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Wow. Monday morning. A new chapter begins. And oh, how much I love Mondays.

As I pulled the blinds open this morning, expecting to see the endless blue sky stretching wide above me and the Han River shining like a silvery blue ribbon below. But to my surprise, the sky was so grey and heavy, almost like my own thoughts these past few weeks. The river, usually so clear and the bluest color I’ve ever seen, was muddy from the weekend’s rains.

Even the most beautiful things in nature have their off days, don’t they?

For a moment, I wondered how they would clean this up and how the water would ever go back to its brilliant blue – my favourite blue. But then I smiled at my own thought. Silly me!! Nature doesn’t need any fixing. It knows how to heal. The dirt will settle and become a layer at the bed, perhaps? The current will carry away what doesn’t belong. And soon, the river will be so clear again that we’ll see our reflections dancing on its surface.

Maybe that’s how it is for us, too.

The storms we face in life stir things up inside us. They make our thoughts and emotions cloudy, heavy, so hard to see through. But in time, the chaos usually calms. The dust eventuallly settles, and sometimes become a part of us, leaving us behind with a stronger, steadier version of ourselves.

These past few weeks have been tough; both personally and professionally. Some days felt like I was wading through murky water, unsure if it would ever clear.

But just like the river, I’m learning to let the dust settle. To trust that the turbulence has a purpose. That even the mess becomes part of the story. My story.

And slowly, clarity might return. The heaviness will lift. The water might soften into its blueness again.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like — not rushing to fix what’s broken, but allowing time to do its quiet work.

Soon, the river will reflect the sky again. And so will I.

I am as used to chasing time as you are!

Chasing mornings, deadlines, dreams, and the my ever-growing to-do lists.

It feels like the clock is always ticking; urging me to do more, achieve faster, and catch up to some invisible finish line, lline after line.

But here’s a thought: What if the clock only ticks because we allow it to?

What if time isn’t running out?

What if all of this isn’t a race?

The world is exactly where you left it before resting your head on that sweet pillow last night.

There is nothing you have missed.

Or better yet, there is nothing you could have missed.

We live in a constant state of urgency. Notifications ping while we sleep. Messages stack up. The fear of falling behind creeps in, even as our bodies beg for rest.

But here’s another perception of mine: What if time slows when you slow down?

The clock stops ticking when you want it to.

What if when you close your eyes and let yourself surrender, nothing falls apart?

What if the sun still rises?

And the sky still opens wide.

What if the people who love you still do.

And you didn’t miss your chance.

Or lose your place.

What if you’re not late for life?

What if the most beautiful parts of life will wait for you?

As long as you need. As much as you need.

I never thought I’d say this out loud.

But thank you.
Thank you for breaking me.

For the longest time, I carried so much anger, pain and questions in my heart that it felt like I was breathing through splinters. I replayed conversations in my head. The betrayal. The rejection. The manipulation. The silence that felt louder than screams. And every time, I thought — this isn’t fair.

But fairness has nothing to do with it.
Life isn’t about fair. It’s about becoming.

I used to think that breaking was the end. That once the pieces of me scattered across the floor, I would never find them again. I clung to the idea of “whole” like it was something someone else could give me back. But here’s what I know now: no one can hand you back what they already broke.

The people who hurt me didn’t destroy me.
They stripped away the layers of who I wasn’t.

Their absence forced me to sit with myself. To meet the parts of me I had been avoiding — the scared, messy, angry, lonely parts. It was uncomfortable. It was painful. And it was the beginning of something I can only describe as… freedom.

I won’t lie to you. Healing wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t morning yoga and herbal tea and forgiving smiles.
It was ugly.
It was crying on the bathroom floor, questioning my worth, rewriting stories I didn’t want to admit I had believed about myself for years.

But here’s the beautiful, terrible truth: you can only rebuild when you’ve allowed yourself to break.

I didn’t know it then, but those fractures became the blueprint for the person I was always meant to become. The one I see now in the mirror — stronger, softer, truer.

This isn’t about glorifying pain. Or pretending what happened didn’t hurt.
It’s about choosing not to stay there.
It’s about saying: you hurt me, but you don’t get to define me.

To the ones who broke me: thank you.
Without knowing it, you pointed me back to myself.

I’ve been writing about this a lot lately — trying to make sense of it all. Maybe one day soon I’ll share more. It’s all part of something I’m working on.

And I think you’ll feel it too.

July 09, 2025

Still in pieces,

That’s me!

A few days ago, a friend texted me:

“Half a year just flew by.”

And it wasn’t until I read that message that I paused — really paused — and realized: Wait, what?

Time really does fly, even when the days were endless. Even when your to-do lists seem to refill themselves overnight. Even when your emotions are too heavy, or too much, or oddly… both.

Looking back now, it’s strange how the things that once felt unbearably heavy don’t weigh the same anymore. They still exist, as a part of the story but something’s shifted. The volume’s turned down. The edges aren’t as sharp. It doesn’t hurt (or bother?) as much as it did.

