My Journey – Part 2: The First Step Out the Door

In Korea, the academic year runs from March through late December. So as my semester wound down that November, I started quietly researching — looking into options, possibilities, anything that felt like a direction. My mother had told me to get out and see the world. I figured I should at least figure out where.

My Mom's Suggestion

The first country on the radar was New Zealand. My mother had worked her way up to Head Nurse at her hospital, and one of the nurses under her had originally come from New Zealand. She knew the place well, shared a lot about what life there was actually like, and that information made its way to me — filtered through my mom, who passed it on with the kind of quiet confidence that meant she thought it was a good idea.

I started looking into the Working Holiday Visa. The requirements, the timeline, the logistics. And then a simple question stopped me: could I actually function there with the English I had? Honestly? No.

A Detour Through the Philippines

So before New Zealand, I would go to the Philippines for a language program first. It wasn't the original plan. There was genuine excitement about it, but also a real undercurrent of anxiety — and doing nothing wasn't an option either. I went with it.

Four Months of Fruit, Fish, and Shouting

The moment my semester ended, I went straight to work at a large supermarket, starting in the produce section. Watermelons, apples, whatever was in season — I sold it all, loudly. The work was tiring, but it never felt pointless. I knew exactly what I was saving for.

Then the manager of the seafood section noticed me, decided my vocal range was being wasted on fruit, and transferred me over. And so I spent the next several months yelling about fish instead — calling out deals, reading the crowd, keeping the energy up. Somewhere along the way I also picked up the basics of how to fillet a fish. A skill I have never once used since, but still feel a quiet pride about.

By late April 2012, four months of wages were saved up. My parents contributed their support on top of that, and I had enough to go.

The Language School in Quezon City

The program I enrolled in was what Koreans call a "sparta-style" language school — an informal label, not the school's actual name, but an accurate one. You lived in the dormitory, and from Monday morning to Friday evening every hour was structured: classes, study sessions, assessments, all back to back. Fail the tests tied to each block and the weekend disappeared too — no going out, just more lessons while everyone else left.

I was 22. I had signed up for this voluntarily.

Landing

I still remember stepping out of Manila airport.

The heat hit first — not gradually, but all at once, a thick wall of warm air the moment I walked through the doors. And standing there on the pavement with my luggage, it landed on me in the simplest possible way: I'm actually here.

Whatever came next started right there.

There's a lot more to say about the Philippines — enough for its own chapter. Part 3 is coming.