At first glance, My Mister (2018) might not appear to offer a transformative experience. However, it wields a potent poignancy regarding how we mourn missed opportunities and love only to heal over time. The Kdrama starring Lee Sun-kyun and Lee Ji-eun provides a sense of comfort as winter does its best to erode the soul, demonstrative of how, through community and friendship, we come together to endure the coldest days so that we may face a vigorous, life-affirming spring.

January through March suffer under the weight of gray. As a New Englander tucked away in Maine, the slush and the snow, the brown patches of muddied soil that peek out from underneath, I accustom myself to overcast days. As it recedes and days lengthen, my sunflower brain actively turns my face towards the sun. I’m made for spring and growth, for shedding layers and lightening loads. My Mister captures that spirit for all of its weary characters and general malaise—the sensation of determined thawing.

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The late, great Lee Sun-kyun stars as the 45-year-old Dong-hoon. As the second eldest of three brothers, he’s the most successful, burdened by the weight of being the good, responsible son. Troubled by work and higher-ranking officials looking to undermine him and a marriage falling apart, Dong-hoon has sunk into a depressive state without fully realizing it, apathetic to his own misery.

His general indifference works in tandem with the 21-year-old Ji-an, whose troubles endlessly spool around her. She is in charge of taking care of her deaf grandmother while contending with the enormous debts left in the wake of her mother’s death. With a criminal past, her future seems initially bleak despite working a temporary job at the same company as Dong-hoon.

My Mister navigates our desire to help others no matter our circumstances.

Their fates intersperse as the two both harden their hearts in a world intent on tearing them down. Directed by Kim Won-seok and written by Park Hae-young, My Mister patiently observes its characters as they descend into despair before clawing themselves out to crest above the waves of darkness drowning them. Like the first days of spring, the breath of fresh air is overwhelming.

The series deals with a plethora of issues. These issues could easily tip My Mister into cringe-inducing melodrama or weightless dramatics. Instead, armed with thoughtful writing and extraordinary performances, it manages to toe the line beautifully. Yes, there are exaggerated hysterics and emotional outbursts. But they’re anchored by a deep-felt compassion for the characters.

The series navigates a pendulum of emotional vitality. It tackles the necessity of generosity and what it means to give back—more than that, what it means to give back in a critical moment after years of self-destructive behavior. The series captures the essence of brotherly love and what it means to forgo your happiness for the sake of a loved one. My Mister deals with the impossible desire to help others when we can’t help ourselves.

That last point is what gives virtue to My Mister. Dong-hoon and Ji-an are prickly and deliberately distant, although Dong-hoon has built a veneer of contentedness. So much so that when that artifice breaks, Ji-an is quick to try and help him — physically, at one point, when she sees him lay dejected in the snow, and mentally when she assures him of his innermost decency.

Improvement only comes through trying again and again in My Mister.

In a pivotal, soothing moment of respite, Dong-hoon spends time with an old friend who became a monk, Gyum-duk, leaving behind a woman who loved him. Gyum-duk holds him in an unexpected embrace, an expression of tactile gentleness. He tells him that the past and whatever is bothering him is “not a big deal” and that it’s “nothing.” In doing so, Gyum-duk provides safety for Dong-hoon as the latter deals with the tumultuous hurricane his life has become. In the mountains, surrounded by nature, Dong-hoon’s only job is to be in the moment, to briefly let go of the stressors hindering his life.

This scene, quiet and unassuming, speaks to the nature of the series and its unyielding ability to allow us to heal in tandem with the characters. Sometimes, all it takes is getting through one day. Healing is an embrace. It’s the melting snow and springtime. Knowing that today was hard, but tomorrow might be better.

That mindset is hard-won in My Mister across the entire ensemble. Dong-hoon’s brothers, Ki-hoon and Sang-hoon, and the owner of the bar they all meet up in, Jung-hee, represent that sensation of waking up and realizing you’re not where you thought you’d be in life.

The brothers have been let down by their shortcomings—their selfishness and limit to their talent extinguish the heights they wish to reach. Jung-hee is desperately lonely. But still, they all rise to face the day and commit throughout My Mister to finding serenity through improvement, no matter how often they must retrace their steps.

