Hyon-Woo grew up in a small town in the southern region of Korea. Her parents had always expected their two daughters would go to university. When Hyon-Woo secured a place for an engineering degree in Seoul, they were thrilled. “They were so proud of having a daughter, going to capital city, getting into [a] good university, [a] good major,” Hyon-Woo told me. “They thought that my future is guaranteed.” Hyon-Woo, however, was miserable after she moved to Seoul. She didn't enjoy her course and she felt out of place, like an “awkward country-girl”. The other students were obsessed, she said, with make-up, high heels and dating the “right” boys. Her classmates’ desires and imaginations of their future mirrored the expectations of Hyon-Woo's family: “Follow the mainstream … you have to go to university and then you have to get a job, married before 30, kids before 30 and all that.” Hyon-Woo ached for something different, but she wasn't yet sure what that was. She left her engineering course without graduating. Her mother and father were shocked and angry. Hyon-Woo thought to herself, “In that case, I’m going to go as far as possible so you can't say anything to me.” Australia as a destination was simply a pragmatic decision. A working holiday visa was relatively easy to get. The Korean won was, at the time, quite strong against the Australian dollar, so Hyon-Woo thought she could survive in Australia for some time on her savings, and more importantly, “It was really far away from Korea and totally different.” Hyon-Woo arrived in Melbourne with only basic competency in English in 2006. She checked into a backpacker hostel and started to explore the city. She thought she would give it at least six months and try to think about what she wanted to do next.

When I met Hyon-Woo, now in her early thirties, for coffee in Melbourne in 2015, it was nine years since her arrival. She was casually dressed in jeans and trainers, carrying a backpack, her hair cropped short.