Today was our usual Wednesday KATUSA meeting—a typical weekly briefing where soldiers gather to get training or updates. I’ll be honest—I wasn’t really paying attention at first. My mind drifted, thinking about how close I am to finishing my military service, and all the possibilities waiting for me outside these gates. But then the commander shared a story that snapped me back to reality.
He talked about visiting a small barber shop near the army base’s pedestrian gate—a modest place called “For Men.” The barber, an older man with a gentle way about him, had been making casual conversation. At first, the commander only expected a quick exchange: “How was your weekend?” “Did you do anything interesting?” That kind of thing. But the moment fishing came up, the barber’s face lit up, and the energy in the shop shifted.
“All day, while I’m cutting hair, I’m thinking about that next catch,” the barber had said, eyes sparkling like he was already out on the water. “There’s this rush—knowing a bite could come at any second. I can feel my heart race just imagining that reel spinning, that pull on the line.”
The commander recalled how the barber spoke of fishing as though it were the greatest adventure on earth—a passion, a beat of a heart that followed him even as he swept up clippings on the floor. He loved the quiet patience, the excitement when something finally tugs at the line. It was like fishing was the one thing that made him come alive, and just talking about it transported him far from the shop’s fluorescent lights.
Then, as he finished lining up the commander’s haircut, the barber posed a question that seemed to hang in the air:
“What about you? Do you have something that makes your heart beat?”
Even as the commander retold it, that question hit me like a jolt. It made me wonder: what’s mine? Usually, I’d say it’s writing about life’s big questions, doing coding projects that interests me, playing soccer and basketball. But in that moment, my mind drew a blank. It felt like I’d forgotten what sets my soul on fire.
Before I get into the deeper stuff, let me give you a bit of background about my time here as a KATUSA soldier—part of a joint initiative between the Republic of Korea Army and the U.S. Army. After enduring 10 weeks of basic training, I began working at the battalion headquarters within the 2nd Infantry Division, 8th U.S. Army. Initially as a Private (PV2), my tasks were pretty mundane—sweeping floors, handling vehicle maintenance, and carrying out various duties given by my superiors.
Yet, even those humble chores taught me a surprising amount about character and humility. Over time, as I climbed to the rank of Corporal, I started leveraging my background in computer science. My biggest project? Developing an automated event management system for our ministry team—a tool that streamlined how we organized and tracked events. Watching our efficiency improve felt like a small but meaningful victory, a reminder that even in the strict confines of military life, there’s room for creativity.
Throughout my service, I learned that the Army’s core values of LDRSHIP—Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage—were more than just acronyms. They shaped my mindset and showed me how discipline can fuel growth. Every day started at 5:50 AM with physical training, followed by a 9-to-5 schedule. After duty hours, I’d dedicate time to studying topics like computer networks. This strict routine gave my life structure and helped me reflect on what I truly value.
Still, despite the discipline and newfound skills, I sometimes felt uncertain about the next steps in my life. I recently recalled a conversation I had about a week ago with my dad when I was struggling with the question of “Which path do I choose?” In my early 20s, standing at the crossroads of education, career, and personal growth, it all felt overwhelming. My dad’s response was simple yet profound: “Follow your heart, try everything. You never know how it will all connect in the end.”
That advice resonated with me deeply. Reflecting on my own experiences—like going from floor-sweeping to building a web application for the battalion—his advice rings true. One skill or lesson really can lead to another, sometimes in ways we least expect.
That’s also when it struck me how easily we tend to see life’s decisions in black and white—safe path vs. risky path, money vs. passion. But my dad’s words suggested a broader, more transparent approach: explore, learn, and let those experiences shape you. As I near the end of my service, I see how even routine tasks have helped me develop humility, while my coding project opened doors to a sense of purpose. Life isn’t always about "either-or"; often it’s about "both-and".
About a month after that eye-opening KATUSA meeting, my high school best friend, Nolan, flew to visit me in Korea. We ended up on the topic of what happiness means—a question I’d been circling for some time. Nolan said something that resonated deeply: “Happiness is the feeling of being content—when you sense that nothing is missing.”
