#parentInnaebaby: the ninth month

I had planned to write about how juggling work and caring for a young baby were wreaking havoc on my mental capacity. I had planned to write about the wonder of watching a helpless infant become a more plucky, mobile baby.

And now all I can think to write about is the world that baby #ESLee will grow up in if we don’t take a stand.

By ‘we,’ I really mean me.

Throughout today I kept seeing names pop up on social media:

George Floyd.

Christian Cooper.

Amidst the busyness of work and the whining screams of my 9-month-old, I pushed the names aside and told myself I’d read up on what happened later.

Later came, right before dinner.

I lost my appetite.

Breonna Taylor.

Kenneth Walker.

Ahmaud Arbery.

I recently finished Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, and as beautiful and poignant as it was, it took me awhile to finish. I felt forced to put it down and step away frequently. The pain – felt even as a reader who didn’t carry this history in my ancestry – was overwhelming.

But I can’t put this real book down.

—

There are days when I’ve thought about the benefits my race gives me, as I naively assume the model minority stereotype can provide a hall pass. Until this global pandemic, I figured we were “lucky.” Even within seemingly harmless stereotypes like Asians’ skill at math lie oppression and the power of someone else to judge and dictate who we are. Now, when you read and hear of the hate crimes toward Asians and Asian-Americans in the U.S., there is no such thing as luck. We are not safe; no minority is.

What does this mean for my daughter? I feel a responsibility now that I haven’t felt before. As cliche as it may sound, everything I consider and reflect upon is now viewed through the lens of being a mother. This can not be her future. I don’t want to look her in the eye in 20 years and say, “I did nothing.”

So, where to begin?

This is a broken world, and I am a part of it. As a character in Homegoing says,

“…Sometimes you cannot see that the evil in the world began as the evil in your home.”

I am not calling myself the source of evil. But to work towards an end means I must acknowledge ways I am contributing to that evil. Right now, that looks like complicity, silence, and/or ignorance.

Tomorrow? Instead of pointing the finger at others, I hope to turn the mirror on myself. More than berating others, I hope my words will bring wisdom and orient towards love. I will feel, think, speak and act in response to the wrong and in pursuit of what is right.

Daughter, I hope you’ll be proud.

#parentInnaebaby: the 8th Month*

*and many months prior too.

 

It’s been almost 6 months since I last posted, and since then, parenting has looked so, so different. Half a year is an eternity in a baby’s life, and each day feels endless as we confine ourselves to home. As the saying goes, the days are long, but the years are short, and right now, I am praying for that latter brevity as the world around us shelters away from a virus from which we don’t have protection yet.

But this is about parenting.

Or is it?

This week I took a very proactive step towards ‘claiming’ my old life back. As if something were so easy – as if I could still attend happy hours and window shop and aimlessly wander around city streets for hours on end. That’s not to come for awhile. But in pursuit of some semblance of independence, I did it.

I ate some dried sage.

It may mean nothing to you, but it means everything to me.

Disclaimer: if you would prefer not to read about one mom’s journey of breastfeeding, please skip ahead to next ‘month’ (an arbitrary time estimate given I don’t have too much free time to write nowadays). No offense will be taken. However, inevitably, as a mother, this is one of the most significant parts of the first year of this new life.

As shared by the highly revered Kelly of Kellymom.com, sage is a natural way to decrease one’s milk supply. The warning is to ONLY take this if a mother is in the process of weaning. Take 1/4 of a teaspoon 3x a day for 1-3 days (wide range, if you ask me), and milk production should lessen. And for me, this small dosage didn’t come without a lot of consideration.

The last eight months have been a rollercoaster because of my journey with breastfeeding. Before #ESLee was born, I told myself I would be 100% fine with feeding her formula. I’d do my best to breastfeed, and if it didn’t happen, I would go to the pantry.

