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It was the night of February 6, 2019. The night before I left Cape Town. I watched the waves approach the shore as I tried to take sensory pictures of everything around me. The salty air and the way it made the ends of my hair cling to my skin. The soft, warm sand that welcomed my feet by allowing them to sink just beneath the surface. The familiar rise of my niece’s laugh. For a couple of moments, I tried to submerge myself in all of it. I watched the tide come out again, and the calming crash of the waves as it hit the boulders. I am in awe of the way nature lives the paradox of being fiercely gentle. I wondered if I’d be as enchanted by South Korea… My flight to South Korea was booked. I would fly to a new life the following afternoon. Indecision, or deciding that I had made the wrong one, was not an option. Leaving was as inevitable as the fear that accompanied it. The afternoon of February the seventh came sooner than my readiness. After saying teary goodbyes, I fumbled through the initial metal detectors, putting one foot in front of the other. This action, I’m sure, could only be put down to habit. Had it not been for habit, I would have never been able to do it. That’s how great my fear was- I had to rely on habit to keep moving forward. My first interaction with the greater world was Hong Kong International Airport. We had just landed when I was surrounded by a flurry of people. It was as if I was watching a time-lapse. A time-lapse that I was at the centre of, but not quite a part of. Suitcases, backpacks, families, solo travellers, people glued to their phones, making swift movements. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. And they it did it absent-mindedly – the way one does when one does something for so long it becomes a habit- the way I had, when I put one foot in front of the other. A month passes, and I board the small, beige bus that takes me to the school I teach at in Korea. There’s an open seat next to a smiling, wrinkled face, and so I move toward her. Everyone around me is much older than what I am. Their hunchbacks are proof of the time and life they’ve lived. The lady beside me speaks to me in Korean. I understand none of it, so I offer her the only words I really know, “Sang-sin-neem Haksan Cho-ding Hak-yo.” I tell her I’m a teacher at Haksan Elementary. She seems satisfied with this answer because she nods and says, “Ne.” She lifts my hand and turns it around to get a better look, and then she looks right at me, and smiles. In this moment, kindness truly transcends the language barrier. I feel seen. I feel understood. Soon after, she continues her conversation with the people around her. During the moments that follow, it feels as though everything has slowed down, and I’m at the centre of it all again. The Korean chatter around me, the vegetables peering over cardboard boxes on the floor- as if to scan their new surroundings too- the bus driver humming and occasionally engaging in conversation with his passengers. Outside the window, I can see the deep, verdant green farms that seem to stretch on endlessly. Tractors in the lane beside us -as commonplace as cars- seem to mimic the pace of everything unfolding around me. I let out the breath that I have been holding onto, and allow myself to take it all in. I am in rural South Korea. I won’t always be, but I am here now. I feel my heart expanding- an almost knee-jerk reaction to making room for gratitude- and I truly understand Maya Angelou’s quote, “You are only free when you realize you belong no place –you belong every place- no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great.” Here, in this small, beige bus, surrounded by people I don’t understand but feel connected to, even here, I belong.