, they seemed greedy to me. But now, I get it. There was just so much potential. It was so ripe for the taking. I don’t say this to justify their actions (the history of which I know I benefit from socially, educationally, physically, etc) but as a means of understanding where their hearts and minds were at the time. It’s funny, I always heard that when you travel, you learn so much about other cultures and people and how we all relate, and that’s true. But never did I think it would make me realize so much about my own culture and its’ history, tainted or otherwise beneficial.


In one week, I’ll check in my one-way ticket get on a plane headed for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, followed by another to Austin-Bergstrom, and I can’t believe my time here in Korea is coming to an end so quickly. This wasn’t what I had planned when I moved here nearly 11 months ago, but here I am.

Over the course of the last 11 months, there have been a long string of events that I never could have predicted when I left Texas that have led to this journey home for me. It’s a hard story to share in one sitting, and more than enough for a good Hollywood blockbuster or a New York Times bestseller, but it’s not time to go into those details now.

Eleven months ago, on my way home from Steel City Pops after saying my see-ya-laters to friends, I drove down Camp Bowie Boulevard with the windows down and my sunroof open. I played my music too loud, and when I got to my cross street, I found myself doing a U-turn and going back down the brick-lined road again, and then again and again, trying to soak up all of my home from the past seven years. When I first moved to Fort Worth and was depressed and struggled sleeping, I’d go for long drives in the city, learning the roads and the lay of the land. This was before I had a smart phone, and I was learning the streets by feel. I used to roll the windows down and cruise down that same stretch of road. Sometimes I’d pray. I was lonely, and I prayed for friends. I prayed to live in certain parts of the city. I prayed it would be a city that would some day feel like home. That night, I stopped and walked out on the lawn of the Amon Carter Museum, and just stared at the skyline and wondered if I’d ever come to love and recognize the Seoul skyline in the same way. As I stared at the skyline that night, I realized how incredibly blessed I am. God answers our prayers in His own time; He answered every one of those prayers.

Seoul doesn’t have a proper downtown. It’s a mid-evil city that has several different business districts, and is spread out and scattered between mountains. It’s the kind of city that has ancient city walls and gates that are still standing. I never did learn a particular skyline of Seoul. But I did learn to recognize landmarks and buildings. The Lotte Tower close to the soccer field where we practiced, the Shinsegae Department Store at Express Bus Terminal, The Hamilton Hotel where my home church meets, The Han River, and finally, Namsan Tower, which always shone like a beacon, guiding me home on Saturday nights. From now on, whenever I see pictures of Namsan, I’ll be able to point and say, “I used to live halfway up that mountain, right by that tower.” That night I was in Fort Worth, gazing at the skyline, I prayed for Korea to feel like a home to me in the same way Fort Worth had.

I suppose God always knew my time here would be short, so He made a point to answer that prayer quickly. I found a church early on, and found a wonderful community there. They allowed me to grow and be brave and strong and cry whenever I needed to. I learned how to be soft here. I learned that bravery doesn’t always mean you aren’t affected by others or the world around you. Bravery often means being vulnerable and admitting you’re struggling; it means allowing yourself to feel; it means admitting that you don’t know what to do next, and trusting that God will work it out. By this definition, one could argue courage is founded on faith.

Little by little, God made me brave here. I learned how to pick out laundry detergent in Korean. I learned how to tell a cab driver where to take me. I learned the subway system, and I’m still mastering the busses. (They’re crazy complicated!) I learned how to read in Korean. I did not learn what most of it means, but I can read it. I learned how to buy high-speed train tickets and bus tickets, and I learned that one should bring gum on high-speed trains because your ears will pop. I learned where to go to find certain foreign foods, and I learned how to make some simple Korean foods. I learned that Korean strawberries are the best strawberries on Earth, and I learned that produce markets on Saturday mornings here are one of my favorite things. I learned a million little things that are so simple and so wonderful, and some that are complicated and hard. In short, Seoul has felt like home. So here I am now, trying to soak it all in again, and wondering if this is my perpetual cycle now. I always missed Texas while I was here, but now that I’m leaving, I know I’ll always miss Seoul. I have no idea if this is normal for expatriates or other global workers, but I hope so. I need to not be alone in this sentiment. I need to know there are others who miss public transport after months of missing driving. I need to know there are those who would prefer to do all their produce shopping in local markets, possibly in other languages. I wonder if there are those who, even after months of missing a nice dryer, they might also still appreciate laundry on a clothesline.