Then post-partum, somewhere between her birth and a few weeks in, formula became the enemy. It meant failure. And I refused to give in, even if it meant multi-weekly sessions to a lactation consultant (LC) and two breastfeeding support groups, ongoing pain that was never ever quite explained by any OB or LC, both my mom and sister forcefully kneading my breast to try to get the clogs out, and the tension between my husband and me when he tried to gently urge me to cut myself some slack.

The problem was not that I didn’t have enough. I had too much. This led to perpetual stress about the balance between nourishing my daughter’s body and manipulating mine so not to encourage further overproduction. The worry weighed on me for 8 months, causing almost more pain than breastfeeding itself.

And then a day after celebrating my motherhood with the rest of the country, I chose to lean away from this innate part of being a mom.

The feelings are oh-so-mixed. The WHO recommends breastfeeding for at least the first two years of a child’s life. On the flip side, research by Emily Oster placates me though I know the #momguilt is lurking in the shadows. Each time I nurse my daughter, I feel a pang of fear. Will this be the last time I get to do this? Watching the contentedness cross her face as she is nestled close to me is a pretty indescribable euphoria – and yet that moment is so frequently interrupted by mental and physical anxiety.

I know that to be a better mother, I am allowed to be selfish at times. And perhaps this is one of those times. I can’t promise I won’t regret this, but I can promise there will be moments of relief and gratitude to my own self for making this decision.

The pendulum of parenting.

#parentinnaebaby: the Third Month

It’s time for the 90 day review, isn’t it.

We are three months in. Baby is thriving and kicking – and boy, is she kicking! The changing table is her favorite place to create a ruckus, both with her legs… and in her diaper.

The days have gotten easier, and the nights even better. I apparently didn’t jinx myself with the last blog post, and despite napping horribly during the day, baby E is now down to one nighttime wake-up.

As I am a highly scheduled person, this consistency jives well with my desire for routine and regularity. So when you nap in your swing for 2 hours straight on Monday, you should do the same on Tuesday.

That’s not how baby E works.

She will sleep for 2 hours in the swing Monday, then cry indignantly in it on Tuesday, while laughing gleefully at the mirror above her head on Wednesday. Thursday she’ll sleep in it for 30 minutes, and Friday…  who sleeps on Friday?

It. Drives. Me. Nuts. And we’re still years away from the drama-filled saga of teenagehood and adolescence.

A key example of this was Halloween.

• Mama was super excited to go to a friend’s house to socialize with other adults over pizza and beer, oohing and aahing over #babiesincostume (one of my current Pinterest boards, for the record). Mama had purchased Baby’s costume weeks prior, and even scrapped together basic DIY parent outfits to match.
• Baby decided to continue her trend of not napping well during the day, finally falling asleep at 4:30 p.m. The day before, she slept 20 minutes at the same time.
• Dada was on his way home.
• Soon, the whole family would go to enjoy the spooky festivities together.

Four hours later, us parents sat in front of an empty frozen pizza box in our living room.

The disappointment was surprisingly overwhelming. I didn’t realize how much I was looking forward to a simple event, and soon a pile of crumpled tissues fell into the pizza box. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I cried because I didn’t get my way.

For so long, I was able to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted however I wanted. I even fought the idea of this surrender in marriage, still craving that independent life. Now with a baby that was wholly dependent on me and her dad, I knew I had to let it go.

There will be more pizza get-togethers and Halloweens. And there will also be naps that happen and naps that don’t. Through it all, I need to meet her where she is. Such an obvious lesson, and yet it took the disappointment of a missed costume party to finally accept that my way would no longer be the high way. Instead, it would be important to find the way that would work for all three of us.

Which meant: wearing her costume in November. Because why not?

 

#narwhalsofNovember

#parentinnaebaby: the Second Month

“It gets easier.”

“The first two months are the worst.”

“Milk supply usually regulates around the 6-8 week mark.”

 

Lo and behold, our family has arrived at this nirvana.

Does it feel different?

