Home is a Word I Unlearned

            Nobody prepares you for the heartache of watching your life become a memory— sealing away a world that now exists only in recollection. The grief from farewells to familiar faces, glances to your home that is no longer yours, and the deep-seated fear of never belonging again forges a unique and unbearable sorrow. And I can attest to this. As someone who has navigated countless moves across the world, my firsthand experiences of encountering unfamiliar cultures, people, and places have left me frightened of the unpredictable pathways in life. Yet, life is relentless and forces you to uncover layers of your identity, demanding your perseverance, which will hopefully imprint beneficial, lasting impacts that transform you personally. To that end, my own journey is a testament to this, and I would not trade the valuable insights I've gained through my experience of navigating this unpredictable world, which has ultimately strengthened my identity.

 

            Your anxieties regarding the move and fear of a frayed connection to your heritage are valid. As one who has likewise navigated through these big changes, I, too, have felt the struggle of holding onto my heritage across continents and cultures. Born and raised in Korea, Korean was my first song, and the culture was my first lens through which I saw the world. And despite numerous moves, the cultural traditions such as indulging in 미역국 in 한복 on birthdays, enjoying 떡국 on New Year’s, and saying 잘 먹겠 습니다 before every  remain rituals I still perform to this day. 

 

            My departure from Korea marked the beginning of a new pathway, but Hong Kong—the country that cradled and nurtured me for a decade— was where I witnessed my identity reshape. The country where I learned everything good and bad. Where vivid experiences like the first time I learned how to look both ways before crossing roads in Tai Tam or gained insight into Hong Kong's packaging problem through beach cleanups on Lamma Island have left a permanent imprint on every memory I carry. Where I learned to absorb new cultures, celebrate new traditions, and discover the familiar comfort of 복주머니 through 红包. Where I adopted new languages, until my native tongue began to feel like a distant relative. Where I learned about new foods and could draw similarities between 虾饺 and 만두. Yet, despite this exposure, my puzzle piece still fit within my Korean heritage. I still performed 세배 to my elders during the New Year, still wore 한복 during 추석, and never failed to say 잘 먹겠습니다 before every meal. But with each passing year, the traditions in Hong Kong began to weave new threads into my fabric. And my bowl of 떡국 was now joined by 年糕, promoting growth during celebrations. Because of my constant exposure to my heritage and efforts to join new cultures, I never questioned who I was throughout my years in Hong Kong. 

 

            Hong Kong revealed to me the possibility of cultures coexisting, but my transition to Singapore confronted me with an internal realization I never before questioned: who I am. Between the erosion of my mother tongue, an accent forged in international classrooms, and the complexion of my skin, my claim to a Korean identity felt unbelievable. Though at first glance I didn’t fit the expectations of what "Korean" meant, the constant skeptical stares from those who were doubtful carried a sting and made my response feel like a lie rather than reality, convincing myself that I had lost my “Korean culture." I'll never understand the expectations people hold to consider one “Korean.” But I've learned to accept the ways my identity has been shaped and enriched by my journey, not as a fading of my past but an absorption of my present. Nothing can fully prepare you enough for the unique changes you are about to embark on. Nothing can help you cope with the heartache that comes with leaving a country you call home. But, through my personal experiences from a decade of reflection, I hope this guidance provides you the reassurance I once wished for myself: 

 

            This transition begins quietly. The last couple of days before you move feel more like endings than beginnings. You'll catch yourself recalling all the memories you've fostered, and realise it's the last time things will ever feel this familiar. The shared laughter over lunch, the silent nods in crowded hallways. You'll recall the streets you've memorized, and the Metro lines engraved in your brain, all set to the constant, sticky warmth of the humid air. And just as it feels like it's all slipping away, you might find a certain joy in releasing some of it. But embrace this grief, and one day you'll realize how lucky you were to feel it so deeply.

 

            You won't notice it at first, but you'll wake up on the first day in your new country and everything will feel a bit heavier. You'll leave the comfort of your home and encounter a pool of faces that no longer feel familiar. Though frightful, form new connections with those around you, and avoid lingering in the past. You cannot anchor yourself in a new harbor while your gaze is fixed on the receding shore.

 

            You'll learn that culture and identity don't vanish; they transform. You’ll feel your connection to your heritage shifting—in the bow to an elder that softens into a handshake; in the quiet loss of a greeting, transforming from 안녕하세요 to 你好 to “hello”; in your mother tongue that now hesitates on your lips to make space for other languages; the new map of sunlight traced across your skin. But don’t take this change as an insult to yourself. Recognize it as a reminder that you've left some room to adopt new cultures and absorb new experiences. Like me, where you consider “home” may begin to broaden as you incorporate new aspects of your life with the old —owning both 한복 and 旗袍, receiving both 红包 and 복주머니, and feeling the same festive joy in sharing a box of Korean 떡 as in the passing of a tray of sweet Chinese 年糕. But beyond these traditions, physically being immersed within your past homes will provide you with a unique comfort that may nurture your soul. So, stay in touch with the activities and foods that remind you of home. Connect back with those you've missed. And be present. Maybe you'll feel the warmth you left behind. Maybe you'll feel out of place. Maybe home won’t feel completely unfamiliar. 

 

            So, where do you consider “home?” I hope that after catching a glimpse of my struggles and successes during this relatable experience, your definition of home travels beyond its boundaries, as you allow new experiences to imprint memories next to the old. Every transition has left scars I constantly return to, to relive and glimpse back on my past experiences that exist only in recollection. By having the privilege to carry pieces of every culture through every tradition, the traditions first embedded in me at birth are now joined by those I've collected through my life in Hong Kong. And with every move, I've felt the puzzle pieces of my identity soften and reshape, with new cultures leaving their impression but still preserving the old. But beneath it all still lies a girl who remains hopeful in the 红包 and 복주머니, who will forever share a plate of 虾饺 with a steamer of 만두— a living mosaic, pieced together from every culture she has had the privilege to live through. And now, I can soften another edge of my puzzle piece to incorporate the rhythms of the city I now live in, Shanghai.