Language is not just a means of communication; it is the root that forms a person's identity and worldview. Raising children while navigating two languages is like guarding the confluence of two rivers. Some days, English might surge stronger, and other days, Korean, but their true value emerges when the two streams meet to create a new flow.
I am a former director of an English academy in Korea and, at the same time, a mother raising two children in the United States. I want to share what I've learned on this journey where the roles of expert and mother intersect.
When we lived in Korea, our home was like a small island in a sea of English.
"English with Dad, Korean with Mom."
Our whole family tried hard to uphold this simple rule.
We intentionally created time for the children to spend alone with their dad, and consistently filled our home with English books and an English environment. Running an English reading academy was also partly to provide a natural English environment for my children.
However, the moment we moved to the United States, the situation completely reversed.
Now, English overwhelmingly predominated, and Korean became the small island.
We brought in Korean book sets and consciously tried to speak Korean, but the children's Korean gradually weakened. Watching my second child's memory of reading Hangul fade, I felt a greater sense of loss as a mother than as an educator.
People often say,
"You should force them to learn, even with a smack on the back."
But I decided not to. Language learned through force and fear does not last. For children, language should be a tool filled with love and memories. I chose patience and affection.
As an expert, I know the theories.
As a mother, I know the powerlessness of reality.
During our settlement in the U.S., there were days when survival and adaptation were more urgent, and language education was pushed aside, leading to self-reproach. The gap between "what should be done" and "what can be done" is a reality every parent experiences.
Ultimately, the principle I held onto is simple:
"Naturally, yet consistently."
This is my method. It's okay if my children don't immediately speak perfect bilingualism. Language is like a seed; I believe that if the soil is well-tended, it will sprout when the children need it.
Ultimately, what matters is not perfect language proficiency.
If children can feel their father's love in English and their mother's love in Korean, that alone is enough.
If children can find their own identity between two languages and find balance within two cultures, isn't that the true success of bilingual parenting?
? Language is like a flowing river. Today, Korean might seem weak, and tomorrow, English might flow stronger. But what's important is the process by which children learn to navigate their own journey within that flow. That is the path of bilingual parenting I have chosen, and the small hope I have found within it.