I Spent 3 Weeks in Korea with My Parents (and I'm Already Full of "I Wish I Had" Moments)

I just got back from 3 weeks in Korea. And before you picture some dreamy solo trip through 경복궁 or late nights at a 포장마차 with friends, it wasn't that. I was with my parents. In their space. Living under their roof, eating at their table, being on their schedule.

It was one of the most meaningful things I've done in a long time. And I'm already full of "I wish I had" moments.

Suddenly I Was Sixteen Again

Living with my parents as an adult wasn't always easy. There were moments where I felt like I was 16 again. My mom would comment on how late I stayed up. My dad would ask where I was going every time I put on my shoes. Old habits would surface between us, the kind that only exist in the specific ecosystem of parent and child, and I'd feel that familiar friction of being a grown adult who is somehow, in this house, still just their kid.

And I get it. I've been independent for years now. I make my own decisions, manage my own life and finances, navigate the world on my own terms. So when someone starts asking me if I've eaten or telling me to bring a jacket, there's a small part of me that bristles. A reflex. Like, I know, I know.

They're Not Nagging. They're Loving.

But here's the thing I kept coming back to, especially on the quieter days: they're not nagging me. They're loving me in the only language they've ever used.

Every "Did you eat?" is just them saying I want you to be okay. Every unsolicited comment about my sleep schedule is just an extension of years and years of caring about me when I couldn't even care for myself. It's the same love, but it just sounds different now that I'm older and have more opinions about it.

I Never Said Thank You.

Here's something I have regrets about: even knowing how much they care about me and how much they love me...I didn't say a single "Thank you." Not once in those 3 weeks did I look at my parents and tell them how grateful I was. How much I love them. How much any of this meant to me.

And that's so me. I am painfully awkward when it comes to expressing emotions out loud, especially to the people who matter most. There's something about being with family (with your parents specifically) that makes vulnerability feel almost impossible. Like the words get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat and you just kind of... don't say them. You assume they know. You hope they know. You go back to scrolling on your phone.

I think a lot of it is that we didn't really grow up in a household where feelings were said out loud all that often. So saying "thank you, genuinely, for everything" feels almost foreign. Clunky. Like speaking a language you understand but have never actually spoken aloud.

But the longer I sit with it, the more I think that's exactly why I need to get better at it. Because they deserve to hear it. Not just feel it through implication.

Everything They Did, Quietly and Without Asking

There was so much for me to be grateful for my parents.

My mom cooked for me every single day. Not just cooked, but she made the kind of meals that take hours, the ones that taste like home in a way that nothing else in the world does. Every morning there was something warm waiting. Every dinner was a spread. And I ate it all and said almost nothing. Just picked up my chopsticks and dug in like it was the most normal thing in the world, which I guess to me it still feels like it is...but it isn't. It's not normal. It's love on a plate, over and over again, and I took it for granted every single time.

At night, after long days, my mom would give me foot massages. Just because. Without me asking. She'd just quietly sit down and start, like it was the most natural thing, like taking care of me was still just part of her daily routine even though I'm a whole adult who lives across the world. And I'd sit there and let her, barely even looking up.

My parents woke up incredibly early to pick me up from the airport when I arrived. The kind of early that means they probably barely slept, just excited for the thought of seeing their daughter And on our weekend trip, my dad drove the whole way. Long stretches of highway, navigating, never complaining. Just driving, so we could all be somewhere together.

And the prayers. The quiet, faithful kind that parents say for their kids without ever making a big deal of it. Prayers for my wellbeing, my health, my future. Prayers said in the early morning or before bed, for a kid who is out there somewhere living her life, hopefully okay, hopefully happy. That kind of love is so constant and so invisible that it's easy to forget it exists. But it does. It always has.

I received all of it. And I said almost nothing.

The "I Wish I Had" Moments

I wish I had told them I love you more. Just said it. Out loud. More than once. More than the awkward, almost-mumbled version that slipped out maybe once the whole trip.

I wish I had hugged them more. I wish I had just leaned in and let the moment be what it was.

I wish I had smiled at them more. How many times did I sit across from them at dinner looking at my phone instead of at their faces? How many times did my dad say something and I gave a half-laugh instead of a real one? A smile costs nothing. It takes half a second. And I was stingy with it in a way that I'm not proud of.

These aren't grand gestures. They're not expensive or complicated. They're the most basic expressions of love and I still somehow couldn't get out of my own head long enough to give them freely.

Time Is Moving. It's Always Been Moving.

That's the thing nobody really prepares you for. You grow up, you leave, you build your life — and you assume your parents are just kind of there, constant, the way they always have been. And then one day you're watching your mom move a little slower in the kitchen or you notice your dad takes longer to get up from the couch, and it hits you. Time is moving. It's always been moving.

No amount of money, no gift, no phone call is ever going to fully account for what our parents gave us. For the sacrifices that were made quietly, without fanfare, without any expectation of a thank you. The things we don't even know about because we were too young or too self-absorbed or just too busy living the life they were busy building for us.

Show Up While You Still Can

I can't pay that back. I don't think any of us can. But I think the least we can do is show up. Spend the time. Sit with them even when it's uncomfortable, even when you feel the itch to just go do your own thing. Let them ask you if you've eaten. Answer them. Tell them about your day.

And actually say the thing out loud every once in a while. Even if it feels awkward. Even if your voice does that weird thing where it gets quieter right when you need it to be brave. Hug them and don't be the first to let go. Smile at them like you mean it. Say I love you like it's easy, even when it isn't.

The Wave Goodbye

On the last day, at the airport, I hugged them and said goodbye and wheeled my suitcase toward security. And then I turned around for one last look.

They were still there. Both of them, standing at the barrier, watching me. Waving. The kind of wave that doesn't stop, that just keeps going, because they weren't going to be the ones to look away first. They were going to watch me for as long as they could see me.

So I waved back. Harder than I normally would. Bigger than felt natural for me. I don't know if it was enough to show them everything I hadn't said over the past 3 weeks, but I put it all into that wave. And then I turned the corner and went through security and they were gone from my sight.

That's when I felt it. That familiar tingle at the top of my nose, the one that only shows up when something is trying to make you cry. My eyes went warm and blurry and I just stood there for a second, in the middle of the airport.

I didn't say enough. I didn't hug enough. I didn't smile enough. But somewhere between that wave and that corner, I think some part of me finally cracked open — just a little. Just enough to feel the full weight of how much I love them, how lucky I am, and how none of that should be this hard to say.

Next time, I'll do better.