Maybe that’s what time does.

It gives you distance.

It gives you perspective.

It teaches you to zoom out. (I wonder why aren’t we calling Time as Magic already?)

It also reminds me of a reel I watched on Instagram the other day. It asked:

“If someone offered to erase all your past challenges but also erased the strength you gained from overcoming them; would you say yes?”

Wow! That really did blow my mind. I didn’t even hesitate. No. Absolutely not. As hard as some moments were, they changed me. They softened me in some places, and toughened me in others. No I wouldn’t undo any of it. Not even for fewer tears or easier days.

Now that July is here, I’m giving myself a soft reset. Not the dramatic, resolution-packed kind. Just… a pause. A breath. A check-in.

What do I want the next half of the year to feel like?

What do I want to carry forward?

What have I learned so far that I don’t want to forget?

Some answers are clear. Others are still hiding. (I’ve never liked treasure hunts — but here I am, searching anyway.)

I don’t know what the next six months will hold. But I do know this:

I want to be present. Not just when things are calm and Instagram-worthy but even when life feels chaotic, clumsy, and unclear. I want to become the next version of myself. Not the “best” version because honestly, what even is that? Just a version more honest, more aligned, more me.

I want to say no more often — without guilt or over-explaining.

I DO want to protect my peace and my energy.

I ALSO want to keep the promises I’ve quietly made to myself.

I want to move my body more; not for how it looks, but for how I feel when I do. Clearer. Grounded. Strong. (Yes, the Leo in me loves that feeling of fire and strength.)

I want to stay close to my people; the ones who’ve stayed close to me. The ones who remind me who I am when I forget.

And most of all, I want to stay close to the woman I see in the mirror every morning. I want to keep showing up for her — gently, patiently, lovingly.

So no, this cup isn’t overflowing yet. But it’s not empty either.

It’s perfectly half full — with gratitude, growth, questions, doubts, hope, softness, strength… and everything else that makes me me.

And for now, that’s enough. That’s more than enough to keep going.

What about you?

What are you taking into the next half of this year?

What are you letting go of?

And what’s one quiet promise you want to keep for yourself?

Maybe this new chapter is not about finding answers about others. Maybe it’s about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need them all. The kind of person who trusts that sometimes not knowing is a form of wisdom. That uncertainty is just another form of becoming.

There are things I used to carry like shadows; quiet, heavy, and invisible to everyone but me. They lived in the corners of my chest, tugging at me in the middle of silent nights and loud days. But I am learning. I am unlearning.

If you’ve ever felt lost, or in transition, or like you’re starting over again for the hundredth time;
this book is for you.
It doesn’t promise answers.
It doesn’t offer a map.
But it offers a company on the ride.

I met my younger self for coffee today.
She was an hour late, but I came in a little early.

“She must be choosing her shoes.”
I thought to myself as I scribbled in my diary.

Finally, she walked in with her glowing face and glimmering confidence.
I waved at her as she continued to look for me in the corner.

She was dressed in vibrant bold red.
I preferred the quiet confidence of black.

She waltzed in her six-inch glittery black stilettos
while I sat comfortably in my white sneakers.

Her bag was so perfect but too tiny for me.
I showed her mine, full of dreams and limitless possibilities.

She carried a book with her; of course, she loved reading so much.
I showed her the first one I published.

Her eyes were filled with countless questions.
I smiled at her and said, “You’ll find out.”

She was careful, measuring her words, always trying to please.
I told her to be honest and let things be.

Her coffee order was dolce with extra sugar.
Mine was hazelnut with no syrup.

She wanted to try every path.
I advised her to choose one and go with all her heart.

She feared so many things.
I reminded her to believe in herself.

She held onto regrets and traumas I can barely recall now.
I told her to let go and see the magic in freedom.

She dreamed of achieving a million things.
I smiled and said, “Let’s settle for ten thousand, please.”

She showed me the places on her bucket list.
I showed her the pictures of those on my phone.

She was both a mess and a masterpiece.
A tear rolled down my right eye as I saw, for the first time, so much beauty in chaos.

She loved roses.
I loved peonies.

She cared a little too much about how she appeared.
I reminded her that beauty always reflects from within.

She poured herself into others, always giving.
I told her, “That’s not my cup of coffee anymore.”

She was always a good writer but didn’t know where to start.
I showed her the first book that inspired me to write.

She was afraid to tell her story.
I placed a little courage in her hands.

She was hesitant to let the world in.
I whispered, “Open up, it’s okay.”

She was surrounded by laughter, by voices filling the space around her.
I introduced her to my own sweet little world.

She bragged a little about the loved ones who always had her back.
I wanted to tell her about the people who stayed when the seasons change.

She was fearless but afraid of losing too much.
I reminded her not to lose herself while holding on too tight.

She wanted all the answers at once.
I taught her to trust the unfolding.

She was bruised a little, carrying her pain quietly.
I helped her write it down instead.

She still smiled through her pain, keeping it like a secret.
I reminded her, “It’s okay to cry too.”

