Becoming Ann McCoy: Born of Fire, Raised in Grace
Author's Note
This memoir was born from the volcanic breath of Jeju Island, where black lava stone warms beneath the sun and tangerine blossoms perfume the wind. I grew up between mountains and sea—listening to waves crash against ancient cliffs, watching fishing boats vanish into mist, and learning that life can be fragile, yet endlessly brave.
These pages hold the memory of childhood laughter, quiet sorrow, and the invisible threads of family that shaped who I became. From loss, I learned tenderness. From hardship, resilience. And from the island’s restless horizon, the courage to chase the world beyond it.
This book belongs to my brother, whose life ended before he could taste the vastness of the world. I carry him—softly, fiercely, always. Through my footsteps, my adventures, and my heart. I hope he sees every sunrise, every border crossed, every dream fulfilled.
For him, I write.
For him, I keep going.
#1. Jeju — Island of Wind, Stone, and Sea
The first time I ran barefoot across Jeju’s black lava rocks, the sun was just rising. Sea spray stung my skin, and I felt fearless—like the haenyeo whose songs drifted down from the cliffs. Tide pools shimmered with tiny crabs and darting fish, entire miniature worlds contained in shallow water that fascinated me endlessly. I didn’t know it then, but those mornings taught me something lasting: how to move through sharpness without fear, how to find beauty in places that could wound. Even now, when life feels uncertain, I return in memory to that shore—where the wind was strong, the sea alive, and I was unafraid.
I was born on this island in 1973, at Korea’s southern tip, where Hallasan rises like a silent guardian. Its volcanic heart shaped fertile fields, jagged cliffs, and hidden lava tubes beneath my feet. Jeju was said to have three abundances: wind, stone, and women. Many fishermen never returned from the sea, and their widows became the island’s legendary haenyeo. Locals would say, “If you have a horse, send it to Jeju; if you have a child, send them to Seoul,” a reminder that nature thrived here while opportunity often lay elsewhere.
Over the years, Jeju changed. Quiet villages gave way to paved streets. Tourists arrived from the mainland, Japan, and China, drawn to beaches, waterfalls, and volcanic landscapes. City buses replaced the familiar sound of bicycles and carts, and international schools appeared. Yet for those of us who grew up here, the island remained a world of salty winds, crashing waves, and the quiet insistence that we could be stronger than we knew. Among wind, stone, and women, I learned who I could be—curious, brave, and endlessly drawn to the horizon.
#2. Family and Orange Farm
My father, the eldest son, carried the weight of tradition. My mother, gentle yet strong, worried constantly about having another son, having already borne three daughters. Our home was full of life: an older brother, a younger brother, and two younger sisters. The house pulsed with sound—the crackle of the stove, neighbors calling through open doors, the distant cries of fishermen.
As my parents juggled farm work and children, my maternal grandmother came to care for us. She arrived carrying small treasures: candies that melted like sugar clouds on the tongue, and homemade snacks whose warmth lingered long after the last bite.
But the true magic lay in her stories. Memories of Korea under Japanese colonial rule spilled from her lips, sprinkled with Japanese words like bento for lunch box and debi for socks. Her voice rose and fell like waves along Jeju’s cliffs as she spoke of the heartbreak and courage of the 4.3 Jeju Uprising. Even as a child, I felt the weight of those stories—the quiet power of resilience, the sadness of lives interrupted, and the dignity of survival. Sitting beside her, candy in hand, I understood that history was not just in books—it lived in voices, in tastes, in the pulse of a grandmother’s love.
My paternal grandparents were different. Love from them was measured, often favoring the children of more “successful” sons. Visits were rare and formal, and New Year’s Day rituals revealed subtle inequalities. Children bowed to elders to receive small envelopes of money—often the only money we would see that year. I noticed the quiet hierarchies of affection and learned early that love could be both given and earned.
Our family owned orange farms, and weekends were consumed by labor. I remember the smell of wet soil, the tang of citrus on my fingertips, the ache in my arms under the relentless sun. Later, greenhouses supplemented our income, and even on rainy days, chores filled our hours. Play was a rare luxury. Visitors admired our “clean, idyllic life,” but I knew the truth: this was not a postcard of paradise—it was endurance.
Still, I secretly longed for something beyond the island: Seoul, the city of opportunity, a world far larger than our fields.
