Understanding my father
Searching for my father
In the fall of 2022, shortly before my father passed away, I visited Korea. I wanted to see my parents in the beautiful autumn weather, and I hoped to express my gratitude and love once more before it was too late. I did not know at the time that his passing was so close. During that visit, I also arranged meetings with some of his former colleagues. I wanted to hear from them who my father was in their eyes.
Each colleague remembered him differently, as if each held a tile in a larger mosaic.
Sukon Kim, who had worked on his strategy team at Samsung Corning, called him detail oriented and strategic. He remembered a rare moment when my father apologized for not giving him more attention. Others found him intimidating, but Sukon said he always felt trusted. Listening, I could almost see my father’s careful smile, the one so often hidden at home.
His longtime assistant, Choong Pyo, described his discipline as almost mechanical — waking at five, heading to the gym, repeating the routine for four decades. Then he brightened, recalling how much my father loved noodles, especially 칼국수 (Kal-Gook-Soo), the hearty thick cut noodle soup in beef or clam broth with zucchini and clams.
Another colleague, KyungHwa Chung, called him 모범생 (Mo-Beom-Saeng) — the model student. Professional, attentive, unlike many of his peers in senior leadership. In his forties and fifties he was strict, even feared, with sharp eyes and exacting standards. Later he mellowed, more willing to accept those who fell short. When I told him about my own shift into executive coaching, he smiled and said he could see the resemblance. On many occasions, he said, my father had been a great coach too.
I also met HyunJin Jeon, who had worked as his secretary for seven years while he was CEO of Samsung Corning. She described him as meticulous, demanding, and earnest. She remembered him as a man of few words and great consistency. He didn’t share much of his emotions. She said he brought her small gifts when he returned from business trips.
From the company’s perspective, he was a champion of change. He had turned divisions like cell phones, construction, SDI, and Samsung Corning into growth businesses. I still picture him traveling to China to negotiate with government officials, or sitting in an American courtroom during a legal dispute with a competitor. Grueling, yes, but those battles seemed to energize him.
Pieced together, I saw a composite I had never fully known: strategist, model leader, intimidating executive — and a man who savored noodles with delight.
His life and career
He was born in 1945, the year World War II ended and Korea was freed from thirty five hard years of Japanese colonization. When the Korean War broke out, he was five years old. His family fled south as many did. His oldest brother and sister were left behind in the North. Or they voluntarily stayed behind, nobody really knows. From then on, no one ever knew if they are alive or living well in North Korea where there is no mail or human connections are possible. I first heard that story in my teenage years, told almost matter of factly.
Like most families in the late forties and fifties, they often lacked food. He and his brothers joked that they sometimes ate worms they found in the street for protein. At the dinner table his older brothers would tease him, flying their spoons like airplanes and landing on his bowl to steal his food. The story always made me laugh and wince at the same time.
During his military service in the sixties, his commander quietly sent him off base because the unit needed money for supplies. He was one of the few college students, so he earned cash by tutoring high school students. It was an early glimpse of the resourcefulness that would mark his career. He also shared he was beaten and hazed by his army seniors.
Korea in the fifties was among the poorest countries in the world. By the seventies the message was simple. Sacrifice and grow. For his generation, individual effort in service of national progress felt unquestionable.
After graduating college and finishing military service, he joined 제일 모직 (Cheil Industries) in 1971, a Samsung company, and he stayed within the Samsung group until retiring in 2007. After some years working in accounting, he worked in human resources at the Chairman’s office building the entire Samsung group level training programs and overseeing executive reviews & promotions, then moved to Samsung Corporation where he led teams that exported Korean clothing to global markets. Years later, when I visited the United States, he told me how he used to walk through Sears and J C Penney to become a OEM manufacturer for their brands and open up shelf space in the US. It was his way of learning the market directly.
He rose quickly. At forty he became vice president of human resources at Samsung Electronics. Later he headed the entire cell phone division when wireless technology was going through a platform competition. I remember riding in his car and seeing five different brick sized cell phones scattered around the console. He would test calls on each one, comparing signal and voice quality of different wireless technology as if the car were a small lab. After that he served as CEO of Samsung SDI, where he helped steer the company away from liquid crystal display (LCD) panels toward lithium ion batteries. Today that battery business is known worldwide. Back then it looked like a risky turn that demanded conviction.
He spent his longest stretch at Samsung Corning, a 50-50 joint venture with Corning Incorporated. He saw that cathode ray tube (CRT) glass would not last as flat panels took over. He tried to pivot the company into new lines, but Corning did not back further investment. For them the venture still threw off cash. For him it was a community of people whose livelihoods were at stake. In my late twenties I watched Corning dissolve the old venture and create a new one for LCD glass. I understood the shareholder logic. I also felt my father’s heartbreak.
