Ten Months—A tender, unsparing look at a young coder whose unexpected pregnancy collides with work, love, and the math of adulthood
Introduction
The first time I watched Ten Months, I felt like someone had cracked open a diary I didn’t know I was still keeping—full of pay stubs, text threads, and the kind of 2 a.m. Google searches we never admit to. Have you ever stood in a fluorescent‑lit pharmacy, buying answers in bulk and begging them to say “not now”? That electric mix of dread and tenderness is where this film begins, but it doesn’t linger in pity; it moves—with humor, bite, and hard truth—through the daily negotiations of love, labor, and a body on its own clock. I kept thinking about spreadsheets—childcare costs, health insurance deductibles, credit card interest rates—and how they can’t measure the sound of a heartbeat, or the courage it takes to keep showing up. By the end, I wasn’t simply moved; I felt seen. Watch it because Ten Months turns the ordinary mess of growing up into the kind of story that might gently change the way you look at your own life.
Overview
Title: Ten Months (십개월의 미래)
Year: 2021
Genre: Drama, Comedy-Drama
Main Cast: Choi Sung-eun, Seo Young-joo, Baek Hyun-jin, Yoo I-deun, Kwon Ah-reum
Runtime: 96 minutes
Streaming Platform: Not currently on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa.
Director: Namkoong Sun
Overall Story
Mirae, a 29‑year‑old game developer at a small Seoul startup, spends a sweltering summer blaming a “never‑ending hangover” for her nausea until a bemused pharmacist nudges her toward the obvious. Fifteen test sticks line the sink like a picket fence against reality; every one of them refuses to budge. Have you ever stared at proof that your timeline has been hijacked by your own body? That’s where she stands—half‑shaking, half‑laughing at the absurdity—before mustering the will to tell her boyfriend Yoon‑ho. Ten Months doesn’t sensationalize her discovery; it steadies the camera on her breath, the flutter in her fingers, the quiet horror of watching a life re‑calculate itself in real time. When she finally hears the faint whoosh of a heartbeat, it sounds less like triumph and more like a countdown.
Yoon‑ho, younger and tender but not ready for the calculus of adulthood, blurts the solution he’s been taught: marriage now, stability later. He promises he’ll step up, even if that means working at his parents’ pig farm—irony stinging because he’s a vegetarian—while she figures out maternity leave and project deadlines. They practice optimism like a language they’re not quite fluent in, repeating phrases—“we’ll make it work,” “we’ll manage”—as if they might become true by rehearsal. Mirae hears the words, but her ears are tuned to the clicks of a keyboard, the bites of her team chat, the sprint review she can’t miss. The romance between them is real, but it keeps bumping against invoices, rent, and a world that rarely pauses for first‑time parents.
At work, Mirae tries to hide the pregnancy under oversized hoodies and longer hours, a strategy that can’t survive an ultrasound photo accidentally left on her desk. Ong‑joong, the company’s mercurial boss, turns from supportive mentor to subtle saboteur once he learns she’s expecting. Meetings shift to hours that don’t fit her clinic appointments; her feature gets reassigned under the guise of “team balance”; a joke about “pregnancy brain” lands like a paper cut that won’t stop bleeding. Have you ever felt your competence renegotiated without your consent? The film lays bare how start‑up hustle culture—so friendly to all‑nighters and so suspicious of limits—can weaponize “family” talk while pushing actual families out.
Mirae’s closest confidant is Kim‑kim, a colleague whose blunt humor doubles as a shield. With Kim‑kim, she can say the impolite parts out loud: the fear that she will be “just a mom” to the world; the wild swing between loving the idea of a child and resenting the timing; the spreadsheets where childcare costs tower over her salary. They sit over tteokbokki and tabulate—health insurance coverage, prenatal testing, even life insurance options—proof that personal finance has a heartbeat in a crisis. Kim‑kim doesn’t solve her problems; she listens, cracks a joke, and hands her a bottle of water, as if hydration could dilute panic. The friendship feels like oxygen, reminding her that she isn’t the first person to walk this tightrope.