Life on Jeju shaped me—resilient, curious, and hungry for adventure. I climbed jagged lava rocks with my brother, hands scraped raw, hearts racing, the ocean wind whipping our faces. We swam in cool creeks and lay on our stomachs while the sun dried our backs, dragonflies skimming above like jeweled helicopters. Mossy stones concealed wriggling centipedes, and after rain, tender gosari shoots peeked shyly from the underbrush. I tasted briny abalone fresh from the sea and listened to haenyeo recount storms and survival. Each moment—sun, sea, stone, and fern—taught me daring and the quiet strength of those who lived with the sea as both giver and threat.
#3. School and Discovery
School was a world of its own—structured yet full of small discoveries. I started elementary school a year later than most, making me the oldest in my class. We lined up by birthday—boys first, then girls—and I always stood at the front of the girls’ line. The difference in age made me feel awkward rather than proud. In those days, everyone was supposed to be the same age; even now in Korea, it’s common to ask, “How old are you?” before anything else.
My Korean name, Yeon Jung—Yeon meaning “delay,” Jung meaning “right”—seemed to echo my life: late in starting, late in milestones, yet always in proper order. Boys and girls inhabited different worlds, though our teacher tried to bridge the gap by seating us together. We drew invisible lines across the tabletops—boundaries we didn’t dare cross—yet each day held small adventures: collecting shiny pebbles, watching insects scuttle across the mud, exploring secret paths on the long walk home.
In fifth grade, English found me. Thirty minutes each morning opened a window to a world far beyond Jeju. I hung on every syllable, enchanted by the rhythm of words that promised possibility. Each lesson felt like a tiny act of flight—a glimpse of the horizon waiting beyond the sea.
Jeju had given me both wonder and hardship, preparing me for the beauty and the loss that life would bring.
#4. Loss and Growth
As I entered my teenage years, thoughts of high school filled my mind. The best schools were far from our village, and I dreamed of attending one. I never went to movies after school or read comic books; such things felt frivolous, distractions for those who did not take studies seriously. I wanted to be ready, disciplined, among the best.
One early morning, just as light softened the horizon, the house phone rang. My mother picked up. Her face went white. Without a word, she rushed out the door. My older brother had taken our father’s car and been in an accident. At the bus stop, whispers reached me: he had died. The bus roared past as my legs carried me home, my mind trailing behind.
The house was quiet, surreal. Neighbors rearranged furniture for mourners. The air smelled faintly of oranges and dust, but beneath it lingered something heavier—grief, disbelief. My brother—just eighteen—was gone.
We hadn’t been close growing up. Four grades apart, he lived in a different world while I played with my younger siblings. But after he moved to Seoul, something softened in him. He came home kinder, thoughtful. I remember the last time I saw him—sitting on a tractor in the field, waving at me. The sunlight touched his face, and the distance between us felt suddenly fragile. I wanted that moment to last forever.
One night, he took our father’s car with friends. Around four in the morning, fatigue claimed him; the car veered off the highway, striking a post at full speed. He died instantly. His friends survived.
When I became an adult and started driving myself, I could never push past the speed that killed my brother. Every time the needle rose, my heart tightened. The highway felt like a memory I didn’t want to relive.
One night, I decided to try. I pressed the accelerator and watched the speed climb—120, 130, 140 km/h. The car flew forward. Wind, darkness, silence. For a moment, I imagined what he had seen, what he had felt, in those final seconds on the highway. It was fast, frightening, and painfully real. I slowed down, hands shaking, tears blurring the road. I understood then that no one truly survives the moment they lose someone—they just learn how to live around it.
Our home changed. Laughter dimmed. Silence grew heavy. At the funeral, my seven-year-old brother—named the family successor—stood beside our grandfather and father, solemn beyond his years. Though I was not the successor, I became the eldest in a new way—the one who had to hold the family together.
I chose a high school close to home and later entered Jeju National University, majoring in English language and literature on a scholarship. When the acceptance letter arrived, I cried—not only from joy, but from regret. My score was high enough for a top university in Seoul, yet I had played it safe. In those days, students applied to a university first and then took the entrance exam there. Failing was seen as a shame on one’s family, so most chose a school they were sure to pass. That moment stayed with me. It taught me something I would carry for the rest of my life: to follow what I truly want, even at the risk of failure.
Even now, I carry my brother with me—not in words or photographs, but in the quiet choices I make, in the courage to keep moving forward. His sudden absence taught me to live with curiosity and courage, to embrace moments fully, and to protect the bonds that matter most. His short life became a quiet guide, shaping me into someone resilient, determined, and ready to face the wide, unpredictable world.