Honestly, yes. I haven’t had a painful clogged duct in a week and a half, my diaper changing speed is exponentially faster, and there are fewer cry sessions in the dark.* As of this writing, I am scared to share that our baby slept a nearly 7-hour stretch last night for fear of jinxing myself tonight.

This blog is becoming an outlet and avenue for me to reflect, and I’m grateful for it. Granted, it’s a bit curated for you – thanks for reading! – but the thoughts and feelings are real. Otherwise I confess I might choose to stay in a mind-numbing place and simply sleep or watch Netflix** whenever possible.

In looking back, I’ve realized that my husband and I have gone through a LOT as new parents. But this isn’t a self-pat on the back. There was no way we could have gotten through these two months without the help and support of Our People.

• People like my mom, who insisted on me napping every time I finished nursing (which was often), taking her granddaughter from my arms so that her own daughter could rest while managing to cook homemade meals every day for more than a month.
• People like our church community, from whom we received every single piece of necessary baby gear – from sleep sacks to giant swings – to ensure the transition was as smooth as possible.
• People who sent food delivery gift cards or brought home-cooked meals because I’ve pretty much only used the kitchen to clean pumping supplies and drink water.
• People like the family and friends who text and email and call us at all hours to just check in because they’re in a different time zone or on another continent or even here in the Bay Area because they’re nursing a baby at a godforsaken hour too. They also patiently waited for very-delayed responses as me replying to written communication in a timely fashion felt like a Herculean task.

These are Our People, and I realize God gave us these amazing human beings so that I wouldn’t give up on our mini human being. If we can raise our daughter to end up like any of these people, this will have been worth it.

And I have to admit, her newly developed smiles help make it worth it too 🙂

See you in a month!

—

*The last one was a tense conversation between me and my husband because: parenting = hard, which means marriage = hard, and that means we have to work harder at our relationship. But that’s for another post. 

**We are trying to be mindful parents and not watch TV when the baby is alert and engaged. I have managed to find the loophole and watch Netflix when nursing, since she can’t see the TV.

#Parentinnae Baby: the First Month

“Do you feel that overwhelming sense of love for your baby girl?”

I always thought I’d feel it on first glance, on first touch, on first smell. I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember, and I just KNEW that I would have no trouble bonding with my baby when she was born.

However, I didn’t anticipate the uncontrollable full-body spasms, taste of vomit from throwing up during the C-section, and an inability to keep my eyes open post-surgery when my daughter entered the world. I could hear the delight in my husband’s voice – “She’s so beautiful. She’s SO beautiful, Innae!” – but I could see and feel nothing.

In the days that followed, I continued to have little control over my body. I swelled to the point of looking like the Michelin Man, and my eyes were barely able to close due to the regular feedings and attention the little human needed. Every time she woke up to feed, I dutifully satisfied her hunger while wincing at the many trials and pains that come with breastfeeding, and then immediately looked to hand her off to other doting family members who could not stop gushing about how perfect she was. What I looked forward to most was when I could catch a few minutes of sleep, and that would only happen if the baby was not in my vicinity. Relatives came and went, and I mustered up the joy and excitement necessary to reflect the image of a glowing new mother.

Friends had shared that the ‘bonding’ with the baby took time, but I assumed that it wouldn’t be an issue for me. I assumed so much and knew so little.

At one month, the moments of connection come and go. In a dark room for a late night feeding, I feel connected. 3 hours later for the next feeding, though? The moment is gone and the new mother is disgrunted and frustrated.

Yet of all the trials of this month (which include, but are not limited to the following breastfeeding woes: painful nursing, clogged ducts, cracked nipples, milk blisters, vasospasms and painful letdowns at least 10 times a day), the hardest has been my own self-shame.

Until now, I had heard many a mother friend admit that she felt like a failure. As her single friend, I emphatically reassured her she was not. Now I became the one in need of reassurance because amidst my crying fits in the dark, I realized that this role requires a selflessness that I could not possess. My shame came from coming face-to-face with my own selfishness and I hated that I couldn’t be the mother I wanted to be.