Family arrives with gifts wrapped in expectations. Mirae’s mother, Soon‑ja, oscillates between fierce protection and unfiltered pragmatism: is a quick wedding best, will she quit her job, who will watch the baby if money runs short? Aunts and neighbors ladle unsolicited advice like soup, part comfort, part pressure. The film gently sketches the ecosystem around pregnancy in contemporary Korea: low birth rates in headlines, pronatalist slogans in subways, and the stubborn weight of gendered labor at home. In that swirl, Mirae keeps looking for a center that belongs to her—something sturdier than someone else’s plan. Every phone call with her mother ends with love, and with another knot only she can untangle.
The medical scenes are practical rather than melodramatic, and that’s what makes them devastating. In a cramped clinic, Dr. Ong‑joong flips through charts, speaks in clipped minutes, and treats Mirae’s body like a scheduling conflict. The ultrasound room is quiet except for the machine, and in that hush she tries to make sense of a dot that is both stranger and future. When she asks questions about timelines and options, she bumps into ambiguity—regulations in flux, policies that depend on whose door you knock on, and that universal shrug from systems that don’t quite fit real lives. It’s a portrait of how “choice” can be a maze when the map keeps changing.
Pressure fractures the relationship. Yoon‑ho, overwhelmed and earnest, mistakes logistics for intimacy—if he can fix the budget, they’ll be okay; if he can fix the wedding date, they’ll be in love the grown‑up way. Mirae wants something different: room to be scared, permission to grieve the career she built, and space to imagine a future not built solely on sacrifice. Late one night, they argue in the dark over who’s giving up more, both terrified to measure their love in what it costs. The film refuses to villainize either of them; instead, it tracks how two good people can drift when the tide is stronger than their vocabulary.
Work becomes untenable. A bug she would normally squash in an hour takes her a day; a sprint she would lead, she now watches from the back row. When her boss quietly suggests a “temporary break,” it feels like being pushed off a moving train and told to be grateful she didn’t fall under it. Severance is small, savings smaller, and the calendar is loud. Have you ever been laid off by implication? Ten Months lets the silence linger long enough to feel the bruise.
And yet, there are small mercies: a bus seat offered without hesitation; a stranger’s smile at a prenatal class; Kim‑kim’s late‑night knock with warm porridge and the latest build of their passion project. Mirae starts freelancing, learning to carve time around appointments and naps she didn’t plan to need. She visits the pig farm and sees Yoon‑ho with dirt on his shoes and hope in his voice; it doesn’t fix them, but it softens something sharp. The film keeps its eyes trained on ordinary gestures, as if to say that most of adulthood is a patchwork of small kindnesses.
As months pass, Mirae begins to talk to the silhouette that keeps showing up on the ultrasound screen. It isn’t a grand epiphany; it’s incremental, like easing into cold water and realizing you can float. She sets boundaries with her mother, renegotiates with Yoon‑ho, and drafts a new plan that’s hers—even if it’s fragile. The game developer in her resurfaces; she documents bugs in her own habits, ships tiny updates to her routines, and learns to forgive rollbacks. Hope, here, is not a monologue—it’s an ongoing commit.
The final stretch is pared down and intimate. A quiet hospital corridor, a phone vibrating with messages, a breath held a beat too long. What Ten Months lands on is not triumph or tragedy but a kind of honest steadiness: Mirae choosing to live a life that holds both career and care, both ambition and attachment, knowing there will be patches and refactors along the way. When the film closes, you feel the pulse of a future still being written, and the deep relief of a protagonist allowed to be complicated. It’s not a fairy tale; it’s the truth, and it’s beautiful.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Pharmacy Aisle: Mirae stacks pregnancy tests on the counter like a barricade, her voice wobbling between sarcasm and plea. The fluorescent lights make everything too visible, including the tremor in her hand when she hands over her card. The cashier’s neutral kindness nearly undoes her. It’s the first time the movie shows how a purchase—a line item under “personal care”—can detonate a whole life plan. The scene primes us to see adulthood not as a leap but as a series of tiny, irreversible steps.