#5. Vancouver — A Window to the World
I did not have enough money to study in Vancouver for a year, so I tutored high school students and saved half the amount. For the rest, I turned to my parents, asking them to invest in me instead of the traditional wedding start. They laughed, then agreed.
In Vancouver, I immersed myself in English and in the world. Every street, every conversation, every small success became a bridge between the life I had, the life I imagined, and the person I was becoming. One year passed too quickly, and I had to return to finish university. On the plane back, I cried and made myself a promise: I would return.
#6. Return — Broken Promise
Ten years passed, each one carrying fragments of hope and struggle. That promise—made in tears above the clouds—became my compass. It carried me back across the ocean again. I kept my word. I returned.
The summer air in Toronto hung heavy as I walked toward the immigration consultant’s office—a stranger whose existence had felt abstract from across the ocean. In Korea, I had only sent documents through the consultant’s overseas branch; now, just weeks after arriving, I was here in person, trembling between hope and fear. Every step toward that door echoed the dream I had carried since fifth grade: two years of work, and then permanent residency—a life that had once felt impossibly distant.
A car screeched nearby, tires cutting through the humid air. A man ahead of me turned and said something—I couldn’t hear it at first—but when I asked him to repeat himself, he explained that someone had nearly been hit. We fell into conversation, and by the time we parted, he handed me his number. “If you need help while living here, call me,” he said. That small act of kindness would become my lifeline.
Inside the consultant’s office, my dream crumbled.
“The employer changed their mind. There’s nothing we can do,” he said.
I had nobody in Toronto—no family, no friends. Desperate, I called the man who had given me his number. He came without hesitation, guiding me through the chaos, showing me that honesty and help still existed. He even placed a Canadian passport on the consultant’s desk.
“This is what it means to be Canadian,” he said.
I didn’t understand it then—but later, when I became one myself, I understood. It meant honesty, dignity, truthfulness, humanity, and the quiet courage to help others.
I refused to let fraud defeat me. I reported the scam, found another job in a grocery store, and gradually settled. Over time, he and I grew close, and our family began. But life was far from easy. Our third child was born with a severe heart defect, and our days became filled with surgeries, follow-ups, and strict health restrictions.
Through it all, I discovered a sense of purpose. I wanted to make sure restaurant kitchens were clean and sanitary, water was safe to drink, and daycare toys and playgrounds were properly disinfected and secure, so that every child—sick or healthy—and their families could enjoy them safely. I applied to a Public Health and Safety program at Toronto Metropolitan University to become a public health inspector—and I was accepted. Once again, I was starting over, determined to turn personal struggle into something meaningful.
#7. Fire — Rebirth
I had crossed an ocean in search of promise, only to find myself standing among its ruins. Yet in that wreckage, something within me stirred—a flicker, a spark refusing to die. I began to see that what breaks us also remakes us, that from the smoke of loss rises a gentler strength.
Fire, I learned, does not exist only to destroy—it refines. It burns away what no longer serves, revealing the shape of who we are meant to become. From the ashes of fear came courage; from despair, a strange, luminous grace. Survival was never the ending—it was the beginning of becoming whole. And sometimes, that fire comes from the one closest to us.
Life with him grew increasingly difficult—arguments, financial strain, and emotional abuse slowly pushed me to the edge. When I returned to school, I made a promise to myself: nothing would derail my future again. I finally accepted that I could not change him, but I could change myself.
I wanted to protect my children from the stress of watching their parents fight. I knew too well what that did to a child. When I was little, I watched my own parents argue. I remember my mother's blue eyes filled with tears, yet she kept living, kept enduring. I used to pray they would divorce, just so we wouldn't grow up in that environment.
I refused to let my children carry the same memories.
So I chose freedom.
I told him he was free to see the children, but I needed distance and peace for all of us. I packed our lives into boxes and moved out, finding a small place close to my school and the hospital where one of my children needed care. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary.
Two months later, the danger escalated. After dropping the children at school and daycare, I returned home to submit the assignment I had finished the night before—only the final click left before the deadline. The apartment was quiet. As I opened the door, he appeared out of nowhere, holding a small torch.
He had been hiding behind the stairwell door.
He forced his way in before I could react. I tried to stay calm and told him we could talk, but a sudden flash of flame flared before my eyes. Something wet splashed onto my head, and panic surged through me.