I countered with my own view: for me, true happiness hinges on inner peace. If I’m at peace with who I am and where I am, that’s when I’m satisfied. Interestingly, our perspectives converged on a common theme: whether you call it contentment or peace, at the heart of it is a sense of completeness—no urge or longing pulling you in different directions.
That conversation highlighted how happiness isn’t necessarily about achieving monumental goals or ticking items off a checklist. Sometimes, it’s about finding a quiet moment of stillness where you can honestly say you have all you need—at least in that sliver of time.
Amid all this introspection and personal growth, there’s been another constant in my life: my girlfriend, Victoria. We’ve been navigating a long-distance relationship throughout my service, which has tested us in ways I never expected. Not seeing her as often as I’d like has been tough—there are days when all I want is to be next to her, sharing life’s small, everyday moments.
This distance has also taught me patience on a whole new level. I’ve learned to wait, to trust, and to hold onto the conviction that love isn’t about immediate gratification. It’s about believing in the bond you share, even when physical presence is scarce. In many ways, she’s been my anchor—someone who supports me unconditionally, cheering me on through every challenge, every new project, every doubt.
From her, I’ve learned that love can endure and even flourish despite obstacles. That conviction—that I’m committed to loving her at any cost—has instilled a quiet strength in me. And though it hasn’t been easy, I’ve also seen how the lessons in discipline and resilience I’ve gained in the Army complement what’s needed to keep a long-distance relationship strong. In turn, knowing Victoria is there—rooting for me—often makes me feel like I can handle whatever life throws my way.
As my service winds down, I can’t help but reflect on how much I’ve grown. The KATUSA program, the daily routine, and the responsibilities I’ve taken on have all shaped me in ways I never expected. The young recruit who once only did basic chores is now a corporal with a clearer sense of purpose and new skills under his belt.
So where does that leave me, especially now that I’m on the cusp of getting discharged? The Army has given me discipline, a sense of duty, and an opportunity to test my abilities. I’ve grown in ways I never expected, learning to value both structure and spontaneity. But the question from the barber shop still lingers: What makes my heart beat right now?
• Sports and Hobbies: Soccer used to be my everything when I was younger, and recently, I’ve fallen in love with billiards. There’s a certain thrill in lining up a perfect shot, a blend of strategy and skill that keeps me hooked.
• Intellectual Curiosity: I’m delving into AI, brushing up on my math skills, and trying to understand complex concepts. It feels like I’m assembling a puzzle piece by piece, uncertain of the final picture but excited by the process.
• Writing and Reflection: In moments of confusion, I write. I explore philosophical questions about life on my blog—like the one you’re reading now. Every word typed or scribbled down helps me unravel the thoughts swirling in my mind.
At one point, these interests seemed scattered. But my dad’s advice reminds me they might all connect eventually. Nothing is truly wasted if you approach it with an open mind and heart.
Much like the barber’s unwavering passion for fishing, my life is a tapestry woven from different threads. The Army gave me discipline and structure. My dad gave me wisdom, urging me not to fear trying new things. Nolan taught me that happiness can be as simple as feeling content. And Victoria reminds me that love, nurtured patiently, can withstand the challenges of distance.
It's easy to view the world in black and white: soldier or student, practical or passionate, spiritual or scientific. But life often thrives in the gray. It’s in that uncertain space—where you’re not quite sure of where you want to go but decide to take it one by one—where the magic happens.
As I wrap up my time in uniform, I realize that all these lessons—from sweeping floors to developing software, from my father’s words to Victoria’s long-distance support, and from Nolan’s perspective on happiness—point to a single truth: It’s okay not to have it all figured out. Life is richer when we allow ourselves to explore, question, and grow from the unexpected connections that form along the way.
And so, I carry forward this question: “What makes your heart beat?” Right now, it’s the thrill of sinking a tricky billiards shot, the satisfaction of completing a coding project, the simple pleasure of a midnight conversation about life’s biggest questions. It’s also the possibility that tomorrow, something new might light that spark within me.
Whatever path I choose, I know it’s not about finding a single right answer. It’s about embracing the journey, trusting my instincts, and realizing that every skill, conversation, and moment of peace threads together into the story of who I’m becoming.
That’s where I find my heartbeat—and maybe that’s where you’ll find yours, too.