When I arrived in South Korea, I was carrying fear with me, but I hid it. I thought I was simply starting a new chapter: a new country, new experiences, a new version of myself. But what I didn’t understand at the time was that I hadn’t left anything behind. And little by little, that fear began to grow. What I had experienced before the trip didn’t remain just a memory. It evolved.
It became something more intrusive.
Being around men became threatening, not because of who they were, but because of how my mind had learned to interpret them. I searched about it on internet and called androphobia, since it was a constant internal reaction. My body would tense up. My thoughts would race. I felt the need to stay alert, to protect myself, even in situations that were completely safe. However, I didn’t externalize that fear; I learned not to act from it.
Living in Korea intensified everything I was already feeling. I went through emotional experiences that left marks, especially in relationships: breakups, feeling like I wasn’t being taken seriously, feeling used. Each of those moments added another layer to the fear I was already carrying. At the same time, a new fear appeared: the fear of contracting a sexually transmitted disease. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it became something constant that lived in the back of my mind, reinforcing my need to keep my distance.
Little by little, I began to isolate myself.
Not only from men, but from emotional connection altogether. At the same time, I started to feel attraction toward my own gender, which caused me shame and distress. I kept asking myself: how is it possible that I’m attracted to someone of my own gender? I panicked. I didn’t know how to deal with these new emotions.
Every time I was in public spaces, I felt exposed — as if everyone was looking at me, judging me, analyzing me. Even when nothing was happening, my mind created this constant feeling of being watched. It was exhausting. I couldn’t simply exist in a space without feeling perceived.
That was when social anxiety began to appear.
Everyday life became overwhelming. Simple things like being in a classroom, walking down the street, or sitting on public transportation started to feel like challenges. Not because of the environment itself, but because of what was happening inside me. My mind was constantly trying to anticipate danger. My body reacted as if something was wrong.
All of this led me to isolate myself, because isolation gave me something I couldn’t find anywhere else: peace, a sense of stillness in my body and mind. Avoiding people felt safer. Keeping my distance felt easier. But at the same time, it was also loneliness. I believe that if Morita hadn’t been there to support me and explain that what I was going through was social anxiety, I wouldn’t have been able to tell my sister what was happening to me.
Because of Morita, I realized I wasn’t the only one — she was going through it too. Over the years, I also understood that other girls who traveled to Korea returned to their countries with certain fears, with some level of social phobia, or with anxieties and reactions that didn’t seem “normal.” Unfortunately, no one talks about this openly. And that’s when I realized that even in isolation, I wasn’t completely alone. There are more women living with these internal fears and anxieties.
At that stage, I still didn’t fully understand what was happening to me. I didn’t have clear answers. I didn’t have a diagnosis. I didn’t have tools. I only had the feeling that something inside me had changed, and that I was trying to adapt to a version of life that no longer felt natural.
marimo 