Somehow, I found strength I didn’t know I had. I pushed him away, ran down the hallway screaming for help, and a neighbor opened her door and called the police. Moments later, smoke filled the hallway. My apartment was on fire.
Later, the police told me he had gone back inside and set multiple fires before being arrested.
That night, I huddled in a shelter with my children, the world outside still smoldering in my mind. The next day, we celebrated my third child’s birthday right there on the shelter floor. A small cake, a crown from the dollar store—simple, humble—but in that moment, she was a princess, and nothing could take that away.
As the flames consumed what had been our home, I felt a strange mix of shock, fear, and clarity. I had escaped. My children were safe. That was all that mattered. Everything else—our possessions, the apartment, the life I thought I had —had vanished, and yet for the first time in years, I felt something I hadn’t dared: freedom.
Not the triumphant kind, but a quiet, fragile freedom - born from nothing, yet unburned by fear. Free from control. Free from pain. Free to begin again.
After the building was renovated, I returned to the same apartment with my children. Finding a place so close to my school and the hospital, and suitable for myself and four children, had been difficult. The building management repainted the walls white, installed new appliances, and donations from my children’s school filled the apartment with necessities.
I remembered visiting right after the fire—everything blackened, covered in ashes, a haunting reminder of what had been lost. But now, with walls bright and clean, the space offered a new beginning. It gave me hope, a tangible chance to rebuild our lives—this time, with my children and me alone. I knew something had to change in all of us.
The fire came to destroy us, but instead of leaving us in ashes, we rose. We survived. I still wondered how I had found the strength to push that tall, heavy man away with my small body in that terrifying moment. It felt like an invisible power—God’s power—flowing through me.
In that moment of rebirth, I gave myself a new name: Ann McCoy.
Ann, meaning grace. McCoy, “son of fire.”
It was a name that embodied both survival and hope—a reminder that even through destruction, we can rise, endure, and begin again. I believed, with all my heart, that I was a child of God, saved by His grace.
Even amidst trauma, I discovered that the human spirit could endure, adapt, and grow. My experiences strengthened my resolve to pursue a meaningful life. I returned to my public health studies with renewed determination, understanding more deeply than ever the importance of safety, protection, and community. My dream of helping others—to ensure safe spaces, clean water, and secure playgrounds—became more personal, more urgent.
I also pursued my dream of helping people immigrate to Canada. I wanted to become an immigration consultant—a good one—to guide people who, like me, dared to hope, who dreamed of building a life in a new country. I wanted my story—of scams, setbacks, perseverance, and eventual success—to be proof that dreams could survive hardship and become reality.
#8. Mom and School
Managing school and four children felt like walking a tightrope in a storm. My youngest daughter, only five, had just started school and often fell ill. The phone would ring, and a voice from the office would ask me to come immediately. I wanted to run to her each time, but sometimes I couldn’t—I had to finish my classes first. The principal, kind and patient, kept her in the office until I arrived.
On the days she stayed home, I asked my eldest to miss school and care for her so I could attend exams or essential lectures. I hated the trade, but there was no other way.
Then came the calls from daycare. My son, they said, cried every day—more than six months. His tears drained the teachers, and they gently urged me to take him to see a doctor. I remember standing there, the phone pressed to my ear, my chest heavy with guilt and fatigue. I wanted to be in two places at once—to hold my children, to stay in class, to not fail either world.
#9. Practicum and Parry Sound
I pulled myself together as best I could. I dedicated myself to my studies, striving for the highest grades. My goal was to be selected for a student practicum position after graduation—a critical step toward writing the certification exam and launching my career. Every day was a balance of motherhood, survival, and ambition, but I refused to let circumstances define my limits.
I still remember what the professor said on the first day of class:
“Every year, more than two hundred students enter this program dreaming of becoming public health inspectors. But only a few will make it that far—to practicum, to the exam, to certification. You have to be the cream in the coffee.”
His words echoed in my mind long after the lecture ended.
The cream in the coffee.
I repeated it like a promise.
I would not sink. I would rise.
From that day on, I prepared myself to stand out—to be ready the moment opportunity knocked. I collected certificates, enrolled in extra courses, chased every chance that could set me apart. And then, the call came: a practicum placement in Parry Sound, far from Toronto. Distance meant nothing; I had earned this. Every late night, every obstacle, every painstaking step had led me here. This was the moment I had fought for.
