Expat Life: Lasting Impressions of My Life in Daegu

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When I landed in Daegu, the first thing I noticed was how Korean everything felt. I know, that sounds obvious, but it hit me harder than I expected. We had just come from Kansas, and before that from airports like Chicago and JFK where diversity lets you blend in without effort. In Daegu, I stood out before I opened my mouth. Every sign was Hangul. Every announcement flowed in Korean. Every face around me reflected a country that was overwhelmingly Korean.

Finding baggage claim required focus. Renting a car required patience. Even though many signs included English, I could not casually ask a question without rehearsing it in my head. Translation is not the same as comfort. I felt alert and slightly small, but I also felt excited. I had lived in Korea as a child in Seoul, and I was curious to see what I remembered and what had changed.

Daegu is not Seoul. It is large, roughly the size of Chicago, yet many people described it as less sophisticated than Busan. What it lacked in flash, it made up for in landscape. Mountains surrounded the city. Temples sat tucked into hillsides. Parks and lakes broke up blocks of apartments and office towers. It felt lived in rather than staged.

Table of Contents

• Finding Our Rhythm
• Visible All The Time
• Freedom Without The Noise
• A Simple Tuesday
• Still Not Back
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Finding Our Rhythm

It did not take long before Daegu felt like home. We connected with other military families. Steven and I began cafe hopping on the weekends, and those outings became a ritual I still miss today. Korea’ cafes are beautiful. They are built into mountainsides, perched on cliffs near the sea, and hidden in thick forests with scenic walking trails. They are not simply functional spaces where you you grab a coffee and go. They are designed to make you stay.

I joined a Korean hiking group and began exploring trails I never would have discovered on my own. The mountains gave me a quieter, steadier version of Daegu. I walked to neighborhood markets in between hikes, digging through thrift bins, choosing the ripest fruit, and laughing at the rows of brightly patterned socks. Those small rituals grounded me in ways I did not expect.

Driving Felt Like Freedom Immediately

When I passed the Korean driving test, I felt independent again, even though GPS guided every single trip. Without it, I would have been completely lost. The license meant I could cross the city or leave it altogether. I could wake up, make a decision, and just go.

But the reality of driving here is intense. The streets feel crowded, and parking spaces seem outnumbered by cars three to one. Drivers wedge themselves into gaps that barely qualify as spaces. I misjudged more than once and ended up in two minor parking accidents and one fender bender. Nothing serious, but enough to remind me that confidence and competence are not the same thing.

I loved the metro because parking in Daegu could test anyone’s patience. I loved that I could walk down the hill from my apartment to a cafe that stayed open twenty-four hours. That first utilities bill in Hangul sealed it for me. When you cannot read your own bill, you know you live there.

Faster Care and a System That Worked

In Daegu, I did not have to worry about buying health insurance because the military covered our care.

While we were there, I had three surgeries, including cataract surgery and a bone spur removal. What stands out to me now is not just the quality of the care, but how quickly everything moved. I did not wait endlessly for referrals. I did not argue with insurance companies. Appointments were set without drama, procedures were scheduled promptly, and follow-up visits happened without delays. The system felt organized and direct. Even the billing was clear. That kind of speed and efficiency is something I still think about.

We also had access to an International Services office. A staff member was assigned to help us navigate the Korean medical system. They assisted with translation, scheduling, and paperwork, which made the entire process far less stressful. Instead of feeling lost in a foreign healthcare system, I felt supported.

Visible All The Time

Being far from home carries weight. Communication required effort. Etiquette was not instinctive. Sometimes I worried I had misunderstood a custom or missed a social cue.

As a Black woman in a country that is overwhelmingly Korean, I was visible everywhere. People stared. Some touched my braids without asking. Men sent messages on social media that felt more like curiosity than connection. Occasionally someone avoided sitting next to me on the metro. Sometimes people pushed past me rather than attempt English. It was not always hostility. Often it was hesitation. But it reminded me that I was different.

I never felt unsafe. That distinction matters. I felt noticed, not threatened. Still, there is a quiet fatigue that comes from being seen all the time. Sometimes I met Kyung Sook for coffee. We did not share language fluently, but we shared art, nature, and good coffee. That was enough.

Freedom Without The Noise

Here is the part that feels complicated.

Life in Daegu felt lighter than life in the United States. Not because Korea is perfect, but because my daily rhythm felt calmer and more intentional. I could hike alone on Apsan Mountain without calculating danger the way I do here. I could walk to cafes at any hour. I could eat fresh, affordable meals without thinking about cost or portion size. My body felt healthier. My mind felt clearer.

I was not immersed in the same political tension that saturates American life. I was not constantly navigating the emotional weight of American racism or partisan hostility. The absence of that noise created space. Space to be curious. Space to create. Space to breathe.

Steven and I relied on each other deeply because we had no family nearby. That strengthened us. I was not working, and that freedom allowed me to explore without apology. If I saw a side street, I turned down it. If I saw a mountain trail, I followed it. I felt bold in ways I had not felt in years.

I miss that version of myself.

A Simple Tuesday

My days were simple. I woke up around seven or eight. I walked downhill to a cafe for breakfast or lunch. Sometimes I circled the lake. Sometimes I hiked the mountain behind our apartment. Elderly men and women were already outside using public exercise machines. School children hurried past in uniforms. The air was not always pleasant. Sometimes it was foul. But it felt alive.

I met Kyung Sook for coffee. We ate at small neighborhood restaurants because it was inexpensive and convenient. In the evening, Steven and I watched something on Netflix or Hulu and talked about where we might explore next. It was steady. It was enough.

Still Not Back

I moved back to the United States two years ago, and I still have not resumed what people call normal American life. I do not know why I still feel this way.

I do not want to spend money on expensive food that does not taste good. I look around and wonder if something is wrong with me because everyone else seems to be having fun. My husband and I complain about the same things over and over. The politics. The cost of everything. The racism. The increasing ignorance that feels louder every year.

I remember the complaints I had in Daegu and realize they were small. Here, I drive everywhere. Here, cafes are functional rather than beautiful. Here, wandering feels impractical.

I miss walking in pretty places. I miss mountain views as part of daily life. I miss the curious woman who lived slightly outside her comfort zone. She felt healthier. She felt braver. She felt alive. Daegu was not perfect. But it gave me space to become a fuller version of myself. And I am still trying to understand what it means that I cannot seem to let that go.

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