From $60 to an IT Instructor—My 27-Year Journey as an Immigrant in Canada
Not $600. Not $6,000. Sixty dollars—That was my entire income for the month, back in 2000, when even then, it was a painfully small amount.
This is the story of how I got from there to becoming a college instructor in Canada—and why, even in the age of AI, I still think it was worth every sleepless night.
No One Would Hire Me
After immigrating to Canada in 1999, I wanted to continue the IT career I had built in Korea. So, I sent countless emails to companies across Canada, hoping someone would give me a chance. Not a single company offered me a job.
Looking back now, I realized how unrealistic my expectations were. My English was still far from fluent, and I had absolutely no Canadian work experience. I was essentially asking someone to take a chance on a person who had nothing to prove himself with.
Going Back to School at 37
So, I decided to start over from scratch.
I figured that if two things could objectively prove my abilities in Canadian society, they were education and certifications. I thought I needed at least a college certificate, so I impulsively enrolled in a program at BCIT—the British Columbia Institute of Technology.
There was just one problem: we had only one car.
That meant that whenever I went to school, the entire family had to come along. Our children were six and eight at that time, far too young to stay home alone. So even on weekends, they couldn't sleep in—they had to get into the car with us.
Sometimes my kids were still wearing their pajamas when we loaded them into the car. The whole family would drive to my school; my wife would drop me off, and then she and the kids would drive back home. We did this for two whole years.
I had been worried about taking classes in English, but fortunately, I managed to get through the program without too much trouble. There was one thing that bothered me, though: my instructor never called me by my name. I wasn't expecting to be the instructor's favourite, but at least I wanted to be the kind of student whose name the instructor knew.
Then one day, my instructor finally tried to pronounce it. He struggled with it for a moment.
"K-y-u-n-g R-y-u-l Kim."
My Korean name is Kyungryul Kim. Until then, I had never met a Canadian who could pronounce my name correctly. So I made a decision: I needed an English name. Something easy to pronounce, easy to remember.
I chose Steve.
From that day on, I was Steve in class. And that name has stayed with me ever since.
Two Years Later
After two years, I finally received my certificate. I was so happy that I hugged my wife and children tightly. But instead of sharing my emotional moment, they quickly escaped from my arms and started cheering.
"Yay! We don't have to drive Dad to school anymore!"
Looking back, I realized that the certificate wasn't really my achievement alone. For two years, my wife and children gave up their weekends, their sleep, and their time so I could pursue my goal. That certificate had four names on it, even if only one of them was printed.
Starting a Computer Repair Business
After finishing school, I confidently started working as a computer repair technician. It was the year 2000. Most people were using PCs, and since labour costs were relatively high in Canada, I thought computer repair would be a decent way to make a living.
My plan was simple: earn enough from repairs to cover living expenses while studying on my own and collecting more IT certifications.
But did life follow my plan? Not exactly.
My income during the first month was $60. To make matters worse, I had already spent money advertising in the Yellow Pages and a Korean community newspaper.
So, yes—I was pretty disappointed.
But as time passed, I learned something more important than advertising: word of mouth mattered far more. I treated every customer with genuine care. One customer told another. Two became four. Four became eight.
It never became a huge business, but eventually, I had enough work to make a living. And that experience taught me one of the most important lessons of my career: people remember how you treat them.
The Certificate Hunt
The first certification I went after was A+. I studied so hard I got my first-ever nosebleed—something that had never happened even when I was a student in Korea. Being a parent gives you an almost superhuman sense of responsibility.
My next certification was Network+. That exam was brutal. At one point, I honestly thought: this exam was designed specifically to make me fail. When I reached the end of the test, I was too nervous to click the final button. If I failed, I'd have to take that horrible exam all over again. I sat there until the last minute. Finally, I clicked it.
Passed.
I stared at the result, and my eyes welled up. I still don't know if it was because I was moved or because I couldn't believe it. Probably both.
After that, I earned my MCP certification and decided to take on Adobe.
I failed. The exam was unbelievably difficult, even though by then I'd become experienced at taking these tests. I took a break—honestly, I just couldn't stand that textbook anymore. I was 43. Some days I felt real self-doubt: here I am, in my forties, still studying for certifications.
After five years of studying almost nonstop, I was exhausted.
But eventually, I tried again. This time, I passed. It was the certification that caused me the most stress—and it brought some of the greatest benefits. Not many people had Adobe certifications, so my students trusted me more, and it helped me land teaching work at a college.
What Certifications Really Mean to Me Now
Looking back, every certification I earned helped me—in my business and in my career as a college instructor. But I don't think I could tell my students today, "Go study until you get a nosebleed so you can collect certifications."
The world has changed. With AI, much of the knowledge I stayed up all night memorizing can now be pulled up in seconds by asking the right question.
That doesn't mean certifications are useless. For someone taking their first steps into a career—especially an immigrant who has to prove themselves all over again in a new country—a certification can still be a great place to start.
But for me, certifications aren't just a piece of paper that proves what I know. They represent the courage, persistence, and hours of effort it took to start over in an unfamiliar country. The way we learn keeps shifting—but the willingness to try something new, fail, and get back up never goes out of date.
Meeting My Past Self
Every now and then, I see a younger version of myself in the college where I teach. Students who returned to school later in life. Immigrants who aren't yet comfortable speaking English.
Whenever I see them, I think about who I used to be—my kids in the back seat, my wife driving home alone, the fear of an English lecture, the frozen hand over that final exam button.
The world has changed dramatically. Technology has changed. The way we work has changed. The way we learn has changed.
But some things haven't changed at all: the pain and perseverance it takes to achieve something meaningful, the sting of failure, the courage it takes to try one more time. Those are still the growing pains of life—whether you're 20 or 50.
I know it won't be easy. But I've been there. And if a 37-year-old immigrant with limited English, no Canadian experience, two young kids, one family car, and $60 in his first month's income could start over—so can you.
Keep learning. Keep trying. And when you fail, take a breath—then click that button one more time.
*The two images were created by Nano Banana.
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