To me, one of the most piercing truths of life is that we don’t have the chance to start again. We can only learn as we walk the path, and any lessons we learn or healing we begin can only ever be taken forward, never taken back to the start. It seems almost cruel that it takes a lifetime to learn how we want to live our lives. 

During my early 20s I used to share a reflection on my birthday about all the things I had learned in that year (see years 21, 22, 23, and 24). However, as I moved through my late 20s I questioned the value of such reflection and sharing. For a period of time, I struggled to know what power words have. I have always found that words, especially written words, create a world that I enjoy being in more than anywhere else. In elementary school I used to write stories that my teachers would then let me read in front of the class. In middle school I began to blog. Through college I continued playing with words as I learned philosophy and theology. In Korea, I learned how to teach and acquire language, which showed me a whole new side of what words could be. But despite all of this, I know that words can also be cheap, shallow, empty, or simply convoluted nonsense. I think I’m slowly coming around to a middleground where I’m realizing that words, while not impermeable, can indeed possess depth and strength. Dutech writer Etty Hillesum further imposed this upon me when she wrote in her diary during the Holocaust: 

“It is strange to think that … [the poet Rainer Maria Rilke] would perhaps have been broken by the circumstances in which we now live [Dutch Jews soon to be sent to Auschwitz]. Is that not further testimony that life is finely balanced? Evidence that, in peaceful times and under favorable circumstances, sensitive artists may search for the purest and most fitting expression of their deepest thoughts so that, during more turbulent and debilitating times, others can turn to them for support and a ready response to their bewildered questions? A response they are unable to formulate for themselves since all their energies are taken up in looking after the bare necessities. Sadly, in difficult times we tend to shrug off the spiritual heritage of artists from an “easier” age, with “what use is that sort of thing to us now?”

An Interrupted Life, The Diaries of Etty Hillesum, 1941-1943

I’m not under the delusion that my reflective piece carries anywhere near the clarity nor gravity that Rilke’s words would have for Etty Hillesum. But I have learned that I enjoy sharing these words and that they offer something—at the very least to an older version of myself who may be unable to formulate them for himself in a moment when all his energies are taken up in looking after the bare necessities. 

Last year on my birthday, I was in the midst of finishing my master’s thesis while Hyojin and I were preparing to move back to the US so she could finish her master’s program on campus in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I had no way of knowing it while we were out for a celebratory birthday lunch and coffee, but September became the begining of what would end up being a tumultuous year. 

It has been a year filled with learnings about community and culture, as well as mental and physical health. I realized many of the emotions and memories I had left in the US while I was in Korea were not gone, but simply out of sight. I was 21 when I arrived in Korea and I stayed for over seven years, so when I came back after spending nearly my entire 20s abroad, I was met with a pantheon of identities, feelings, and memories that I hadn’t been forced to become familiar with. 

Linguistic Belonging

While in Korea, learning Korean was a very important aspect of my life. I not only wanted to learn the words and grammar, but also acquire the ability to navigate the myriad of institutions and relationships that a competent adult should be able to navigate in Korea. I wanted autonomy. To do this, I took the single piece of advice offered by every person whom I had seen actually do it: immerse yourself and avoid English. I must admit I couldn’t stick to this rule perfectly because there were times I simply needed the familiarity and emotional resonance of English. However, for seven years my diet of daily conversations and media gradually began to contain less and less English. This had the unintended consequence for me of not being well-versed in much of the news or popular culture in the US (not that I ever was a culturally savvy person!). This meant that when I came back to the US in December 2022, I didn’t have a lot of the contextual knowledge that makes polite conversation easy. 

In addition to this, I went from speaking with other native English speakers maybe once every month or two, to interacting with dozens of native English speakers every day after returning to the US. Of course I didn’t have any difficulty understanding anyone, but I wasn’t used to the rhythm and flow that many of these conversations had. I felt out of place in my own language. If you’ve never experienced this, it may sound odd, but language attrition is a real thing. Through all of this, I learned what both having and lacking a sense of “linguistic belonging” feels like.

Between Chasms

Beyond the linguistic aspect of coming back to the U.S., I also encountered a deeper sense of confusion and uncertainty about the trajectory of my life in general. This was catalyzed by thesis anxieties and exacerbated by moving anxieties, but even after arriving in the US, I spent several months waking up at 3am engulfed by a sense of panic that opened into a bottomless ocean devoid of any sense of purpose, belonging, or goodness. I found myself clinging to a thin thread of daily chores and work routines as I tried to pass over the twin chasms of my personal struggles with family, identity, and vocation on the one side, and the existential anxieties of a future with a degrading climate, intensifying inequality, and increasing geopolitical conflict in the region I called home for so many years on the other side. 

