Between Two Worlds

📬 Letter #1 What happened when I almost became a monk.

“So… this is my first intense practice of Anapanasati… the life… It feels like a tangled, chaotic web that has been accumulating for centuries. Is nirvana the only way out of this recurring cycle, this dukkha?”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”

It was my seventh day in a very isolated meditation centre in Geochang, Korea. The final day. Before returning to my daily life in Canada as a lost wanderer trying to build a global impact career, I felt I needed to ask something—anything—to a master nun and report how my meditation journey went. I wanted one more insight before stepping back into the world.

She barely answered. After lunch, an assistant nun approached me in noble silence and slipped me a handwritten note: “Master nun requests a tea meeting with you. 1:45 p.m. in the tea room.”

Pu’er tea, dark brown yet crystal clear, brewed in silence. One sip and I knew immediately: medicine-level quality.

“So what do you do in your secular life?” she asked.

“I run a social enterprise supporting mental wellbeing for youth, women, and minorities globally. Recently I’ve been doing more work in Africa. And I help the Jogye Order with a couple of their projects—the annual conference and expo.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Very much. This has been my dream… though it’s never been easy.”

“Do you make good money?”

“I can pay for my lifestyle.”

She smiled quietly and refilled my cup.

“Why don’t you become an official nun? You wouldn’t need to think about profit. Just focus on the good work. Fewer distractions than the ones you’re struggling with now. Be a great spiritual leader, not just a businesswoman.”

My inner jaw dropped. Why me? Does she know me at all? Does she actually see something?

But a surprising part of me felt convinced. I could already picture myself: shaved head, grey robe, somewhere in Africa or a retreat centre, living a simple monastic life. Four hours of tea pushed me onto the fence between two very different worlds: the secular and the sacred.

“Thank you,” I said. “Give me some time. I’ll first join the one-month retreat next year and learn more about the world I’d be entering.”

It felt too natural. Too organic. Like something that was arriving on its own timeline.

The decision weighed heavily, but it was also as if it had already been made. I called my accountant and then my lawyer.

“Hey Omer… I think I need to close my business. Family issue. I need to go back to Korea for a few years.”

…

I’ve always believed in the inner work. And there was a vivid memory of me looking up at the sky on a crisp, shiny day with a feeling I had never felt before. The strong feeling of happiness and freedom—just a very slim sliver lining through my mind.

7:30 a.m., wearing my uniform and walking out the door, deep breath in and out. I remembered a line in a textbook I read the other day at school during ethics class: “Happiness is on you. You create your own happiness; you create your own misery.”

Something in me lit up. That tiny thought made my whole morning feel lighter and freer. That was my first taste of Buddhist insight—simple, clear, and utterly transformative.

So when the nun asked me if I would become a monk, something old in me remembered.

“Are you really going to do this?” my family asked.

“I think so,” I said.

My sister burst into tears—loud, uncontrollable sobbing that echoed through the house. She cried that day, the next day, and until the next month.

“Why do you have to do this? You won’t be my best friend anymore.”

“No… this is a good path for your sister. Let’s send her with blessings.”

My mom tried to comfort her, but her voice trembled, and her tears fell steadily.

In Korean culture, becoming a nun is considered dramatic. Legit dramatic. You don’t just move into a temple. You don’t just shave your head. You don’t just change occupations.
You die.

Your identity in the secular world dissolves: parents, siblings, partners, friends, clients—those relationships transform completely. You let go of everything familiar. Who you are and what made you who you are has to disappear.

I didn’t know if I could manage that. I didn’t even know what it really meant to die and be reborn as a monk. No one knew what I was signing up for. Maybe even I didn’t.

Mid-April 2025, I returned to the meditation centre—this time in a postulant robe, with a shaved head.

Every time I glimpsed my reflection, I cringed.
Yikes. I fucking really did it.

Shaving my head felt symbolic, cleansing, wildly freeing. The lightness, the relief, the release of attachment—this was Buddhism made physical.

There were 11 of us. One month. Wake up at 4 a.m., end the day at 9 p.m. Communal work on the farm and in the kitchen, across all sectors of the retreat centre’s property. About six hours of meditation daily. Theravada lectures and study. And a daily duty of cleaning the public toilets, where I was assigned for a month. No phone, no internet, no privacy. Just the inner search and the people walking beside me.

In a large meditation room turned into our shared room, each of us had a foldable mattress and a tiny desk. On the wall: a 30-day calendar. I crossed each day with a mixture of confusion and hope, between doubts of “Is this the right path?” and the hope of “Almost done, I will be back to life.” Some days, I leaned one degree toward secular life. On others, especially during moments of deep silence, I leaned toward the monastic path.

I missed my workouts, running, and casual coffee shop rituals more than anything else. The small things. The ordinary joys. With closed or open eyes, I could vividly see and feel the breeze by the lake and the city of Toronto where I walked daily.

In dreams, I met everyone I missed—family, pets, men I once cared for (or still do today). I could see how deeply I was attached to the warmth of hugs, touch, belonging, connection.
God, I missed them.
But I kept returning to breath and awareness.

Could I really let go of all those good sensations and attachments?
Should I just return to business?
Why did I shut everything down so suddenly? I could have paused the company. That would’ve been smarter.

But then another voice:
It doesn’t matter whether you’re a monk or a layperson. You can do good in both paths. You can live both well. Maybe you really can become a great monk.

Fuck it. Let’s try living this life.

My decision was bold, but inside I felt like a newborn—vulnerable, alone, stripped of every identity I’d ever known. I cried constantly. Sitting down, standing up, closing my eyes—tears came every time.

“It’s okay,” I whispered to myself. “Be sad only until tomorrow. You’ll be okay.”

A few days later, I randomly opened the biography of the Buddha and landed on the story of Siddhattha Gotama facing his own choice. He could have become a great king, united kingdoms, and been remembered as a legendary leader. A secular hero. A transformative force.

But he chose the path of non-attachment because he saw clearly that even “good work” can still carry dukkha and tanhā. Even noble ambitions can bind you, trap you, inflate the identity. He walked away out of deep understanding.

Reading that hit me sharply. I wasn’t Siddhattha, obviously. But I recognized the same tension: two worlds calling me, both meaningful, both with possibility for impact. One promising effectiveness and influence. The other promising liberation from all of it.

And maybe that was the true dilemma: not which world to choose, but whether I had the courage to meet myself honestly in either world.

Ajahn Brahm kept whispering in my head:
“It doesn’t matter which one. What matters is what you do next. Any decision is good. No matter which direction you choose, it’s okay. The important part is the next step: what you do after the decision. Don’t waste your energy obsessing over choosing the ‘right’ side. Save it for navigating wisely what comes next.”

So I stopped trying to be a person who picks perfectly. I stopped trying to be a person who must justify her choices to family, to community, to my businesses, to the women and youth I serve globally, or even to myself.

I made the decision that felt truest for that moment in time.
And then I decided to trust myself with the next steps.

The loneliness didn’t vanish magically. The path didn’t suddenly become radiant with answers. But something inside became steadier. Quieter.

I realized that major decisions don’t require perfect certainty. They require presence. They require a willingness to live with the unfolding.

Any path is workable. Any path can become meaningful.
The question is not “Which world do you choose?”
The real question is: “How will you walk the one you chose? Are you sincerely present on that path, in that moment?”

And that, I think, is where the freedom begins.