I am a mess of conflicted emotions. I am homesick for Texas, but anticipating my homesickness for Seoul. At least experience and wisdom has taught me the best way to handle it: enjoy every step of the way, trusting God has you through it all.

Marchin’ On Baby

I turn 30 on Friday. I’ve said that a few times out loud, and it never quite sinks in. The words just hang there in the air, waiting almost it seems, for something to drop. Like certain parts of me that are losing the battle with gravity. What is it Dolly Parton said in Steel Magnolias? “Time marches on, and pretty soon you realize it’s marchin’ across your face!” While my face is pretty much mostly spared still, I’m beginning to feel more aches and pains, and noticing weight sitting differently than it used to. Marchin’ on.

In my last post, I said that for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m really living. And even as I typed those words, I found myself perplexed, questioning, “Is this the first time I feel like I’ve ever truly lived?” I caught myself drifting back to another lifetime ago, the anniversary of that lifetime’s end which came up last week.

Four years ago, I was with a man I thought would become my husband and the father of my children. We took a weekend trip to Austin to watch my cousin’s car race team at the Formula 1 track, and then took a trip to the Salt Lick with his friends. He rented a cute little AirBNB, and we went to brunch at my favorite brunch spot on Sunday morning after church. It was a perfect birthday weekend. We’d been together for a good while, and we did life together. We loved each other. But the crux of our problem was that I could never be who he needed me to be until he showed me how committed he was, and he could never commit to me fully unless I could be who he needed me to be. It ended tragically, and for years I felt like it was all my fault; I was never good enough. But the question I should have been asking myself the whole time was: Is he the man I need him to be? The answer to that lies in the answer to his question regarding us, which was, no. Marchin’ on.

So three years ago last week, he called it. I yelled and threw things and drank and fell asleep on his couch. He cried and sat and waited for someone to come get me. We were supposed to go to a wedding that day. I remember I was so angry that day and said all sorts of horrible things that today I’d probably apologize for if we came face to face, not because they aren’t true, but because I hurt his feelings. Probably. At one point, he tried to wake me up in my stupor, and I noticed he was crying. I was too out of sorts to really do anything, but I remember asking, “Why are you crying?” and he couldn’t answer me. He just cried some more and sat down next to me on the couch. I curled up with him, and said very sleepily, but peacefully and assuredly, “It’s going to be okay.” I had no idea at the time just what that meant, and I was so hurt, but I knew it was true, and I believed it even then. Eventually, my friend came to pick me up and took me to her house to stay for a few days before I moved in with her. I slept in her bed with her and her dog.

I remember in the days that followed, I realized I was 26, about to be 27. When we’d started dating when I was 23, I thought we would have been married by that point. So suffice it to say, my 27th birthday was a hard birthday. I knew I’d be okay, but the immediate hurt and losses impeded my peace. I had thought, up until that point, that being with him meant I was really living. And indeed, I was in love, which is definitely a big part of life. But the way I was living life with him, wasn’t living. I had friends who celebrated it with me, and prayed blessings for my life in the years to come, but I was still sore. That year turned out to be the hardest year of my life. Mom died. He started dating someone new, to whom he’s now married. My grandmother died. My father was hospitalized for severe depression. I moved four times that year. It was a year where I clung to God because that was all I could trust.

But one day, in those early days after he and I parted ways, I woke up in my friend’s bed, and she asked me how I’d slept. I’d had a dream just before waking. I told her, I had the strangest dream that it was years from now and I was living and working in Korea and I was really single and really happy. She asked me how I felt about that, and I think my response was to burst into tears. I didn’t remember it at all until shortly before I left; I’d had a deja vu moment in my friend’s apartment where I stayed in the upcoming weeks, and I remembered that dream during that time. It’s funny how we forget dreams like this until we see them starting to take place in our waking lives.

