The first time I discovered South Korea was during a Mandarin homework mishap in 2013. I was 16 and lacked all the characteristics required to be good at languages: confidence, a thick skin and any desire to talk out loud. Forced to choose a language, Mandarin seemed like the best option for me – with a self-proclaimed photographic memory, I spent hours cramming complex Chinese characters, convincing myself I could pass my exams without speaking a word. I could not.

My vow of silence was shattered three months in, when I was introduced to my native-Chinese conversation teacher. As suspected, I was woeful. I cried, she cried. Stunned by my ineptitude, she quietly wiped a tear away with her knuckle as she helplessly suggested that I watch Chinese TV dramas to improve my pronunciation instead.

That night, I worriedly scoured Netflix. Unlike today, there weren’t many Asian dramas to choose from – just a handful of broody Japanese crime series, a few Chinese epics full of sword fights and long grey beards, and one South Korean drama about a high-school rock band with perfectly coiffed hair. As an English teenager at the height of One Direction fever, this was the jackpot. I hovered over the enticing thumbnail full of young Korean actors, and, never one to turn down watching TV for homework, naively thought: “Well, she did say to watch a drama.” I often think about what my life would have been if I hadn’t clicked.

Korean culture became an instant obsession. The soundtrack in the drama, Shut Up & Let’s Go, was irresistibly catchy, the four main characters impossibly handsome (I audibly shouted OMG at my laptop when the guitarist first appeared), and the city of Seoul sang like a siren. It seemed to be a vibrant place full of unfailing friendships, amazing food and a booming entertainment industry. It felt like the start of something special. I knew I had to be there.

Five years later, I finally made it. Korean culture still wasn’t quite mainstream, so I travelled to Seoul under the ruse of learning Korean – which, shockingly, was more believable than the K-drama obsession I had. Waiting for the rest of the world to catch up, I’d devoured and loved every K-drama I could find. But could Seoul live up to my soaring expectations?

It surpassed it. Weeks in Korea turned into months, and months turned into years. Every day felt as if I was surrounded by the magic of K-dramas, watching Korean culture boom from the inside out through Squid Game, Parasite and music from the K-pop boy group BTS.

I existed as a contented observer until, completely by chance, I got cast in a K-pop music video (What You Waiting For by Jeon Somi), which now has more than 70m views. This shoot led to another, more music videos led to adverts, and more adverts led to the holy grail: Korean dramas.

Eight years after I had made my Chinese teacher cry, I was sitting on a Korean drama set. I was a featured extra, where – as with most of my music video and advert jobs – I was hired to look tall and blond. But on this day, I was also helping wrangle a group of foreign English-speaking extras, helping translate between them and the Korean production crew.

My head turned as the main actor for the day slunk into the bar seat next to me. My jaw dropped. It was the gorgeous guitarist from Shut Up & Let’s Go.

That’s when it truly hit me. I looked around the room; from the first ever Korean actor I had loved to the production crew who I was talking to, out loud, in Korean, to the 15-or-so extras I was directing. And I realised, not only did one click completely change the trajectory of my life, but also who I was as a person. I was over my hatred of languages. I was confident. I was living my dream.

How Korean Corn Dogs Changed My Life by Alice Amelia is published by Little, Brown.