Last week, I returned to South Korea—a place that, for me, is synonymous with peace, comfort, and the warmest of memories.
Our journey began in Jeju, an island shaped by volcanic fire and the relentless rhythm of the sea. There is a specific kind of beauty in a place that has survived every extreme of weather. Jeju is famously the island of the “Three Abundances” (Samda): Wind, Rocks, and Women.
The landscape is defined by the Doldam—stone walls built without mortar, designed with gaps to let the fierce winds pass through rather than fighting them. It is a lesson in architecture and spirit: sometimes, to survive the storm, you must let it breathe through you.
Nowhere is this resilience more evident than in the Haenyeo. These female divers are the pulse of Jeju, harvesting the sea without masks or oxygen, embodying a fierce independence.
In their world, there are “Three Absences” (Sammu): no thieves, no beggars, and no gates.
Jeju was food for my soul, but it also left me pensive. I found myself wondering if the hardships of life—the “storms” we weather—eventually strip away our softness. I’ve felt a quiet concern lately, wondering why my own sense of empathy has felt further away than usual.
The next leg took us to Seoul—a city that is truly “Soul-full.” This time, its signature vibrance was amplified by the delicate, pale pink of the cherry blossoms.
My husband kept a promise he made long ago: he took me back to the old basement house in Migeum where we lived in 2016. To stand there again was to stand at the origin of my greatest joy. That humble space gave me my daughter, the best thing to have ever happened to me.
A decade ago, we would sit in the parks behind that house or along the Han River and whisper, “Wouldn’t it be so nice to bring our child here one day?” Seeing her now, playing on those same slides and running along that same river… there are no words to bridge the gap between that dream and this reality.
In Korea, public displays of affection are rare, but my husband held my hand throughout our long walks, to support my imbalance. As we crossed a street, I noticed a woman point us out to her partner, a silent nod to the way he was holding me. As they passed us, the husband reached for her hand and whispered, “Forever, forever.” It was a small, perfect moment. This is why I travel: to share stories without speaking, to meet strangers in the middle of a street, and to find the soul-soothing power of a simple, shared smile.
To witness the cherry blossoms is to receive a lesson in impermanence. The Korean people wait all year for a bloom that lasts barely a fortnight. The blossom knows its time is fixed; it blooms with everything it has, then disappears with absolute grace—but always with the silent promise to return.
Our lives are governed by these same seasons. After every harsh, biting winter, the spring is inevitable—vibrant, hopeful, and renewed. The bloom may end, but it leaves behind the certainty of its return.
Such is life: No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.
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