In the winter of 2000, I boarded a plane from Ottawa to Busan with a backpack, a second-hand Discman, and the half-baked plan to stay a year. I was 23, wide-eyed, and freshly released from the icy grip of Canadian winter.
Korea, back then, was a mystery wrapped in neon, steep hills, and steaming bowls of soup I couldn’t pronounce. I arrived with the romantic idea of travel, teaching English, and writing something — anything — that might matter one day.
That first December I spent in Busan was the loneliest month of my life.
I had no friends, no internet, and no idea what I was doing. On Christmas Day, I bought spicy rice cakes and I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas on repeat. It was a stillness that rang in my ears. There was no tree, no presents, no familiar voices. Just the quiet certainty that I had left something important behind and wasn’t sure what I was supposed to find in return.
I didn’t write anything that winter. Not one word….not for a decade after arriving actually…
I’ve been in Korea ever since.
Living in Korea, Now…
In twenty-five years, I’ve moved multiple times. I’ve reinvented myself more times than I can count. English teacher. Bar owner. Hotel manager. IKEA team leader. Each identity sat on me like a different borrowed jacket — familiar for a while, then ill-fitting in the shoulders.
Somewhere in all of it, I became a father. My son was born in 2017 in a bright, efficient hospital where nurses addressed me in English so slowly I felt like a child.
That was the moment I realized I’d become something I had no map for: a foreign father in a country I still didn’t fully understand.
When my son was an infant, I tried to read to him in both English and Korean. I remember holding some book in one hand and a translated version in the other, fumbling through sounds that felt foreign in my mouth. I wanted him to know both languages like air, like breath. I wanted him to feel fully at home in both — even if I didn’t.
I began writing again, quietly at first. Just notes, journal entries, half-finished blog posts. Nothing literary. Nothing clean. But slowly, it became a ritual: after he was asleep, I would sit down at my desk and try to make sense of the small daily heartbreaks and joys of fatherhood — the tantrums over socks, the first time he said “I love you” in English, the confusing stares we received as a bilingual family in public.
Writing became my quiet rebellion. My place to be uncertain, to be tired, to be real in a way I couldn’t always be in a culture that values formality, control, and appearances.
Time Flies…
Sometimes, the only place I felt like a full version of myself was on the page.
Living in Korea means I miss things — weddings, funerals, family reunions. I watch my nieces and nephews grow up through screens. I try not to calculate how many more chances I’ll get to visit my brothers. The distance is constant, both logistical and emotional.
But there is something else, too: an expansion. I have learned how to live inside multiple truths. I speak a third language with a childlike fluency. I pack my son’s school lunches with seaweed and apples. I bow to elders and hold my fork like a foreigner. I live in the in-between — and it has become not just bearable, but beautiful.
My son is eight now. He speaks English and French with me and Korean with everyone else. His brain is a quicksilver thing, switching codes mid-sentence with casual brilliance. I envy it. I admire it. And I worry…
Oh…Did I mention I was French-Canadian…That’s a whole other story…
I worry that one day, he’ll feel like I do: a little too much of one thing, not enough of another. That his name will be mispronounced in one country and his identity questioned in the other. I worry that the same fluidity I admire in him might also hurt.
And so I write.
I write not just to reflect, but to record — to leave him breadcrumbs through the confusion. So that when he is older, when he too begins to ask the hard questions about home and belonging, he might find pieces of me on the page. Honest ones. Flawed ones. True ones.
Running a blog isn’t glamorous. It’s not always literary. But it has given me something I never expected: a voice in the silence.
At DaddySimply.com, I write about taekwondo classes and birthday parties, but also about grief and identity and that one time my son accidentally said “ass-fart” instead of “asphalt” and I laughed so hard I nearly cried. It’s a place where the small absurdities of parenthood live alongside the deeper aches. Where being a dad isn’t a punchline — it’s the central narrative.
I sometimes think back to the version of me who landed in Korea all those years ago. Lonely. Cold. Not yet a father, not yet a writer. He couldn’t have imagined this life — not even close.
