Canada was heaven to me. I remember the cold air cutting through my lungs as I ran across open fields, my feet sinking into the snow. The light there was different—softer, slower. I felt free in a way I didn’t understand at the time. Perhaps it was the distance, or the silence of the wide land that made me feel unbound. If someone asked me when I was delighted, I would say, without hesitation, Canada. It was where I could breathe.

But my parents had different dreams for us. They wanted a future that looked clearer on paper—better schools, stronger systems, a life they thought we deserved. So they decided we would go back to America. Before leaving, we stopped in Korea to see my grandmother, who had grown ill. I remember the smell of her house, the faint medicine in the air, and the tremor in her hands as she held mine. She said she was glad we came. I was, too. I thought it was only a visit, a pause between journeys. I did not know it would become a return.

When Trump was elected, the world shifted quietly. We watched the news in silence. His words were distant but heavy, and they closed a door we hadn’t realized was fragile. Our plans for America dissolved. We waited at first—days, then weeks, then months. The waiting became its own kind of life. My mother, tired of uncertainty, began looking for schools. She said it was temporary. I believed her, or wanted to.

The first day of Korean school felt like standing on a stage. Everyone looked at us. Whispers followed. It wasn’t hostility, just curiosity, but it weighed the same. I felt exposed, as if I had stepped into a world that should have been mine but wasn’t. Even the language I once knew felt strange in my mouth—too fast, too sharp.

The rhythm of life in Korea was unlike that in Canada. There, time had moved gently; here, it sprinted. Students studied late into the night. Every grade mattered. Every mistake left a mark. I tried to keep up, but I always felt one step behind. My twin and I were no longer the same children who had run freely through the snow. We were slower now, quieter.

Sometimes I thought of Canada—the stillness of morning light, the sound of snow breaking under my shoes—and it felt like remembering a dream that had once been real. In Korea, everything was close, crowded, and loud. Yet inside, I felt distant. I realized then that being a stranger is not about place or language. It is a feeling that stays, even when you return home.

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