Korean Expat Community for National Disasters

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There’s a strange feeling that comes with living between cultures — like you’re constantly shifting between versions of yourself, depending on who you’re with, what language you’re speaking, or even what food is in front of you.

As someone studying abroad, I’ve started to realize how deeply this affects my daily life. In my home country, I’m familiar. I don’t have to explain my traditions, my language, or why I eat plov with my hands. But here in Korea, everything I do — how I speak, how I greet, how I eat — feels like it’s being edited. Adjusted. Translated. Sometimes even softened.

And it’s not just about language. It’s about identity. Back home, people say I’ve changed. Here, I’m still labeled a foreigner. I’m not fully “from” either place anymore — and that used to make me feel like I didn’t belong anywhere.

But over time, I’ve started to see it differently. Living between cultures also means I belong in multiple places. I can celebrate Nowruz and Chuseok. I can eat kimchi with my noodles and still miss my grandmother’s somsa. I’ve learned to explain my culture in under 10 seconds and laugh when people get it totally wrong — or surprisingly right.

It’s not always easy. There are days when I feel tired of switching, tired of being the one who always has to adapt. But then there are moments — small, meaningful ones — when I realize how lucky I am. I get to build a version of “home” that’s unique to me. A home that holds pieces of everywhere I’ve been and everyone I’ve become.

So if you feel like you’re floating between worlds — not fully this, not fully that — I get it. You’re not broken. You’re layered. And that’s something to be proud of.