But I think he’d be proud of the man who stayed. Who raised a child here. Who keeps writing, even now.
Living in Korea Cont…
Books are easier to find in English here, compared to years back. Libraries are huge, and the selection is incredible. But still, I find myself wandering those shelves, running my hand across the spines, looking for something I didn’t know I needed.
And sometimes, I bring my son with me. He reaches for a picture book or a comic, and we sit together, reading in whatever language feels right that day.
This, I think, is literature, too.
This moment. This bond. This act of passing language — and love — from one generation to the next.
And in this quiet space, far from the country I once called home, I begin to feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
If You’re Thinking About Leaving “Home”
Do it.
It’ll break your heart. It’ll stretch your soul. You’ll spend Christmas alone and question everything. You’ll feel lost, out of place, and, at times, utterly ridiculous — like the time I accidentally ordered a plate of raw octopus instead of chicken because I mixed up two syllables. (Spoiler: the octopus moved.)
And then one day — years later — you’ll find yourself explaining to your bilingual kid why Santa doesn’t eat kimchi, and you’ll laugh. You’ll realize: you didn’t lose your home — you just made a new one.
It won’t feel like home right away. In fact, you might spend years wondering if it ever will. You’ll miss things that no one warns you about. Like the smell of fall in Ottawa — crisp leaves, wood smoke, and the weirdly comforting scent of wet mittens. Or the sound of your childhood friend’s laugh echoing off a frozen lake. Or poutine that doesn’t come with sweet pickles on the side.
Trade-Offs
But the trade-offs come with their own kind of magic.
You’ll gain new rhythms. You’ll eat rice for breakfast without thinking twice. You’ll learn that some things are universal — like the way kids everywhere refuse to wear jackets, even when it’s freezing. You’ll start to recognize yourself not just as a visitor, but as someone who belongs to a story that began the moment you stepped off that plane.
And if you become a parent abroad — buckle up. Nothing messes with your identity quite like raising a child in a language and culture that still makes you reach for Google Translate at PTA meetings.
You’ll worry about screwing it up. You’ll second-guess every decision. Is he eating enough veggies? Should I send him to Korean school, international school, a cave? Why does everyone else’s kid know 600 Chinese characters and mine just drew a rocket ship on the wall?
But then your child will curl up beside you and whisper “Appa, I love you” in a voice that bridges two cultures, two languages, and every mile you’ve ever traveled — and suddenly, you’ll feel like you got something right.
Sometimes I still catch myself wondering what life would’ve looked like if I had gone back. Maybe I’d have a snow blower and a Costco membership. Maybe I’d be coaching Timbits hockey on the weekends. Maybe I’d be less tired.
Very Thankful
But I wouldn’t have this life.
I wouldn’t be walking my son through the alleys of Yongin, pointing out cats sunbathing on rooftops and sharing triangle kimbap from the corner convenience store. I wouldn’t be the guy who can make decent kimchi fried rice and say “take your socks off!” in perfect parent-level Korean. I wouldn’t be the dad who knows how to bow at just the right angle at taekwondo belt ceremonies.
And I wouldn’t be writing this.
Writing, for me, became the bridge between who I was and who I am now. At first, it was just a way to process the weirdness — the moments of cultural confusion, the laughter, the loneliness. But over time, it became a way to share something real with others — other dads, other immigrants, other people wondering if it’s okay to feel both grateful and homesick at the same time.
DaddySimply.com isn’t just a blog. It’s a scrapbook of this weird, wonderful life I’ve built. A love letter to fatherhood, fart jokes, and the long, complicated beauty of living outside your comfort zone.
So if you’re thinking about leaving home — do it. Say yes to the unknown. Say yes to the bowl of mystery soup, the awkward silences, the broken sentences, and the surprising kindness of strangers.
Say yes to becoming someone you wouldn’t recognize — and someone your future kid might be proud to call “Appa.”