First Ultrasound, First Countdown: In the examination room, the whoosh of the machine eats the silence while Mirae searches the monitor for meaning. Dr. Ong‑joong names measurements with clinical efficiency, and the printout he tucks into her file feels like a contract she didn’t sign. The camera stays on her face long enough to capture disbelief turning into protectiveness, then panic. Have you ever felt joy and dread arrive in the same envelope? That’s the rhythm the film nails here.
Stand‑Up Meeting, Sit‑Down Reality: Mirae tries to lead a stand‑up while hiding morning sickness, only to be undercut by a joke about “pregnancy brain.” Her eyes glitter, but she swallows the comeback because the sprint must move on. When her feature gets reassigned, the room’s polite silence says what no one will: in hustle culture, the body that needs care is the first to be sidelined. It’s one of the film’s sharpest indictments of workplaces that claim to be “family.”
The Pig Farm Visit: Yoon‑ho’s parents’ farm is muddy, noisy, and unexpectedly tender. Watching him labor there—vegetarian ideals smudged by necessity—Mirae sees both his love and his fear. Their conversation over tin cups of barley tea drifts from baby names to mortgages to whether love should feel this heavy. The scene isn’t reconciliation, but it’s a ceasefire built on honesty. It’s also where the film widens beyond romance to ask how couples actually survive the cost of becoming a family.
Kim‑kim’s Kitchen Table: Surrounded by takeout boxes and sticky notes, the two friends run numbers: childcare costs, health insurance coverage, and the monthly squeeze of credit card interest. Kim‑kim cracks a joke about “adulting DLCs,” but the spreadsheet is real, and so is the solidarity. It’s rare to see money talk rendered with this much empathy—no moralizing, just two women mapping a path through the fog. The scene honors friendship as infrastructure.
The “Temporary Break”: Called into a glass‑walled room, Mirae hears her boss say all the right words in all the wrong order: “support,” “flexibility,” “temporary.” The euphemisms bruise more than a blunt no. She nods like an adult and rides the elevator down like a child trying not to cry. Outside, traffic hums and life goes on, which is somehow the cruelest part. It’s a scene that will stir anyone who’s been laid off by suggestion rather than sentence.
Memorable Lines
“Could that dot inside me be… an alien?” – Mirae, half joking, half pleading with the universe It’s funny until you notice the window she’s giving herself to breathe before the truth arrives. The line captures denial as a necessary pause, not a flaw. In those seconds, she’s trying to make the unthinkable thinkable, to turn fear into a question she can hold. The film keeps compassion trained on that instinct.
“We’ll make it work.” – Yoon‑ho, proposing certainty he doesn’t have The sentence is a love letter written in future tense, bravado covering a shaky hand. Each time he says it, the meaning shifts—from promise to pressure, from comfort to command. The film treats the phrase like a refrain couples use to keep the dark at bay, even when the math won’t agree. It’s tender, and it’s also the seed of their conflict.
“Pregnancy isn’t a bug to fix.” – Kim‑kim, refusing to let Mirae talk about herself like broken code Only a friend could say it this way, translating care into the language of their work. The line reframes the whole journey: not an outage, but a feature that demands refactoring. It also names what workplaces often miss—that care labor isn’t a glitch in productivity; it’s part of a human life cycle companies must plan around.
“Take a temporary break.” – Ong‑joong, in the tone that says it’s not a request The words are corporate velvet over a steel decision, and Mirae hears what’s really being offered: exit without severance. The scene highlights how policy can be crafted to look compassionate while nudging people out. You feel her power shrink as the sentence unspools, and you also feel the resolve that will rebuild it later.
