Stepping off the plane, I felt the air grow heavier as sticky droplets formed on my forearms — the East Asian summer was announcing its presence. It was 2018, and I was bursting with excitement to spend my summer break in Korea. Inside Incheon International Airport, as I passed by familiar Korean signs, beauty advertisements and a brightly lit convenience store, I knew I was in the right place.
Today, millions of people across the world encounter South Korea through K-pop and iconic media like “Squid Game.” For many, this recent surge in popularity has been their first introduction to the country.
But long before Korean culture entered the global mainstream, it had already shaped my everyday life. Through family routines and years of visits, I came to know a version of Korea that most people never see, built on everyday behaviors and values far from the flashy headlines.
Before I was old enough to remember anything, my exposure to Korean culture had already begun. At six weeks old, while my parents balanced work and graduate school in the United States, I spent a year living with my maternal grandparents in Korea.
In South Korea, raising a child isn’t just confined to the mother and father, but also to grandparents and extended family, especially in households where long working hours are the norm. Even as an infant, this system surrounded me. My paternal grandparents and aunts would drive hours each month to spend time with me, and by the time I left Korea, I was calling my grandfather “mom.” In my parents’ absence, I was still surrounded by loved ones, reflecting how family involvement in Korea is a shared responsibility.
By the time I returned in 2016 as a 7-year-old, conscious enough to take in all my surroundings, I noticed details of Korea that weren’t just surface level. That summer, while exploring Seoul’s concrete jungle with my aunts, I had my first encounter with a Korean convenience store. Inside were endless rows of Pepero, Buldak and triangle-shaped gimbap, but what stood out the most was the intention. The food was simple, affordable and filling, designed for Korea’s busy bees who needed something quick during school days or late work nights.
This same hyper-functionality was made even clearer to me on the Korean subway. At each stop, mobs of students, families and employees moved in and out, with everyone rushing to where they needed to be. Yet despite the volume, it felt nothing like public transportation in the U.S. Safety screen doors, precise schedules and clean stations made a well-oiled machine that was engineered for maximum efficiency. Returning to America later made clear to me the differences in their cultures and engrained in me Korea’s constant motion.
Traveling to Korea once or twice a year became more routine, and by 2018, after finishing third grade, I was beginning to understand the intricacies of its culture. That summer, my family spent over a month at my grandparents’ home, during which I lived in the shoes of a Korean student. In the afternoons, I attended hagwons — Korean after-school academies — where I practiced taekwondo and took music lessons, surrounded by native-born peers speaking rapid-fire Korean.
But even after the sun set, kids my age, still dressed in their school uniforms, filed into night hagwons where they studied math, English and science until 10 p.m.
I began to realize then that for Korean kids, “free time” wasn’t truly free. Compared to the U.S., where afternoons and weekends are reserved for sports, hobbies and hanging out with friends, being a student in South Korea is practically a full-time job. From the moment they can pick up a pencil, parents enroll their children in rigorous academies to gain every advantage, cultivating a culture of extreme pressure and high expectations. In the same way that South Korea engineers its transit systems and city infrastructure for efficiency, it engineers the lives of its youth.
In March 2022, we returned to Korea after a multi-year gap due to COVID-19, but this time, we weren’t going to play. That spring, I attended my first funeral for my grandfather. The service took place in a hospital over three days, with a completely different environment from that of a Western funeral. Unlike American services, which are brief and somber, my grandfather’s funeral was a more drawn-out communal event, with a significant emphasis on social gathering. In our designated room, an altar displayed his casket, topped with chrysanthemums and lilies, along with an assortment of fruits and sweets, all meant to express grief and respect.
Over the three days, friends and extended relatives stopped by the funeral hall to honor my grandfather and pay their respects, staying for hours at a time. As people came to support my dad’s family in their time of need, I saw how Koreans care for their loved ones and how thoughtful they are in every aspect of life, not just in studying or work.
Today, I see how the little moments over the years, from 4 a.m. jetlag-induced snack runs to family weddings and gatherings, have shown me that Korean culture isn’t defined by K-pop music or kimchi. It lives in bustling streets and hagwons, in relationships across generations and in traditions like my grandfather’s funeral. South Korea is more than just a modern nation with novel trends and tourist attractions. It’s a country that values family, respect and intention, where people are constantly moving — a place I will always be proud to call my second home.