But there was one problem—no one could care for my children. Not even for three months. I sat in silence, the letter of employment in my hands, the weight of it both thrilling and unbearable. Finally, I made my choice. I would go—and they would come with me.
We packed our lives into the car and drove for hours until the city lights disappeared. We stayed in a small roadside motel, four of us squeezed into one room with the hum of the air conditioner filling the silence. The oldest hadn’t joined us yet; she wanted to finish her high school term—just one month remained.
For a month, we lived between hope and exhaustion. I enrolled the children in a nearby school, knowing it would only be for a few weeks before summer vacation. Each morning, I dropped them off, then drove to my practicum—heart split between two worlds, but moving forward all the same.
That is how my journey beyond Toronto—the bustling city I had called home for fifteen years, never once stepping beyond its borders—began: not with comfort or ease, but with faith, necessity, and a stubborn belief that we would make it.
Things were different in Parry Sound—a town of fewer than seven thousand people—especially after years in Toronto, where more than three million lived shoulder to shoulder. Life felt slower, quieter, almost gentle. The scenery was beautiful in a way I had long forgotten to notice: lakes shimmering under the morning sun, trees rustling as if whispering secrets, parks just minutes away instead of a long commute. There weren’t many choices—one grocery store, a handful of restaurants, nothing fancy. But for the first time, enough truly felt enough.
My children discovered a new kind of joy. They swam in the lake on warm summer afternoons, their laughter echoing as minnows brushed their feet. In winter, they carved snow angels into fresh powder and shoveled the backyard with tiny red shovels, proud of every scoop. Watching them, I felt something unfamiliar: peace. For the first time, I could give them a childhood free from the relentless pace of the city—not because of money, but because life in Toronto had demanded so much of me. Here, we finally breathed.
I sat for the exam, and two months later, the results arrived.
I hovered over the inbox, hand trembling. One click. Everything could change. When I finally opened it, the words hit me like a stone: I had failed.
For a long moment, I stared at the screen. Six months of work—moving out of the city, bringing the children with me, watching them say goodbye to friends—erased in a single sentence. There was no extension this time; they needed someone already certified. I understood, but it still hurt. After finally feeling settled, it was as if the ground had shifted beneath me. That night, after the children fell asleep, I cried quietly. I was tired, but not broken. Giving up had never been an option. I reminded myself why I had come this far: for my children, for a better life, for the version of myself I was still striving to become.
#10. Ottawa — Persistence and Triumph
Life in that small town had left me feeling lost. The inspector position I had hoped for was already filled, and without purpose, I felt trapped. So I packed up my children and moved to Ottawa, Canada’s capital, seeking a wider horizon and another chance to try.
The city took my breath away. Historic buildings rose proudly along wide avenues, each stone whispering the story of a nation. As I wandered those streets, awe and determination welled up inside me—this was a place of possibility, and I was ready to claim it.
Days in Ottawa were a rhythm of contrasts. By morning, the city buzzed with energy—buses rattling along streets lined with stone buildings, tourists snapping photos of Parliament Hill, the scent of fresh coffee drifting from corner cafés. By night, our small apartment was quiet, lit only by a desk lamp where I poured over notes and scenarios, my children asleep nearby.
The work was exhausting, but every challenge sharpened my resolve. I remembered the names of diseases causing foodborne illnesses, visualized outbreak scenarios, and imagined myself navigating inspections with calm authority. I practiced mock interviews in the kitchen while stirring dinner, recorded questions to play in the car, and recited answers aloud as if an examiner were beside me. My son became my partner in preparation, quizzing me so I could answer with clarity and conviction. Sometimes I stumbled, frustrated by tricky scenarios or forgotten details. But Ottawa reminded me why I was here—the city seemed to pulse with opportunity. Failure was temporary, as long as I kept moving forward. My children watched my persistence, their curiosity mingling with my own determination, creating a small world where we were all learning, growing, striving together.
By the time the exam approached again, I was no longer just studying—I was embodying the role I had dreamed of, confident that when the moment came, I would answer not only with knowledge but with poise and presence, forged through sleepless nights and repetition.
And still—I failed again.
The second failure burned, but it sharpened me. I learned what I had missed, corrected what I misunderstood, and kept going.
Finally, I passed.
The day I saw the word successful on the screen, my knees almost gave out. I had done it. Not quickly. Not easily. But honestly—through hard work, persistence, and faith.