Life contains an absurd contradiction. Like French philosopher Albert Camus talks about in his 1942 essay The Myth of Sisyphus, people seek meaning and purpose, yet the visible universe answers with nothing more than inherent meaninglessness and indifference. The mental gymnastics of most faiths and existential philosophies try to leap over this immutable chasm—attempting to bridge our need for meaning and the world’s seeming meaninglessness. The truth as I see it is that no way of making sense of life ultimately clears this chasm. All creeds, arguments, beliefs, and paradigms leave us falling short at some point. However, I don’t think this means we ought to freely allow despair to seep into our bodies. No. I think we should find the path that allows us to simply continue walking. We should find a way of making meaning in life that simply functions for us. In my experience, the approaches to life that are most resilient in moments of pain, confusion, and sadness are in themselves a bit of a contradiction. Be it Christian mystic traditions, secular forms of cognitive behavioral therapy, or Buddhist mindfulness practices, all of these ways of understanding life seem to share a focus of accepting that life contains suffering while also calling us to commit to continuing forward towards connection and liberation. As Thích Nhất Hạnh, the revered Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk and peace activist, says, “The ocean of suffering is immense, but if you turn around, you can see the land.”

Seeing the land

I spent many days this year asking myself some version of the same question: in a world that is fragile and hostile, what is solid and durable enough to hold on to? Where is the land? Those we love may betray us, our bodies will degrade, our work will eventually wither and perish, and the deep problems in our world are complex and entrenched in ways that prevent us as individuals from influencing in a significant way. Our thoughts are susceptible to our moods, which are fickle and erratic. It is also exceedingly difficult to ensure that our good intentions manifest in the world as we hope they would, rather than causing more harm. This is the truth that life is characterized by suffering, dissatisfaction, and impermanence. Then what power do we have to hold on to? This question gripped me as I felt myself swirling between languages, cultures, and communities, wondering if my atypical path through my 20s was the right path.

Through this year, I’ve come to believe one of the deepest powers we have to hold on to is our choices. Our choices may not always be ideal, abundant, or fair, but we can always choose. This year I’ve learned that our choices are the steps that pull us through difficult moments of change. I learned that in order to make wise choices we have to have clarity. But fear, anxiety, rigid thoughts, and all the bumps along the road make it very hard to be clear, which makes it hard to know how to choose. Part of the healing I have begun this year is mourning having parents who were unable to teach me how to be clear and how to choose wisely, and accepting that we simply don’t get to choose our parents. I’ve learned that we can only choose our teachers and those with whom we walk along bumpy roads. Compassionate teachers and wise friends help us remember that before we climb a mountain or pick up heavy things we have to have our feet firmly set on the ground and take care to breathe well. Doing that easy thing helps us do those hard things. 

I’m also learning through this year that developing the mental flexibility to let go of rigid paradigms and gain some space from my internal dictator is enabling me to walk through a complex world a little bit more simply. Through conversations with a patient and insightful therapist, I came to see that much of what I had left in the US while in Korea was unhealed trauma from the domestic abuse I had been exposed to while growing up. I’ve learned that wounded parts don’t diminish with time or distance. All we can do is begin to heal those parts going forward in order to off load the weight they carry. Then we begin to gain the flexibility to be present in our lives without needless or maladapted internal defenses.

Finally, I’m learning that in a world that is too often cold and precarious, gratitude burns with enough warmth and light to offer some perspective. My wellbeing relies on holding the tension between striving to heal much of what is broken and build something better, while simultaneously expressing gratitude for the labor of those who have come before, the generosity of those next to me, and the wisdom of those who come behind me. I’m grateful for all the people who have walked, eaten, spoken, and shared time with me this year.

I’m beginning to learn that with a bit of agency, flexibility, and gratitude it might be feasible to turn around and see the land.

Years of Learning

To me, one of the most piercing truths of life is that we don’t have the chance to start again. We can only learn as we walk the path, and any lessons we learn or healing we begin can only ever be taken forward, never taken back to the start. It seems almost cruel that it takes a lifetime to learn how we want to live our lives. But I am also beginning to understand that part of the beauty and a deep source of power in life is our ability to continue learning. We never have to stop noticing, listening, or asking as we walk the path with those we care about. Perhaps this is also a small patch of land in the ocean where we can take refuge.