Cheyenne, a city in Wyoming, still breathes the essence of the American West.

I live here with my Filipina wife, just the two of us.

There are no Korean gatherings I can attend, and there are no grocery stores in Cheyenne where I can buy Korean ingredients.

For basic items like gochujang, kimchi, rice, and ramen, I usually drive over two hours to Denver to shop.

On a regular basis, I make do by cooking with alternative ingredients from American stores, and I make a trip to Denver once a month or every two months.

Although I seem to have all the conditions for loneliness, strangely, life here feels more like immersion than isolation.

It's quiet and simple, and that makes me feel that each day is a part of my life.

Cheyenne is a small city with a population of just over 60,000.

Instead of high-rise buildings, endless plains and sky form the backdrop of daily life, and in the summer, the Frontier Days festival takes over the city.

People wearing cowboy hats lead parades on horseback, and music and cheers mix in the dust storm. Most days, I don't hear a single word of Korean.

Conversations with neighbors are always similar. We talk about how strong the wind is today or how much snow might fall.

There's no noise about who bought what car or which kid got into which college. Such talk seems to be swept away by the winds of Wyoming.

So, I'm simply accepted as a Korean man living in this neighborhood. That simplicity brings me comfort.

Discomfort certainly exists. To buy a bag of rice or a jar of gochujang, I have to drive for hours to Denver, Colorado, and on days when I crave kimchi stew, I open the fridge and sigh.

Even when I'm moved by a Korean drama, there's no one to share that story with. Yet, this lack has made me diligent.

The kimchi I used to buy is now made by me. The smell of chili powder and garlic fills the house, and as I mix the cabbage with my hands covered in seasoning, it feels like a ritual. The same goes for dumplings. Instead of grabbing frozen dumplings, I knead the flour and make the filling, shaping each one by hand. It's a hassle, but during that time, my mind gets organized.

Gaining this independence by solving everything on my own in a foreign land has shaped me, cold and solid like the winter winds of Wyoming.

The winds of Wyoming are rough. In winter, they chill to the bone, and in summer, the sun beats down as if to scorch my back.

But in that nature, I've learned to hold my place like a part of the landscape rather than standing out.

At night, instead of neon signs, the sky fills with stars that seem to pour down. In that tranquility, my thoughts become clear. Life here feels like a long journey, living with a Korean heart in a landscape reminiscent of a Western film.

I think this quiet life suits me well. So today, in the windy Cheyenne, I am living my life slowly.