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I now live in Toronto, a city I was also born in. I recently moved “back” here in the summer of 2024 after living in South Korea for the past decade. I lived here briefly, from the ages of zero to three, before the suburban exodus whisked me away. And now, years later, I’m back in the city where my family resides, my ancestors once walked, and many friends live, yet I navigate it like a tourist with an outdated map. Familiar, but foreign.
A friend of mine once put it as “being a foreigner in your own country”. A phrase that could easily plunge one into melancholy, the kind that pairs well with a rainy window and a mournful playlist. But why mourn what can be marveled at? This duality, I’ve decided, is a gift. To see your home through the eyes of a newcomer while carrying the cultural instincts of a native—it’s like watching a movie you used to love but haven’t seen in years. You know what scenes are coming, but they somehow feel new. With plot lines you remember, but details you missed completely the first time around that make the story just that much more rich. Yes, I know the language, the humor, the subtleties of Canadian sarcasm and apologetic aggression. But now I also notice the details, like the tapestry of colours behind the CN Tower on a crisp morning or the rumbling sound of the streetcar passing by. It’s the perspective of a tourist armed with insider knowledge, and honestly, it’s kind of fun.
So, what brought me back to this spinning part of the globe? That question gets lobbed my way often, usually with a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled disbelief. There’s a somewhat unsettling cloud of pessimism bordering on cynicism surrounding the Canadian culture in 2024 that’s not entirely unjustified. On the surface, the answer is tidy: family, friends, and a career pivot toward mental health counseling. These reasons fit neatly into conversational boxes that keep things moving along. But there’s a deeper undercurrent I rarely voice. It felt like a calling—as if my ancestors were nudging me, whispering from the ether, “Come home, you fool. The poutine’s getting cold.”
I resisted at first. My life in Korea was good—a fulfilling job, friends who became family, and a culture I had embraced wholeheartedly. But over time, a subtle itch began to spread. It wasn’t just missing family or friends; it was an ache for something more intangible. It was the crispness in the air during the fall. The fragments of conversation from strangers, absorbed in their own worlds, creating a curious sense of privacy as I catch every word. The winters, so long and biting, you wonder if they’ll ever relent. The summers, so brief that hedonism becomes an acceptable and encourage life philosophy. But this wasn’t some schoolboy naive nostalgic longing for home, I knew what I was getting into and was willing to embrace the whole package. Including the astronomically high housing prices, absurd rent prices, declining job opportunities and a government so utterly incompetent that your only choice is to laugh at the stupidity, or seeth in anger with fists clenched tightly hoping that things will change. On most days I choose the former.
So, when friends here ask why I came back, I usually stick to the script: family, friends, and a career shift. But the truth is more nebulous. I came back because the whispers wouldn’t stop. Ancestors, intuition, call it what you will—something drew me here, and eventually, I listened. Not because I fully understood it, but because it wouldn’t let me go until I did.
Admitting this feels oddly vulnerable, like confessing to believing in ghosts at a skeptic’s convention. But as I write, I realize there’s no shame in following a pull you can’t explain. Maybe it’s ancestral wisdom, or maybe it’s just my subconscious dressing up in ceremonial robes for dramatic effect. Either way, it led me here, and here is where I need to be.
(AI took “the ancestors are calling” a little too literally)
I still don’t know exactly why I was called back. Perhaps it’s as simple as reconnecting with loved ones, or maybe there’s a purpose I haven’t yet uncovered. But I’ve chosen to trust this feeling, to honor it even without full comprehension. Because whether it’s cosmic guidance or the random firing of neurons, it has brought me to a place where I can grow, learn, and reconnect. And that, dear reader, is a journey worth taking.
To anyone feeling the inexplicable tug of a place, a purpose, or a path: lean into it. The universe—or perhaps just your beautifully chaotic mind—has a way of steering us toward what we need. Even if it’s not immediately clear, even if it feels a bit absurd. Especially if it feels absurd.
