Epilogue: Life Changes As Much As You Believe

After that turbulent period, I sat for the board exams and finally became a surgeon. Ironically, the very professor who had stood against us during the strike graciously guided my thesis, enabling me to finish. When I left the hospital, I chose a different road: I became a public servant. Today I work as the Director of Health Promotion at the Haeundae Public Health Center.

People often ask me: why give up the income of a surgeon for the modest salary of civil service? Until now, I usually dodged the question. But perhaps it is time to tell the truth. I chose this path because I could not serve in the military.

I was born in a fortunate country, and because of that I survived. Had I been born elsewhere with my congenital heart disease, I might not have lived. I wanted to give something back. For me, as a young man, that meant military service—sharing the duty my peers all carried. But because of my surgery, I was barred from enlistment. That exclusion weighed on me, and in the end it pushed me toward public service.

And in that world I found something unexpected. These days I help run a program called Mobile Healthcare, where smartphones and wearables support patients at risk of chronic disease. We are also preparing an ICT Health Management Service for Seniors, extending the same idea to older adults. More recently, while operating COVID-19 testing sites, I studied how to deliver safe telemedicine for patients in isolation.

So, once again, I find myself circling back to my dream of telemedicine—the dream embedded in my very name, Seung-Keon, which means “to connect health.” A decade ago, I tried to pursue it with a small startup of twelve employees, but reality forced me to let it go. Perhaps both my surgical training and my public career were part of that same journey, providing what I once lacked: real clinical experience and a structured organization.

It has been a long road since the boy with heart disease first looked out a hospital window toward the medical library. Now I am nearly forty, at the turning point of life if one is lucky enough to live to the average span.

For years, I doubted whether my life was worth writing about. A book, I thought, was for those who had made a contribution, left a mark. My life seemed ordinary, personal. When a publisher first approached me, I hesitated. But then I thought of my daughter. Perhaps a book could be a gift to her, a record of my journey. That was reason enough.

I have tried to live without shame. To be warm when warmth was needed, firm when firmness was called for. To be gentle with the weak, yet to stand unflinching against the strong. As a doctor, a father, a son, a boss—I tried never to be cruel, but never to be servile either.

Of course, I was not always right. Some choices brought pride, others regret. But if these records can help my daughter in any way, then they are worth sharing. And so I wrote—quietly, honestly—and three themes emerged.

First, a life of learning. Every stress in life begins in ignorance—not knowing what to do about health, career, money, or relationships. The surest relief is to learn. Even when things seem fine, there is always a better way, if only we know it. And no one is infallible: teachers, priests, doctors, even parents can be wrong. To accept that is part of learning. Criticism need not mean conflict; emotion can be separated from response. Above all, learning means valuing experiences over possessions. Things fade; lessons remain.

Second, a life of rising again. We do not choose every trial—my illness at birth was never my choice. Complaints change nothing, so I resolved to live without regret. And doors slowly opened. Yet sometimes quitting is the braver choice, clearing space for greater leaps. True weakness is not surrender, but clinging to illusions. Even in despair, the past reminds us: a year ago, none of this was predictable. So a year from now, who knows? The only foolish choice is to end everything.

Third, a life of gratitude. Every day I live in the shelter built by others, eat food grown by others. Even the doctor is “helped” by the patient, for without patients there is no doctor at all. Gratitude, in the end, benefits ourselves most of all. We cannot decide whether others thank us, but we can decide to thank them. That choice alone makes life lighter.

Looking back, I see the storms of my life as gifts. I am grateful for what I learned, grateful I could rise, grateful even for the painful winds that forced me to grow. Writing this book has been a way of looking at my life from above, like the great patterns carved into the Nazca desert—clear only at a distance. The message I see is this: life changes as much as you believe.

If you choose to learn, life is full of lessons. If you choose to rise, even despair cannot pin you down. If you choose gratitude, every moment becomes a blessing. If this book gives my daughter even those three truths, I will have asked for nothing more.

Soon I will take her, now six years old, to our neighborhood bookstore. We will wander as always through the children’s section, browsing, laughing. Then, almost casually, I will lead her to the shelf where my own book rests. I will take one copy, hand it to her, and say, “This is the book I wrote for you.” We will carry it home, and I will place it on the living room shelf where she can always see it.

Someday, when she is angry with me and won’t speak, or when she longs for my advice after I am gone, the book will be there. She will open it, and find in it reminders of learning, resilience, and gratitude. She will remember that life changes as much as she believes—and feel how thrilling her own life can be.

Haeundae, Autumn 2020