“I need time to be happy with this.” – Mirae, finally naming her own pace It’s not a rejection of motherhood; it’s a demand for agency. In a culture that wants women to hurry into certainty, the line is radical in its softness. It reorients the movie around her voice, not anyone else’s timeline. If you’ve ever needed permission to find your balance before taking the next step, this is it—and it’s why you should watch Ten Months today.
Why It's Special
Ten Months opens like a warm conversation you didn’t know you needed—intimate, unhurried, and surprisingly funny for a story about life turning upside down. From the first scene, writer-director Namkoong Sun’s debut feels achingly real as we follow a 29-year-old game developer whose unexpected pregnancy collides with her plans, her workplace, and her sense of self. And it’s easy to press play right now: the film is streaming free with ads on The Roku Channel and Tubi, and you can rent or buy it on Apple TV; it’s also available on Netflix in Korea, making it easy for global viewers to discover.
Have you ever felt this way—caught between who you planned to be and who you might become? Ten Months sits with that feeling, letting small, specific moments breathe. A nervous pharmacy visit. A boss’s sideways glance. A dinner table where everyone has an opinion except the one that matters most. The film’s observational lens never shouts; it listens, and in listening, it invites you to listen to yourself, too.
What sets Ten Months apart is how tenderly it balances tones. The humor comes from truth, not punchlines—the awkward silences, the misread texts, the earnest but clumsy gestures of loved ones. When the drama lands, it does so without melodrama. That tonal grace makes the film welcoming to viewers who might shy away from “issue” movies, because it’s never didactic; it’s quietly persuasive.
The direction is deceptively simple. Namkoong Sun favors close, human frames that track the protagonist’s shrinking sense of space—at work, in the clinic, even in her own apartment. The visual language turns corridors into choices and doorways into thresholds. You don’t just watch her decisions; you feel the corners she’s backed into.
Sound plays an understated but crucial role. The score—credited to Byul.org with contributions from the director—gently nudges emotion without commandeering it, like a friend who walks beside you rather than dragging you along. In scenes where words fail, the music holds the silence, letting uncertainty sound like an actual state of being.
The writing respects ambiguity. Instead of neat answers, Ten Months offers honest questions: What does “choice” mean when every option is costly? How do love and obligation coexist? Is adulthood a destination or a balancing act we renegotiate daily? The script trusts us to sit with discomfort, and in that trust, it finds catharsis.
Above all, the film feels deeply lived-in thanks to performances that carry the story’s emotional weather with astonishing precision. You’ll recognize friends, partners, coworkers, maybe even parts of yourself. The result is a viewing experience that’s as gently entertaining as it is quietly radical, the kind of movie that lingers in your thoughts on the commute, in the grocery aisle, and long after the credits roll.
Popularity & Reception
Ten Months first turned heads on the festival circuit, premiering in the Korean Cinema section of the Jeonju International Film Festival in 2020. That early spotlight positioned the film as a delicate, conversation-starting indie—one whose questions about work, family, and autonomy resonated beyond Korea’s borders.
In August 2021, the film was the only Korean title selected for the competitive Uncaged section at the New York Asian Film Festival, a significant nod that helped it connect with North American audiences discovering contemporary Korean indie cinema. The same season, it traveled to the Hawaii International Film Festival’s “Spotlight on Korea,” where jurors awarded it an Honorable Mention, underlining how its grounded storytelling cut across cultures.
Critics highlighted its compassionate eye and nimble tone. Korea JoongAng Daily praised the movie’s unflinching look at pregnancy and social expectations, even suggesting it belongs in sex-education conversations—evidence of how meaningfully it engages public discourse without losing sight of character. Western outlets echoed that sentiment, with reviewers noting how fresh the approach feels despite familiar dramatic beats.