He once shared an episode with an American counterpart. For a top executive’s visit to Korea, he and his team carefully searched for a restaurant that would showcase Korean cuisine and hospitality. When the guest arrived, the first thing he asked was whether he could have steak for a meal. My father must have been disappointed — he repeated this story many times. I have been using this episode, in my cross cultural facilitations, as how we can be better in trust building through relationships. Still, he was proud to represent Samsung and the joint venture during that period, hosting and attending C-level summits and leading critical and contentious negotiations.
Memory of him when I was young
When I was in grade school, my father was very busy. Most evenings he came home late, and weekends were often filled with golf or work. When I was young, I wanted to spend more time with him. I don’t know why (I wasn’t really a baseball kid) but I had a fantasy of playing catchballs in a narrow space between apartment complexes. We did it only once or twice. When he traveled for business, he brought back gifts — toy cars, other fancy toys, and CDs I had asked for. I always looked forward to those.
I do not recall him sharing or repeating any specific life lessons like being kind, contributing to the world, or helping others — the kinds of things people often mention when remembering their parents’ teachings. His specific words I remembered are more connected to how to work successfully at corporate Korea.
If I had to sum him up in three words, I would say competitor, strategist, and romanticist. His work and career defined him more than anything.
He didn’t often share life lessons directly, but there are a few I still remember: “주도면밀(周到綿密)
해야한다” (be thorough and meticulous at work), “be aggressive,” “have a can-do attitude,” and “family is important” Beyond those, most of his lessons came not in words but in actions.
He worked tirelessly. Work came before family. At that time in Korea, when the nation was rebuilding, this was seen as necessary. His company, Samsung, contributed significantly to that growth, and he gave it his all. I respect this. At the same time, I see it differently for myself: his example led me to swing more toward family and meaning in life. As a college kid, I didn’t know what “happiness” really meant, but I used the word as a contrast to his life. Dad, I’m sorry for the sarcasm and for not understanding you better.
It’s not that he didn’t show kindness though. His kindness was supporting his extended family. He felt deep responsibility in helping his siblings, mom’s siblings, nieces and nephews. Like many other Koreans, maybe, he had a strong sense of protecting his family. Many of his nephews and nieces—perhaps almost all of this large family - got significant help in getting their jobs, like I was able to get into the finance team at Samsung. He provided financial support for his siblings, and for my mother’s side of the family, for many years. He wanted my brother and me to be close with our cousins. At family gatherings, he often gave tough-love advice, which was not always well received, but came from his sense of responsibility.
When I applied for college, I did not think much about my choice of major. Most students had to declare a major when applying. I vaguely assumed I would work for a company like my father, so “business administration” seemed natural. I ended up choosing economics because it was slightly easier to get into with my exam scores. I knew nothing about economics.
In the early 1990s, psychotherapy was not well known in Korea. I saw a notice on the student center bulletin board and decided to try it. I talked about my relationship with my father. I do not remember the details, but I know I spoke about how to manage his expectations of me. The interesting thing is that I do not recall him saying very specific things about how I should live or what job I should take. And yet, I felt pressure.
In my last two years of college, I studied for the CPA exam. I do not know exactly why. Preparing took almost two years. I was not very interested in or good at accounting. It just seemed logical to pursue some qualification. Honestly, I knew I was not working hard enough and would not succeed. But I wanted to show others that I was doing something for my career. Why didn’t I explore other career paths — talking to people in different fields, joining career clubs, trying different things? Looking back, I think I was naïve. And unconsciously, I probably believed I would end up in a corporate role like my father.
Father - son relationship as adults
The same pattern followed me into my first job search. I applied for Samsung Electronics after two failures at the CPA exam. Samsung Electronics was the most prestigious company in Korea, and my father worked within the Samsung group. I did not even consider applying anywhere else. I was placed in the headquarters corporate finance team, the treasury department, where we manage cashflow internally and worked closely with banks and other financial institutions. It was not too far from the economics major I chose. Many new hires coveted a role in the headquarters finance team, and I was fortunate that my father’s influence helped me secure it. The CFO, head of all corporate finance of the company, had once been my father’s direct report.
During my time at Samsung Electronics, I wanted to talk openly with my father about the company’s culture, and about Korean work culture in general. I remember asking, “Why do managers use corporate credit cards to buy lunch for their colleagues almost every day?” I also wondered about unreasonable requests from superiors and the automatic obedience to them. At Samsung, annual performance reviews were less about honest feedback and more about politics — a way to promote someone strategically. I tried to talk to my father about these things, but he was not open. He probably knew many of the flaws himself, but after more than thirty years in the system, I am guessing, it was difficult for him to criticize. I could not understand then why a father would not want to be open with his son about these life inconsistencies even if that could be being vulnerable. I did not realize how deeply he had assimilated into that culture and how powerful losing face could mean by being vulnerable.
