The 7-Year Quest to Rescue My Retirement Money That Was Stuck in Korea
After seven years of waiting, planning and a little crying, I’m finally a multimillionaire… in South Korean won, that is.
A few months ago, I visited Korea for the first time since 2018. The official reason for the trip was to celebrate my partner’s 30th birthday, but we had a side quest planned: Rescue 3.1 million won that had been languishing in my Korean retirement account for years.
In U.S. dollars, my multimillionaire status is significantly less impressive. With an exchange rate around 1,450-to-1, my recouped Korean nest egg is currently worth about $2,100.
The fact that I was able to get any money at all after so much time came as a surprise. Retrieving the full amount plus some interest was the last thing I had anticipated.
As I walked to Woori Bank on a dreary Monday morning in December, my expectations were low, but I was prepared nonetheless.
Tucked inside my aged black portfolio — the same one I had used when I opened the account — was my old passport containing my Korean work visa, a scan of my Korean residency card, all three of my Woori Bank account booklets, my new passport and notes I had compiled over years of trying and failing to withdraw the money from the U.S. I had a cup of cold brew in my other hand. I was ready.
Approaching the entrance, I practiced the phrase I would tell the guard at the door, over and over.
안녕하세요. 저는 IRP 해지 문제가 있어요. “Hello, I have a problem closing my IRP account.”
“Ah, IRP?” he responded, tapping a few buttons on the terminal next to him. A small ticket drifted into the tray. “Here’s your number.”
I looked at it — number 2013. Progress, I thought. And so I took my seat and got comfortable.
How my money got stuck in Korea
Between 2016 and 2018, I lived in Korea, primarily teaching English at a hagwon, which is a private academy (often called a “cram school”) focused on a particular subject. On the side, I tutored North Korean refugees and moonlit as a writer. It was an incredible experience, but after a couple years, I decided to move to Florida and put my journalism degree to (more) work.
That meant I had to figure out my finances. After completing an annual work contract, it’s common to receive a form of severance pay, which is usually the equivalent of one month's salary. Basically, you get 13 months of pay for a 12-month contract.
When the cram school I worked at asked me to open up a retirement account for my severance deposit, I didn’t think much of it at first. Short for individual retirement pensions, IRPs are similar to individual retirement accounts (IRAs) in the U.S.
At the time, I was 24 and had no idea how either of them worked.
So off to Woori Bank I went to dutifully open the account. I remember the teller was curious about this decision. He told me that the funds had to be managed in person, and I was clearly getting ready to leave the country for good.
Alarmed, I informed the school of that crucial caveat that they failed to mention.
A nameless human resources rep responded that my severance payment would take a while, and since I was required to leave South Korea within 30 days due to immigration law, they would deposit it into a different account — one linked directly to my U.S. bank.
Simple enough, I guessed.
During my first month back in the U.S., I stayed in a mother-in-law suite in someone’s backyard as I searched for more stable digs. I was eagerly awaiting my severance from Korea, especially since most apartments I was touring required first and last month’s rent plus a security deposit.
Ten days into the apartment hunt, I got a notification that the deposit had finally arrived. Into my Korean retirement account.
Furious, I emailed the cram school’s HR department on the same chain where they had assured me that my severance would go to my U.S. account.
“We have received your email and are looking into possible solutions. We will get back to you as soon as possible,” someone replied.
A few days later, another email. The so-called solution? Give an HR rep power of attorney in Korea so he could retrieve the money on my behalf.
Exhausted and gullible, I started looking into into this option. I realized the process entailed going to the Korean Embassy or a consulate office. The closest one was in at Atlanta, nearly 500 miles away. I told HR that their fix would require me driving 1,000 miles round trip.
I never heard from them again.
Powerless from abroad
It's hard to say how common situations like mine are. Tracking how many Americans live abroad is difficult enough, with estimates ranging from 3.3 million to 9 million, though that says nothing about their finances. One federal law requires Americans living abroad to disclose financial accounts that exceed $10,000 in value, but filing statistics aren't published regularly like typical income tax returns.
According to some estimates, Americans disclose more than 1 million foreign bank accounts a year. But given the $10,000 threshold and obscurity of the law, those figures are likely understated. Also, not all financial accounts have the in-person stipulation of my Korean retirement account.
It's safe to say my situation isn't completely unique. But I certainly felt alone.
The only option that made sense to me was to return to Seoul and get the money myself. Surely that wouldn’t take too long; I just needed to get settled in my new job and save up for the trip.
But life is complicated. A year passed, then five. Then seven.
It took my partner turning 30 — a milestone she never thought she would hit as someone with terminal cancer — and asking to celebrate in Asia for me to finally get on a plane.
Back in Woori Bank, I sat anxiously waiting for my number to be called. Returning to Korea after so long felt surreal. Over the years, my long-lost Korean retirement money had become sort of a personal meme. I even remember mentioning it in my job interviews with Money.
There I was, in Seoul, about to learn the fate of my severance pay. The automated announcement chimed over the intercom. Number 2013.
As I approached the IRP specialist’s desk, I noticed her expression sour for a split second. I was the only foreigner in the bank, and I think she knew she was in for a doozy. I sat across from her, pulled out all my documents and gave her my spiel as best as I could in broken Korean.
“I’m American. I used to live in Seoul. I have an IRP, and I want to close it.”
She nodded and started clacking away at her computer. Then came the forms, asking all sorts of unexpected questions. Where was I staying while I was in Korea? What was the Airbnb host’s phone number? How long was I going to be here? Where do I live in the U.S. now? Was I moving back to Korea? Please sign here, and here, and here.
Amid the flurry of digital documents and signatures, I had no idea if I was even getting any of the money. I just knew it was too late to turn back. Every so often, the specialist and I would both pause, look up from our respective forms, let out a sigh, then keep going.
This went on for almost two hours. Eventually, she had to take her lunch break. It was well past noon, and I had checked into the bank at 10:20 a.m. She told me to come back and see her tomorrow.
Payday, seven years later
The next day, I headed to the bank with an oversized canvas Uniqlo bag that I had been lugging around all day.
I was worried, but the IRP specialist from the day before saw me enter and waved me down. I sat at her desk, exasperated, and clunked down my bag. We got right back to work: Sign this form, type in your email address, rinse and repeat.
Eventually, she printed out a receipt, slid it across the desk and pointed to a number. 3.17 million won. My eyes widened. Since my 2018 salary was 2.9 million, I was expecting that much only in the best-case scenario. I was also concerned I could get hit with withdrawal penalties since I wasn’t of retirement age.
Not only had I avoided penalties, but the money had been invested in an interest-bearing cash equivalent account by default. That meant it had grown about 9% since it was deposited all those years ago.
The teller fetched her manager, and they began processing the cash in a large counting machine. I listened to the whoosh of 63 bills in 50,000-won denominations pile up in disbelief. She scooted the neat stack of won in a money tray in front of me and smiled.
I had a whole script I had practiced to thank her and apologize for all the hassle. But I was too excited. All I could muster was 도와줘서 감사합니다! (“Thank you for the help!”) repeatedly as I bowed and loaded handfuls of money into my bag.
It wasn’t until after I took a selfie in front of the bank that I realized how much I must have looked like a cartoon thief stuffing all those bills into a big canvas sack.
Afterward, I practically skipped back to the Airbnb. But when I entered the apartment, I pretended to be serious. When my partner asked me how it went, I sighed, saying I had to go back again the next day.
Then, when she wasn’t looking, I reached into my bag and threw the bills all over the room. We burst into laughter.
By that time, we were both starving. Dinner, I said, was on me.
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