Hi There! Welcome to my first blog!

Books, Words, and Me

I grew up in a house where I was kind of forced to read and judged for not reading enough—thanks to my mom, the _influencer_ of the house. Our living room was always filled with books; even the drawers were packed. Decluttering them became a weekly family challenge. Still, every Sunday, we’d go to the library, borrow 20 books, and return them the next week.

Maybe because I wasn’t going voluntarily—just tagging along with my mom. I never really picked up the habit. And for a long time, I felt insecure for not reading enough.

Now, almost eight years since leaving those rituals behind, I’ve somehow picked up reading again. It started with books, then Threads, Medium, Substack. The fulfillment I found in reading became another form of articulation which is a way to find the right words for all of my emotions.

My favorite Korean fiction writer, Yung-Ha Kim, once said in an interview:

“Why do people need to read fiction?”

His answer still feels eye-opening to me:

“You learn the ability to articulate yourself and give those emotions a name.”

A few years ago, I used to carry this heavy, complicated, and ill feeling. It was so painfully uncomfortable that I couldn’t even think about it, let alone digest it. But it didn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t put any words to it. I could only feel it. It was so hard to explain to my friends or even write about it in my journal because I had no idea how to describe it.

I used to say it felt like a mess of knotted threads — pulling tighter with each attempt to separate them. The more I tried to unravel, the more tangled it became.

Years later, I didn’t even mean to, but I started to notice and name those feelings. It came with time but also with the practice of reading. That ability lifted so much weight off my shoulders. What helped me most was reading about people in seemingly similar positions. Even if the culture, language, or circumstances were different, the emotional core resonated. Sometimes it was a beautifully articulated character in fiction. Sometimes it was just a random article online. But it made me feel less alone.

Dear all the notebooks that I never finished,

Journaling has always been one of my oldest hobbies. I was the kid who loved buying new notebooks for no reason—and often got scolded for not finishing the last one. That tiny notebook was my secret playground, a little outlet for venting emotions and writing fiction (mostly about my teenage crushes, lol).

At one point, I was obsessed with the Japanese manga Detective Conan. I couldn’t wait for the next issue, so I started writing my own stories. That’s how I spent most of my time back then. Sometimes, a friend or family member would find my notebook beside the bed and be shocked. Most of the content was raw, ugly, and unfiltered especially for an 11-year-old girl. I think because of that, I got a bit traumatized. I started writing more secretly and learned that ugly emotions should be hidden. Since then, I’ve often felt embarrassed for having negative feelings and writing slowly became an insecurity.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about publishing some of my journals. Not just to share, but to archive. The fun part of journaling as a long-time habit is that I get to see what I was thinking back then. Emotions are evaporative. Over time, they get reshaped or even forgotten. It's our brain’s way of protecting us. Still, when I look back at old entries, the once-heavy feelings are just some text now. And I think: _It's funny that I was agonizing over this( or usually a person) back then. It doesn’t bother me anymore._ It’s a really encouraging feeling.

[A shot of my bedside table at the moment. ]

Finally, after almost 15 years of writing just for myself and thanks to high-tech tools that fix my awful grammar. I’ve found the courage to share my stories. To connect with the people who helped me before, and the people I might help from now on.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” — Albert Camus

This is where it starts. Letting you in on what I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’ll stay surface-level sometimes, or go really deep. My odd way of thinking or telling stories might disappoint you. Or make you laugh. Either way—I like writing.

And I hope you’ll enjoy it too.