In college and early in my career, I used to say that my goal was to “be happy.” I wanted to work fewer hours than he did. Maybe what I really wanted to ask was, “Are you happy?” Years later, when I left Samsung, he looked at me and said with sarcasm, “Are you trying to be happy?”
Leaving Samsung and moving to the United States felt like swinging away from his influence.
I see the same swing in others. A client once told me he worked ambitiously because he thought his father was not ambitious enough — choosing family over career. His father, in turn, had chosen family after watching his own father devote everything to work. Three generations swinging back and forth: overwork, then underwork, then overwork again.
That is the paradox. When we resist our parents, we often remain tied to them, just in reverse. Filial piety tells us to honor them. Overcorrection binds us just as tightly.
After retirement and diagnosis of Parkinson’s
In 2007, when he was 62, my father retired from Samsung. Or rather, the company moved him from President and CEO of Samsung Corning into an adviser role, a path often used for executives at that level. People said this was how Samsung prevented senior leaders from taking their knowledge and networks to another company. For three years he received a substantial salary but had very little to do.
I do not know exactly when or how he first received the news, but in my memory he was surprised as if he was blindsided. It would not have shocked me if he first learned about his successor by reading it in a newspaper article, the same way some of his earlier promotions had been announced. For a man who had lived his life in ten-minute blocks, suddenly having nothing to do was a shock. To say he was unprepared for retirement would be an understatement. Has he ever imagined how to plan for his days when he has no work to do when his whole life was planning for companies’ future - distant and long-term future?
Coincidentally, that same year I also left Samsung, after eight years with the company. I flew to Brisbane, Australia, where he was enjoying a golf trip, to share the news with him. I remember being more worried about how he would react than about the decision itself. I remember him being concerned about me and my future. I hoped that he would cheer for me.
I asked if he would consider working for another company or taking a teaching role at a university. Within two or three months of doing essentially nothing, he was already bored. But he rejected the idea. He told me he could not work for another company because it would look as if they were taking advantage of his former position as CEO of a Samsung affiliate. I could understand his loyalty, his sense of pride, and his fear of losing face by using his connections, not his knowledge, wisdom, and leadership. At the same time, I could not help but notice that many of his former colleagues found ways to continue working in later life — in academia, in advisory boards, or in more relaxed roles where they still carried influence.
Around that time, my brother told me he had decided to divorce. He asked how he should break the news to our parents. I could see the pain he was in and how desperate he felt. When he finally told them, my parents were shocked and upset. I said I would support his decision, and my father exploded, saying, “You are not my son.” I think he was more upset with me than with my brother. What disappointed me most was that both my parents seemed more concerned with social impact and how they would explain the divorce to extended family and friends than with my brother’s pain. From their perspective, this was one of the most devastating losses of face a family could endure in Korean society, and for them it was unbearable. But the truth of the matter was the divorce rate in Korea was one of the highest in the world. People were just not sharing this news with anyone. My mother still says that those were the hardest years of her life. In time, they came to understand my brother’s situation and supported him. But they did not share the news openly for a long time, not even with close friends.
Only two years after his retirement, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. My parents had dreamed of traveling in retirement, but those dreams ended quickly. Looking back, we think the disease may already have been affecting him in his final years at Samsung.
He refused to let others know. Illness, to him, signaled weakness. Instead, he carried the same mindset that had guided his career: “I can do it.” He told us, “The doctor said regular, rigorous exercise can slow the progress. I will work so hard that I can live as long as if I didn’t have the disease.” Every morning, he repeated his affirmation: 나는 할 수 있어 — I can do it.
Collapse
Since our family moved to Boston in 2008, our connections with my parents became more sparse, technically harder, and often misunderstood. My father’s voice grew softer, and the kids couldn’t make out his words on video calls. We were not truly connected. I visited Korea three or four times a year for work and saw my parents during those trips. On those visits, my father often shared his envy of friends whose children lived nearby and visited regularly.
In 2013, I was offered a job that would take our family back to Korea for three to four years, managing the Korean branch of a U.S. company. It was a huge career opportunity—a chance to act as a kind of mini-CEO for a business unit. But for my wife, it felt like a crisis.
For more than ten years of marriage she had struggled with my parents, though distance in the United States had kept the pressure bearable. Preparing to live in Korea again meant facing them regularly, and the thought became unbearable. One day, she told me she would no longer meet or talk with my parents.
