Why Some Koreans Don’t Like Their Own People Back Home

You wanna know why some Koreans who move abroad don’t vibe with the ones back home? The real answer is simple. It’s the culture shock… but in reverse. You think people only get shocked when they leave a country, but no—sometimes, the real slap comes when they go back. I felt this in a weird way too, and I’m not even Korean.

Let me tell you what happened.

Back in college, I lived with this Korean dude who moved from Seoul to the U.S. when he was 12. Dude was smart, chill, funny—but every time he had to talk to someone from Korea, especially his family or folks from back home, he’d tense up. One time, I asked him why he seemed so different on those calls. And he just sighed and said, “It’s hard to explain. It’s like… I have to become someone else.”

That stuck with me.

And later, when we visited Korea together for a vacation, I finally saw what he meant. The pressure was everywhere. Like, we were walking around, and he told me, “Don’t wear your hat backward, they’ll judge you.” Then in a cafe, I joked loudly and he whispered, “Shhh—they’ll think you’re rude.” Even when he ordered coffee, he lowered his voice and adjusted his posture like he was in a job interview. I was like, bro, you good?

But here’s the part they don’t want you to know…

For some Koreans who’ve been raised abroad or just lived overseas for years, going back to Korea feels like stepping into a place where everything is about image, perfection, and following unspoken rules. And if you’re used to freedom—freedom to speak, dress, live how you want—that feels claustrophobic. It’s like being told, “Hey, remember that version of you we liked? Yeah, go back to being that.”

Most people never realize this, but even though you’re from the same country, you can feel like a total outsider the moment your values don’t match anymore.

And it’s not just about attitude—it’s about time. These folks lived in other places during their most important growing years. They made choices, developed habits, and learned new beliefs. When they return, it’s not just jet lag they’re dealing with—it’s identity whiplash.

PART 2

“Bro, why are you acting so American?”

That’s what one guy said to my roommate when we were hanging out in Korea. And that five-second sentence? It crushed him.

Here’s the crazy part—he didn’t even say anything wild. He just gave his opinion, casually disagreed about something. But in that moment, I saw his face shift. Like someone pulled a plug on his energy.

See, that’s the hook for this next part:

Even when you look like everyone else… they can smell you’re different.

There’s this expectation, especially in tight-knit cultures like Korea, that if you’re one of them, you act like them. No questions, no pushing back. But for people who’ve lived abroad, questioning stuff is normal. Sharing opinions isn’t rebellion—it’s just talking.

But when you bring that mindset back home, it’s seen as rude, cocky, or even “disrespectful.” And that disconnect? It burns.

Let me tell you a quick story. One night in Seoul, we went out to eat with his cousins. They were polite at first, but I noticed little things—side glances, awkward pauses. After dinner, one cousin said, “You’ve changed.” Not in a happy way. More like, “You’re not one of us anymore.”

That night, my roommate admitted something I didn’t expect. He said he felt ashamed. Not because he did anything wrong—but because he didn’t fit. He didn’t feel fully Korean anymore, but also didn’t feel completely American. He was stuck somewhere in between.

Stay with me, because in just a few moments, you’ll see how this all connects.

That feeling of being between two worlds? It’s not rare. It happens to a lot of immigrants or second-gen kids. But in the Korean context, it’s sharper. The culture’s all about community, family roles, respect, sacrifice. Those are beautiful things—but when you’ve learned to live differently, it can feel suffocating.

People want to belong. But sometimes, the price of belonging is being someone you’re not anymore.

And the worst part? If you choose not to “act Korean enough,” they’ll say you’ve betrayed your roots. But if you fake it to fit in, you lose yourself.

PART 3

So what do they do? Most just stay quiet.

They don’t say anything.

They smile. Nod. Follow the script.

But deep down, they feel it—this quiet resentment. Not hate, not disgust, just… sadness. Disappointment. Like, “Why don’t I feel home at home?”

Let me hit you with this opening for Part 3:

Some people run from a country. Others run from a version of themselves that only exists in that country.

I once asked my roommate if he’d ever move back to Korea for good. He looked at me for a second and said, “I don’t think I’d survive.” I laughed, thought he was joking. But he was dead serious. “Not physically,” he said. “Mentally. Emotionally. I’d disappear.”

I didn’t get it back then. But now? I do.

The truth is, when you grow up away from a culture, you don’t just miss out on the language or the food—you miss the training. The lessons about who to be, how to think, when to speak. And when you don’t get trained the same, you stand out—even if you don’t mean to.

Here’s the part nobody says out loud:

The judgment doesn’t always come from strangers.

It comes from family. From friends. From the people who say they love you the most.

It’s a weird kind of heartbreak—being rejected by your own people not because you’re bad, but because you’re different. And it cuts deeper than any stranger’s comment ever could.

So yeah. That’s why some Koreans abroad don’t feel connected to Koreans back home. Not because they hate them. Not because they think they’re better. But because it’s painful to be reminded of a version of yourself that no longer fits.

Here’s my takeaway after seeing all this up close:

Identity isn’t just blood. It’s where your mind is comfortable. It’s where your values make sense. And for a lot of people, that place just isn’t where they were born anymore.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe home isn’t where you started.

Maybe home is where you finally feel seen.