Audience word-of-mouth grew organically as the film reached more platforms. On Rotten Tomatoes—a useful snapshot for U.S. viewers—critics singled out its blend of humor and empathy, and as the movie expanded onto ad-supported streamers, casual viewers amplified those reactions on social feeds and in community forums, often praising how “seen” they felt by its everyday details.
Awards followed the praise. Most notably, rising star Choi Sung-eun earned Best New Actress at the 31st Buil Film Awards and a Baeksang Arts Awards nomination for her turn as Mi-rae. The film’s festival mentions at NYAFF and HIFF, along with nominations for Best New Director and Best Screenplay, cemented its reputation as a breakout debut worth seeking out.
Cast & Fun Facts
When you first meet Choi Sung-eun as Mi-rae, she doesn’t announce herself as a capital-P Protagonist; she arrives like someone you might sit beside on the subway. That restraint is her power. Choi builds Mi-rae from micro-gestures—hesitations mid-sentence, the way she hovers at the edge of a room—until the character’s inner life becomes undeniable. It’s a performance that invites empathy rather than pleading for it.
Choi’s industry recognition reflects that impact. She won Best New Actress at the Buil Film Awards and earned a Baeksang nomination for this role, while profiles abroad have since championed her as an actor to watch. If you’ve admired her in later projects, Ten Months is where you see that promise crystallize—raw, precise, and remarkably assured for a debut lead.
As Mi-rae’s boyfriend, Seo Young-joo plays Yoon-ho with disarming sincerity. He’s not a villain; he’s a young man convinced that quick fixes—marriage, a return to his parents’ farm—can steady a ship already taking on water. Seo captures how love can be genuine and still be unhelpful when it doesn’t listen.
Seo’s performance gives the film crucial texture. By resisting easy caricature, he allows the story to probe a thornier truth: good intentions aren’t the same as support. Scenes between Seo and Choi brim with awkward tenderness, revealing a couple trying to navigate adult life using tools they haven’t yet learned to hold.
Baek Hyun-jin is unforgettable as Dr. Ong-joong, the obstetrician whose bluntness both grounds and jolts Mi-rae. He’s the voice you meet in a fluorescent room when your life is suddenly measurable in weeks, centimeters, and heartbeats per minute. Baek’s dry wit punctures tension without trivializing it, a tonal lifeline the movie uses wisely.
Baek also functions as the film’s reality check. His scenes remind us that medical spaces can be both compassionate and clinical, and that a “routine” appointment rarely feels routine when your future is on the monitor. The character’s candor becomes a strange comfort—an anchor for Mi-rae and, by extension, for us.
As Mi-rae’s friend Kim-kim, Yoo Eden brings a spark that keeps the story buoyant. She’s funny, frank, and sometimes overwhelmed—exactly like the friend who texts you three different emojis because she can’t decide what to say. Yoo’s timing lands the film’s bittersweet humor, showing how friendship can be a soft place to land even when advice is messy.
Look closer and Kim-kim is also a mirror. Through Yoo’s performance, we glimpse the broader social swirl around Mi-rae—peers juggling relationships, rent, and the relentless calculus of “the right time.” Those coffee-shop conversations aren’t filler; they’re the chorus that makes the solo possible.
A quick note about the filmmaker: Namkoong Sun writes and directs with the confidence of a veteran and the curiosity of a newcomer. Ten Months is her feature debut, developed through the Korea National University of Arts and premiered at Jeonju before moving through New York and Hawaii—an indie journey that matches the movie’s patient, people-first ethos.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
Ten Months is the rare film that meets you where you are—whether you’re navigating big choices, supporting someone who is, or simply remembering a time when life didn’t fit the plan. If themes like budgeting for a baby, comparing health insurance quotes, or talking through life insurance feel daunting, the movie’s gentle honesty might be the nudge toward conversations you’ve been postponing. It also pairs beautifully with a quiet evening and your favorite snack—no heavy prerequisites, just open-hearted storytelling. Have you ever felt this way, caught between fear and tenderness? Let this film sit beside you for a while.
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