From her perspective, she had been constantly asked, pressured, and talked down to by my parents: “When can we have a grandchild?” “Why don’t you teach your kids more Korean?” “The trees around your house look dangerous—why don’t you cut them?” “Why don’t you prepare really good gifts for so-and-so’s birthday?” She felt suffocated by the impossibility of saying anything other than yes. I had not realized how helpless and hurt she felt, because in front of my parents she was always cheerful and agreeable.
I knew she carried some resentment, but I had no idea how heavy it was. At first I couldn’t understand. “Don’t all Korean parents ask those kinds of things?” I thought. “Isn’t it just part of the game, where you nod, then quietly do what you think is best?” For me, it was a game. For her, it was real pain. She stopped answering their video calls and told me she would neither explain herself nor see them once we moved.
My parents, meanwhile, were overjoyed at my family’s return. They have been jealous about friends’ trip with their children’s family. They secretly hoped I might stay in Korea permanently after this assignment. When I shared my wife’s decision, they were shocked and puzzled. To them, she had always been lovely and caring. For my father, it felt like another humiliating moment: I worked so hard my whole life—why do I deserve this?
By then, his health was worsening. He was still mobile, but much slower, and needed my mother’s constant assistance. His medication caused severe hallucinations. He refused to let my mother or me share anything about his condition with others. He wanted her by his side at all times, and she gave up almost all of her social life to care for him. She was losing her mind.
On one visit, my brother and I sat down with them and suggested bringing in professional help so our mother could have some time for herself. My father looked at us with a mix of terror and fury, as if we had come to escort him to the next life. In the summer of 2018, while walking outside on a hot day, he collapsed. After that, he became largely immobile and uncommunicative. The moments of real connection grew fewer.
Meanwhile, my mother became exhausted and depressed from the relentless care. For years she managed alone in their apartment, cut off from others. Eventually she called me in tears, saying she could not continue. Soon after, she began showing signs of depression and early dementia. By then, they had moved into a retirement complex, with my father in the nursing unit and my mother living in a neighboring building.
Since his collapse, I’ve had only a handful of moments of genuine eye contact with my father. His words are no longer recognizable. He rarely smiles at me, and attempts at connection are fleeting.
The same week I saw my fathers’ former colleagues for conversation, my brother and I faced the decision of whether to approve a medical procedure that could prolong his ability to eat. The doctor assured us the risk was minimal. My father still seemed strong, at least physically, so we agreed. On the way to the hospital, I sat beside him, holding his hand, unsure if he understood what was happening.
A week later, back in Boston, I got a phone call. He passed away. The procedure had gone well, but his body did not adjust to the eating through tubes, the doctor said.
Impact
My father has been a source of strength when times were hard, a source of anger and resentment, a standard for excellence, and a constant reservoir for reflection, writing, and self-awareness. Writing this book has reminded me of him again and again. As I wrote above, I feel grateful about the opportunity to think beyond my surface level feeling toward him.
Many would remember him as a man of hard work and foresight in business, consistent and steady as a leader. But beneath that, I sense he was also soft, introverted, and warm, covering insecurities and qualities that did not fit the mold of a leader in his era. In pushing himself to become the person he needed to be to succeed, he sometimes lost touch with himself. For Korean society and the economy, that may have been a blessing. As his son, I wish he could have been more attuned to who he was. Yet I also wonder — if he had been more aligned with himself, would my complaint about him simply have been different? I’d still like to ask this hypothetical question. If he found paths that are more aligned with who he really was, would he have been more fulfilled in his life?
When I left Samsung to move to the U.S. and carve my own path, that created tension between us. He had strong expectations about how I should live and what job I should take. It was a heavy burden, but also, paradoxically, the pressure pushed me to the edge and helped me take a risk and find my own way. Those years overlapped with his difficult retirement and his Parkinson’s diagnosis. He wanted me to return to Korea, to be near him. I visited him on business trips, but instead of sharing warm company, we often found ourselves in moments of discontent. I wish I had done better at showing love and appreciation in those times.
Still, I respect him deeply. I’m grateful for the stability he provided at home, the financial security, and the education he made possible. Only because he gave me so much am I in a position to complain about the warmth and compassion I felt lacking. But perhaps that is selfish of me. It reminds me of the poem by Dick Lourie, “How can we forgive our fathers?”
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning,
for shutting doors?
For speaking through walls,
or never speaking,
or never being silent?
(From How can we forgive our fathers by Dick Lourie)
I wish I had done a better job of sharing more, softening my emotions, enduring his sarcasm, and finding ways to love each other better.
I also feel guilty about portraying him in the way that reveals his other sides people might hove not known. I am worried about being judged. Am I worried about losing face? At the same time, I feel complete, more connected and fulfilled by spending much time searching for memories of him and trying to share every relevant thought and feeling I have. Without these stories, it would be hard to talk honestly about my self-authoring journey. I hope that by sharing them, I can also make him proud.
