After My Divorce in South Korea, I Went to the Dentist Alone

The first thing my parents said when I told them about the divorce wasn’t “Are you okay?” or “What happened?”

It was, “You still need to go to the dentist.”

I remember laughing, or something close to it.

“I’m serious,” my mom said, “You’ve been putting it off.”

“I’m in South Korea,” I told her. “I don’t even know how to make an appointment here. I’m all alone now.”

“You’ll figure it out,” my dad said. “You always do.”

At the time, that felt like a stretch.

The end of my marriage didn’t arrive all at once. It came in pieces, in conversations that didn’t quite land the way they used to.

“Are you happy?” I asked him once, sitting across from him at our much-too-large kitchen table, compliments of the U.S. military housing.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked past me, like there was something just over my shoulder he needed more time to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

Later, there was another conversation, softer but somehow heavier.

“I think I need something different,” he told me.

“Different how?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how to explain it without hurting you.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” I said.

“I know.”

There wasn’t a single moment where everything broke. Just a series of small shifts, each one barely noticeable on its own, until one day there was nothing left to hold onto.

After he left, the apartment felt more like home than ever before. I still had my dog, Kiki, so it wasn’t empty. Just quieter, like the space had reset itself to fit this new, smaller, family. Me and Kiki.

I didn’t leave myself much room to grieve, I had Kiki to take care of. As I settled into a new routine, I started noticing small things. The way the mornings belonged entirely to me and Kiki. The way I could move through the kitchen without adjusting to anyone else’s rhythm (besides Kiki’s little hopping for treats, of course).

I began making iced Americanos (quite popular in South Korea) at home, carefully, like it was my job to craft the perfect coffee drink. Ice first, then espresso, watching it bloom into the water. It became a kind of ritual. A simple task I could do to start the day already feeling like I did something.

I ate differently, too. Simpler. Fruit and Greek yogurt in the mornings. Ramen or rice with egg in the evenings. I started baking Irish soda bread myself, not because it’s trendy, just because it’s cheaper than buying bread at the commissary and I already had the ingredients (we had separated right after St. Patrick’s day, hence the Irish soda bread). But I also liked the process. The waiting. The way the apartment filled with the smell of something warm and fresh. And it was something I made by hand, a physical object to prove I’m being productive.

Some days it was just salami, bread, and cheese- comfort in a form I understood, something tied to being German in a place that felt far from everything familiar. None of it felt dramatic. But it felt like mine.

The dentist appointment took me longer to make than it should have.

I looked it up three different times before actually calling. Practiced what I would say. Wrote down phrases I thought I might need. I said the same few Korean phrases I knew over and over in my mind.

When I finally went, I got there too early.

I sat in the waiting room, listening for my name, not entirely sure I would recognize it when it was called. The attentive receptionist who gave me an English form to fill out almost brought me to tears because I forgot what kindness felt like.

Sitting there, waiting, I almost laughed through my tears. I’m thirty-one years old, I thought. Why does this feel like such a big deal?

But it did.

Because no one else knew I was there.

No one was waiting for a text update, or expecting me to report back. I wasn’t doing it as part of a shared life. I was just… doing it.

When they called my name, I stood up immediately, like I had been preparing for that exact moment. And then, I had my teeth cleaned. Simple.

Afterward, walking back outside into the soft brightness of a Korean spring day, I felt something I hadn’t expected. Not relief, but pride. Small, a little silly, but unmistakable pride.

The cafe I found not long after.

It wasn’t on a main street. You had to turn into a neighborhood, then walk a little further, past low buildings and quiet corners where tulips started to bloom in careful rows, like someone had planned for beauty in advance.

The cafe was European-themed but Korean-owned, slightly out of place in a way that made it feel intentional, not less. A trendy little spot, though when I went, only a handful of patrons. I preferred it that way, making my way out into the world alone is much easier when there’s less to manage.

I walked in the wooden doorframe alone.

The owner smiled at me from behind the counter. She didn’t speak English, and my Korean wasn’t enough to carry a real conversation, but somehow it didn’t matter. We pointed. Nodded. Understood each other in pieces.

I was so used to my husband finishing my plate, I ordered more than I needed: Sourdough bread, fresh butter, cheese, an egg. A caprese salad, fresh tomatoes from the garden out back. Homemade carrot cake with walnuts. A strawberry latte with strawberries so fresh I almost cried (I tend to cry over happy things more these days).

Somehow, I ate all of it. None left for my absent ex husband to finish.

I ate slowly, without distraction. Without checking my phone or thinking about how I’m getting home (I ordered a taxi later on just fine on my own). Just the act of eating something good, something chosen, something perfect for my German palette.

I thought about something Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote- that there’s a kind of healing in allowing yourself to enjoy food again. At the time, it had sounded too cliche, too packaged. Sitting there alone, it didn’t feel cliche at all. It felt earned.

When I left, the owner called me back to the counter to hand me a small, heart-shaped honey-baked treat. She said something I didn’t fully understand, smiling in a way that made it clear I didn’t need to.

“Thank you,” I said, bowing slightly, hoping it translated well enough.

Outside, the tulips were still there, steady and bright against the homely little street.

Spring came slowly. Then once my husband left, it came all at once. Cherry blossoms opened along the streets we had walked together when I first arrived in the winter. Trees I hadn’t noticed before became something people stopped to photograph. Well, I thought, at least Korea in the spring is a pretty place to get a divorce. I started walking more, without destination. Past neighborhoods I didn’t have a reason to visit before. Past cafes I would have once saved to show someone else. Now, I just went in. Sitting alone. Staying as long as I wanted. There was a kind of freedom that I hadn’t known I was missing.

One afternoon, I took Kiki to the dog park. We walked the same route we always did, her little half-huskey, half-corgi legs strutting slightly ahead of me, stopping every few steps like the world was too interesting to move through all at once.

An older Korean lady with a no-nonsense face passed us on the sidewalk, slowing down for a second as Kiki trotted by.

“Cute dog,” she said in English, her face opening up with a smile.

“Thank you,” I said.

And then we kept walking.

It was such a small interaction I almost forgot it immediately. But later, I realized that was the point. Nothing about it needed to be shared. It didn’t belong to anyone else. It was just a moment, in a day that was entirely mine.

Kiki pulled slightly on the leash as we got closer to the park, already recognizing where we were going.

I followed.

No one waiting. No one expecting.

Just the quiet certainty that I could keep going on my own.