Comfort versus healing. 

There’s a difference between comfort films and films and television that heal. A fine line, perhaps, but there nonetheless.  There are our repeat viewings — films from our childhood, films that make us laugh and cry. Promare, with its boundless, infectious energy and When Harry Met Sally, for its romantic comedy genius, are comfort movies in their escapism or familiar beats. There are a few that stand in the same, particular vein as My Mister, at least for me. Ones that bridge that divide of comfort and healing (1994’s Little Women and Chungking Express), but three in particular speak to the essence of this series.

The 2018 Korean film Little Forest, an adaptation of a Japanese series, fits those narrow parameters. The protagonist finds solace once she retreats to the countryside, away from the concrete palette of the city. She treats herself with tenderness and care. But most importantly, she listens to her body and her need for nutrients and seasonal delights. Food is a comfort that heals, and as we watch her confront the season with a newly ignited mental fortitude, we, too, look for a way to nurture our bodies and minds.

Perfect Days, the 2024 film from Wim Wenders, offers that healing perspective. However, this time, it’s through Hirayama, a man who takes pleasure in life’s easy delights. Naps and good books and better music. ‘Komorebi’ (木漏れ日) — sunlight filtered by the leaves that he photographs each day. Bike rides and shadow tag. He has his fair share of troubles but understands that life is only as good as you make it.

Naoko Yamada’s A Silent Voice fits the bill but takes a rockier path to a similar destination. A young boy bullies a girl who’s deaf and deals with that fallout, that particular sense of self-loathing, well into his teenage years. We watch as he unlearns old habits, seeks repentance, and desires to learn how to live again. By the time the film ends and the X’s fall from the crowds’ faces (once a visual tool to indicate his dissociation from reality), the effect is deeply uplifting. That sense of growth takes work, and healing comes from the effort put into it. This is proof that striving to be better pays off.

The key features in these films—nurturing ourselves, finding small pleasures, healing from trauma—all come into play in My Mister. These distinct features allow the characters to stay afloat even as their baggage drags them down. From start to finish, with all of its dramatic upheaval and twists and turns, the message remains clear — people need people. It isn’t shocking how much of the series takes place during the winter, their bodies shielded by layers against both the elements and the warring tides of their lives. Through the company of others — through Ji-an and Dong-hoon’s bond — the series finds its warmth.

Decency paves the way through winter and into spring. 

My Mister understands the need to nurture as Ji-an and Dong-hoon share meals, messages, and the end-of-day warmth of a community that comes together at a single bar to trade kindness and kinship. It understands the complexity of emotions of the human condition as we struggle to help ourselves while going out of our way to help others. More than anything, the writing offers compassion towards its characters who bend under the impossible weight of the world but don’t break — though it’s a close call. The writing sees the value of Ji-an and Dong-hoon and their bond in the pits of self-assigned hell.

Moments from My Mister seal themselves to the back of my brain. Dong-hoon helps Ji-an’s grandmother up the stairs. Gyum-duk holding Dong-hoon in his arms. Sang-hoon does everything in his power to make Ji-an’s grandmother’s funeral lively and vibrant, a true celebration of life and, in Dong-hoon’s words, the “only good thing” Sang-hoon has done in his life. The spirit of camaraderie baked into the walls of the bar they all frequent, and every instance where Ji-an and Dong-hoon become one another’s lifelines — tethering them to a world in which they so often seek escape.

In the finale episode, Dong-hoon tells Ji-an, “You must have come to this neighborhood to save me. I was nearly dead, and you brought me back to life.” Sometimes, healing requires external help even when we don’t realize we need it, be that a friend or the sun hanging high later in the day.

I am not my best self in January. Or February or March. My Mister, with startling patience and expressive, unsuspecting catharsis, gets to the root feeling of winter—the cold, the chasm between day and night, and the way in which the latter feels all-encompassing. It understands the chill that bites us deep, locking its jaw on us as the snow piles up. But, more importantly, it understands that the struggle is fleeting. It understands the strength of walking someone home in a community. And the indispensable effect of having someone in your corner.

Spring comes, and we thaw.

My Mister is available to stream on Netflix.