She always picked a corner seat far away and safe.
I taught her how to make her own place.

She looked a little anxious sometimes.
I taught her to slow down and breathe.

Her room was overflowing with chic bags and glittery heels.
Mine was filled with space – and a lot of space.

She looked at me in shock. “That could never be me,” she said.
I smiled but couldn’t disagree.

She absorbed everything carefully, taking it all in like a sponge.
I taught her how to let it all out into words.

She hesitated, just like she always did.
But for the first time, she wanted to try.

She carried so much stuff, thinking she needed it all.
I showed her my magical bag – full of love, memories and so many sparkles.

Her calendar was packed with a million things.
I reminded her to add a few “do nothing” days.

She loved being on the top of the world – with tall skyscrapers and city lights.
I laughed and said, “Wait until you get on that pole.”

She always searched for love in people and places.
I showed her the tattoo on my shoulder.

She played me her playlist.
I told her, I still listen to hers whenever I missed her.

She loved dressing her barbie dolls.
And I showed her the same in my wardrobe.

She was afraid to share everything with her mom.
I told her, “Mom is my best friend now.”

She painted sunsets in her drawing book.
I showed her the most picturesque view outside my window.

She always waited for people to include her in their plans.
I showed her how to create her own.

She doubted me a little.
So, I handed her one of my magical pouches.

She peeked inside and found nothing but glitter.
I smiled and whispered, “I gave you the magic. You’ll fill it up yourself.”

As she hurried off to her next plan, she apologized once again for being fashionably late.
I smiled and thanked her wholeheartedly, for giving me the perfect moment to write my favorite piece.

P.S. This poem is inspired by Jennae Cecelia’s Deep in My Feels.
I’d love to see your version of it!

Okay, I must confess — I am not the best with directions sometimes.

Most of the time, maybe.

But not all the time.

There’s still that 0.0001% when I’m actually right. But I don’t brag about it.

But maybe, just maybe, life isn’t about always knowing the way. Maybe it’s about getting lost, seeing unexpected sights, taking the longest route, and realizing that even wrong turns can lead to the right moments.

This poem is for everyone who has ever felt lost — whether on the road or in life.

My Left or Your Right?

You say go left, I heard, go right,

Now I am more lost, but what a beautiful sight!

You point this way, and I take that one.

Maps confuse me, what’s North or South?

Just say left or right!

“Wait, my left or your right?”

Turn around? Maybe try again?

Wait… wasn’t this where I began?

Okay, nonetheless – let’s start again!

So, my North is your South, and your East is my West,

Which way’s faster? Let’s just take a guess!

But wasn’t the last guess a complete mess?

I give up and just took the longest way,

I’ll get there… MAYBE someday.

Or maybe I won’t. But who really can tell?

And speaking of getting lost… I just finished writing my next book, all because I got completely lost on my Japan trip last year. What was meant to be a straightforward journey turned into an adventure of wrong turns, beautiful surprises, and unexpected inspiration.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it all — sometimes, we need to take the wrong path to find the right story.

When was the last time you were completely lost but found something incredibly beautiful?

Elegance in darkness? They would call me silly to admire the darkness in life…

Whenever you think of the word dark, what’s the first emotion that comes to your mind? Hopelessness? Fear? Uncertainty? Or if you’re going through a rough, bumpy road, you might also relate it to pain. That’s what I exactly thought as I stepped into the elevator on my way to work this morning. The elevator was dark, but its edges glowed with soft, beaming lights — just like my thoughts, flickering between shadow and clarity.

My mind was clouded with thoughts, swirling with affirmations to forgive myself and others as I move on to this new chapter in life. A chapter I want to be beautiful. A chapter I will make beautiful.

Since I came in a little early, I wanted to spend this time reading something good — or at least that’s what the app on my phone reminded me to do. And what are the odds that the book I opened was In Praise of Shadows by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki?

A book that speaks volumes about the shadows and darkness.

And the best thing I read in it was — elegance in darkness — and it just stuck with me.

Like how important it is to be in the dark, where no one can find you. Or even try to find you if they wanted to.

Of course, it’s painful. It’s full of uncertainty. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, thick with the clouds of anxiety and questions no one seems to have answers for. But nobody talks about how important it is to experience this pain.

You won’t know the light unless you have passed through the darkest tunnel.

You won’t look within unless the world has shut all its doors in your face.

You won’t find the resilience within you unless you’ve battled the kind of emotions that pull you down like a sinking stone, dragging you to the bed of the ocean, deeper than you ever thought you could go.

You won’t discover your own strength unless you’ve had to hold yourself up when there was nothing left to lean on.

You won’t see the rainbows unless you’ve stood through the storm.

Why does no one talk about the elegance of darkness?

And the person you become after you pass through the darkest storms?

Maybe because it’s not seen. It’s felt. And if you’re in the tunnel right now, don’t rush through it. There’s elegance in the darkness too. The kind of elegance you’ll see only when you reach the end of this tunnel!

So hang in there, a little more. I promise it’s beautiful out here!