A K-drama Deep-Dive Review
There’s an episode of One Day Off that I really liked, even though it was not an easy watch. It touched on the difficulty of communication across generations and the need to forgive—even when it feels impossible.
It begins with Hagyeong on the phone with her father, who was struggling with his internet connection. If you’ve ever tried explaining technology to an older person, you’ll know how challenging it can be. Later, Hagyeong travelled to a seaside town—the last place she visited with her parents before their lives were upended by the IMF crisis. As she walked through the familiar streets, she realised that while she had struggled as a child, she had never truly considered what her parents must have gone through. Now, at their age, she finds herself still carrying the weight of that past. Is it okay to grow old like this? she wondered.
As she waited for the bus home, an elderly man sat nearby, loudly complaining as he watched the news. Young people were on strike, and he was furious. He ranted about their irresponsibility, the corruption of politicians, the endless problems in the country.
At first, Hagyeong only listened, but soon she found herself pulled into the conversation. When she spoke her mind, the man turned on her—accusing her of being irresponsible for not getting married, for not having children, for failing her duty to the country. The words stunned her into silence.
When the bus arrived, they all boarded, but the encounter weighed heavily on her. She sat in her seat, unable to hold back her tears. The words had cut deep, not just because of what was said, but because of the weight of unfairness and anger behind them.
When they reached their stop, the old man and his wife got off first. On impulse, Hagyeong called out to him. She apologised, saying she had been carried away and had spoken rudely. His wife gave her a warm smile, took her hands, and reassured her, “It’s nothing. He just wanted to say his piece.” The old man, flustered and unsure how to respond, fumbled through his bag, finally pulling out some snacks meant for his grandchildren. He handed them to her before walking away, his wife smiling as she gently guided him along.
When she got home, she opened the bag given by the old man and found some fried seaweed with nuts. Nice.
A message from her father popped up—he thanked her for arranging the internet repair. It was working so well now that her mom loved it. Smiling, Hagyeong called him, and they had a short but warm chat.
Afterward, she sat down with a beer and the seaweed snack. Taking a sip, a bite, she sighed, So refreshing.
Sometimes, the best way to mend a relationship is simply to apologise—for what you have done wrong. You might be right, and the other person might be wrong, but for your own peace, apologise for your part. Release yourself from the weight of it, and move on with forgiveness. That, after all, is the way to a good life.
But forgiveness is never easy. Even when you know you should forgive, you might find that you simply can’t. You struggle with the unfairness of it all, the injustice. You replay the hurt in your mind, shifting blame, holding on to resentment.
Sometimes, even when someone apologises and sincerely asks for forgiveness, you still refuse. Not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to—why should they be freed from their guilt? Why should they get to feel better?
But who truly bears the weight in the end? If you take a step back and reflect, you’ll realise that whether you choose to forgive or hold on to resentment, you are the one carrying the burden, either way. The difference lies in what it does to you.
If you choose to forgive, it won’t erase the pain, and it won’t mean you forget. But at least you will carry only the wrong that was done to you. If you choose not to forgive, you don’t just carry the hurt—you also carry anger, resentment, blame, revenge, condemnation, and hatred. And that weight is far heavier.
So, just forgive. Let go. Carry only what is yours to bear, and free yourself from everything else.
And that was exactly what Hagyeong did. She didn’t need anyone to tell her she had to get married or have children. She could have gone home, stewing in anger over the old man’s words. But instead, she chose to forgive him, and freed herself from that anger—and she did so by apologising and asking for forgiveness herself. In the end, all she carried home was a bag of fried seaweed and a lighter heart.
How revolutionary is that? To ask for forgiveness when, by all accounts, you should be the one receiving it.
Of course, not all wrongs can be resolved with a bus stop apology. Some wounds run too deep—betrayals that have shattered your trust completely, abuses of power that have left permanent scars, or losses that can never be recovered. Forgiveness sometimes may not mean reconciliation, and healing might require professional support or significant distance.
Even then, the choice remains: to carry both the hurt and the hatred, or to work toward carrying only what is yours to carry. The journey looks different for everyone, but the destination—peace—remains the same.
Maybe the more surprising question is this: Is there someone who wronged you… but you’re the one to apologise?
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