I used to model for figure drawing classes in college. I try to keep that on the down low because I’m a teacher and I don’t want to cause scandal or anything ridiculous, but I think the thing about turning 30 is you gradually stop caring so much what other people think and are willing to take more risks. You start to really live. The art teacher at school is teaching a PG version of figure drawing (read: clothed) and she expressed in the lounge that she was having a hard time finding people to come and pose for her. I naturally volunteered. While I was sitting there, in front of my students, with my most colorful and patterned dress, an overwhelming sense of familiarity came over me. I smiled watching her go around, making suggestions. I thought of all the years and different times I’d posed before, and how such an unexpected and curious skill has come in handy, even in a small Christian private school in Korea. And it hit me: Everything in life has led up to this life here, in Korea.

I turn 30 on Friday, and I’ve never felt better about my age. I’m exactly where I should be. A friend of mine and I are going to Wonju, a town southeast of Seoul to try some Texas style BBQ (supposedly the best in all of Korea, or Asia, maybe) and I’m throwing a Chili Bar Party on Saturday. I would so love to have a good man by my side to celebrate this big milestone birthday, but only if he can keep up. I’m fortunate enough to have my friends (and chosen family) here instead. I guess I’ll keep on marchin’ on.

Real Living

This past Friday, I celebrated seven months of living in Korea. And oh, if I could write a book.

My first seven months’ time has been eventful, and some would even say borderline insane. This post is long overdue, and will not suffice in any way.

Here’s the gist: I started working at the hagwon and for various reasons, immediately hated it. Through friends at church, I found a middle school English position at a small Christian international school, and turned in my letter of resignation at the hagwon. This is a very precarious and delicate issue in Korea. My resignation was not well-received by my hiring director, but somehow, after explaining to my hagwon owners my unhappiness at the school, and the hiring director’s clear unhappiness, they agreed to give me a letter of release which would release me from my visa sponsorship with them. However, it came with numerous provisions. I needed to give them 45 working days, return my airfare fee, return my recruiter’s fee (which I later found out is illegal for them to require per my contract), continue to “do a good job” and complete a Kindergarten Open House with my kindy class.

I did all of that. They withheld my last monthly paycheck to cover my returned monies, even though we agreed to divide up the payments. My hiring director became vindictive and passive aggressive at one point, criticizing every little thing that would not have been criticized a week prior, claiming I wasn’t doing a “good job,” in an effort to tally against giving me a letter of release, making me powerless in the scenario. In the end, it was the hagwon owner who gave me the letter. It was never her call to make, fortunately.

I moved one cool November morning after saying my goodbyes to my students and fellow colleagues. A friend of mine came to help out, and my international school sent a driver with a school bus to help me move. He was a good-faced Korean avuncular type, with a stubbly greying beard, black rimmed glasses and a tweed driving cap. He knew a little English, and insisted on carrying everything. I liked him immediately. When we finished packing up, as we drove away into Seoul, I felt lighter. Friends came and greeted me at my new place and helped me move in. Internet was installed. Furniture arrived. It was a good day. This was all the week before Thanksgiving.

And then I started work. The school I moved to was going through a divorce of sorts. There was some funny money handling from the Korean owners, and it was causing disruption with the school location. This of course, effected the teachers and the students. The parents stepped in, and began making plans to start a new school that would begin in January. All this was underway when I came on (finally) in November.

There’s more to this story that I’m not at liberty to discuss in a public forum, but there have been many tears. There have been many cries out to God about what I’m doing here. But in past couple of weeks, I really am beginning to feel like I’ve turned a corner. I’m settling into my neighborhood well, making more friends, learning how to use Korea’s version of Amazon. I joined my church, I bought a coffee grinder, and am working on getting my third party mailer finalized. The pharmacist I use and her husband look out for me; they’re always happy when I come in, even if just for vitamins or allergy medicine, and they were worried about me when I came down with bronchitis. They wave at me from the window when I walk by. I wave back and smile.

It’s safe to say Korea is starting to grow on me. I honestly cannot remember a time when I was ever this happy. I never could put into words to everyone why I was moving to Korea other than I just knew it was what God had for me. I feel like for the first time in my life, I’m really living, and I think that’s something God wants for us all. That alone is reason enough to sell all your belongings and move halfway around the world.