#11. Northern Journey
Finally, it happened. I was offered a job—a real job—as a certified Public Health Inspector. It was the moment I had been chasing since arriving in Canada, after the heartbreak of immigration fraud. I had vowed that one day I would become a good immigration consultant—a person of integrity and resilience—proving that dreams could be reclaimed.
With that certification and job offer in hand, I applied to Queen’s University’s Immigration, Citizenship, and Law program—and I was accepted. I had waited for this moment, not because I doubted my ambition, but because I wanted to become living proof of resilience and success. I wanted my story to be more than words. People believe what has been lived, tested, and overcome. And now, at last, I could speak from that truth.
The job, however, was a six-month contract—far from where I had completed my practicum and even farther from where my children were living. I couldn’t uproot them again. They had settled into school, made friends, and begun to feel safe. I couldn’t take that away—not after everything they had endured.
So I went alone.
Every Saturday, before sunrise, I drove five hours to see them. I carried groceries, laundry, meals for the week, and all the love I could gather. I hugged them tightly, fixed what needed fixing, and watched their smiles until it was time to leave. On Sunday evenings, I drove back through icy roads, storms, and fatigue. Five hours each way. Yet the road never felt long. It never felt dangerous. My heart only knew two directions: toward my children, and back to my work. I stretched between two worlds, fragile yet unyielding, because a mother moves forward, even when the road is dark.
When the six-month contract ended, I found another—still temporary, but closer. Closer to my children, closer to home. I moved down south again, reunited with them, able to attend school events, doctor’s appointments, and quiet evenings together. The road still existed, but now it no longer divided us.
The extended contract eventually ended, but it marked the beginning of a new chapter—an extraordinary life in the North, the farthest north I had ever gone.
This time, it was a permanent, full-time position as an Environmental Health Officer—another, fancier name for a public health inspector. The job was in Yellowknife, the capital of the Northwest Territories, and all moving costs, including airfare, were covered.
Twenty years earlier, I had crossed the Pacific Ocean—fourteen hours in the air, chasing a new life. Compared to that journey, a five-hour flight from Toronto felt like nothing at all. Deep inside, I believed something greater than a job was waiting for me in the North—something invisible, unspoken, but powerful. And until I went there myself and discovered it with my own eyes, it would remain unknown. I wanted to write my story myself—not rely on tales from those who failed, or anyone with a negative experience.
By then, my eldest had begun university, and I moved with the younger three, finally settling in a place that felt truly ours. After moving twelve times in twenty years since coming to Canada, I had finally arrived—home.
#12. Lifelong Dream
The sky stretched wide and endless—pale gold at dawn, blazing pink at sunset—a vast canvas above the frozen expanse. For months, snow had blanketed the earth, crisp and untouched, glittering beneath the faint northern sun. The air was sharp, exhilarating, a reminder that life, like this land, could be both wild and boundless.
Amid the vast northern wilderness, I saw not desolation, but possibility—a quiet, expansive invitation to grow, to give, and to help shape communities capable of welcoming the world. Surrounded by stillness and light, I realized a lifelong dream: I had become a regulated Canadian immigration consultant—someone who understands life’s struggles and who would fight for others with the same fierce determination she once summoned for herself. Each night, as the Northern Lights danced across the Arctic sky, that dream flared anew—brighter, stronger, alive with possibility. In that frozen expanse, I felt both humbled and unstoppable, ready to help this wilderness flourish alongside people from every corner of the globe.
I am ready now. Ready to meet people from every corner of the world. Ready to share my story—a story of resilience, courage, and hope. Ready to guide them to the opportunities that await in Canada’s North: six months of darkness and cold, yet full of possibility, a place where one can truly become who they aspire to be. I will fight for those brave enough to face the challenges, lift them up, and help them step boldly into the life they've imagined.
Tunisia became my first overseas destination to launch my career—a place without a regulated Canadian immigration consultant on the ground, served only by a handful of agents. Across the shimmering Mediterranean, Europe beckons, while curiosity and longing stretch beyond the horizon, much as they did for me on Jeju Island, where I first learned that adventure begins at the edge of the familiar.
I want to meet them—the dreamers, the adventurers—those for whom frozen landscapes hold no fear, who take pride in nurturing a community and helping it flourish. I want to show them what I see in this land brimming with opportunity: a place where courage and curiosity can shape lives.
To anyone daring to dream, I say this: the road may be rough, the journey uncertain—but the reward can be life-changing. The world is vast, full of stories waiting to be written. Yours is one of them.