But it’s been 30 days of realizing that I can’t be the mother I want to be, and in those low moments, I am given one comfort: I am the mother I am capable of being.

The mother Iwanted to be doesn’t exist; she is an ideal based on a supernatural selflessness. This I will only find in the Savior I believe in.

Instead, I am called to be me: broken, imperfect, selfish – and still a mother trying to love her daughter the way that Christ loves me. I’ll fail, but He won’t.

What will month two bring?

Where to Go from Here

Terrified.

Sick to my stomach.

Fearful.

In shock.

These are not words to follow a presidential election. At least, not an American one.

Yet here I am as the ballots are being counted and it’s nearing the time when the candidate I didn’t vote for will likely be in the White House in two months, and I am deeply troubled.

As a former ‘news person’ I’ve had some ask me how this could’ve happened. There are lots of hypotheses: erroneous polling, overly confident headlines, and an intentional overlook of a demographic that is often looked down upon – the white low-income class. They don’t satisfy.

I have to wake up to my alarm tomorrow.

I want to look forward to walking down the aisle, cradling my first child in my arms, seeing a new country for the first time.

I dream of a world that isn’t so broken or hate-filled.

It seems bleakly impossible.

Tonight I prayed a prayer that only God could give me. I didn’t pray for understanding – I may never get that. Instead, that impossible prayer begged for trust, for comfort, for wisdom, and most importantly – for strength to know how to keep living the values and beliefs I have – when everything else turns inside out around me. Our call isn’t to flee. Our call is to be a part of the change we still believe in, no matter who is our President. 

Terrified.

Sick to my stomach.

Fearful.

In shock.

But now it is time to do/think/share/hope/love more than we did before.

#imwithher #imwithUS #Election2016

• for parents
• for teachers
• for an attempt to understand the other voter

A Letter, Better Late than Never

I am ashamed to say that in my more than three decades of existence, I have not read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s letter from the Birmingham jail.

The shame doesn’t end there.

As a privileged, educated Christian who is a minority but often treated like the majority, I cringe at knowing the injustice that existed less than a century ago – and the fact that injustice still exists now.

I cringe because there are still Christians who “stand on the sidelines” and while they mouth the right words when facing inhumane circumstances or possibilities for sacrifice, the hands stay closed and the eyes are dull.

I cringe when recognizing the disgust with the church has not diminished; in fact, the faith I believe in is frequently dismissed by outsiders because we are no longer extremists as Jesus Christ was. Were we ever? Could we be?

I know myself, and I see the potential for such standoffishness in me. Yes, me who graduated from an Ivy League university and chose to work part-time at a news station, dreamy about telling the stories of the voiceless. Yes, me who has grown up ‘churched’ and reciting Bible verses her entire life. Yes, me who left a provocative career for one that seems less ‘glamorous’ in order to ‘do good.’

We’re all frighteningly capable of indifference. Today I saw a man ahead of me who appeared to be mentally unstable based on his loud ranting and stumbling gait. I set my teeth, determined to walk straight past him as a sign that he was a human being and not a ‘body’ to avoid.

Then a well-dressed gentleman stranger walking from that direction passed me and suggested kindly, “Hey, you should cross the street.”

I crossed.

When the lesser-dressed man caught my eye from over the hood of a car, I gave a weak smile. He grinned and kept on singing and leaning against a pole, and I walked the remaining block to work, wondering if I had given into irrational fear by creating a distance of 10 feet rather than 10 inches between us.

 

This letter is to me. This letter is to you.

“The question is not whether we will be extremist, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate, or will we be extremists for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of justice, or will we be extremists for the cause of justice?”

– Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., August 1963

At the Table with 엄마

The last time I was home, you became privy to three vignettes about my father, a brilliant architect and loving Korean father (you don’t understand how much of an anomaly those last three words that can be).

2015’s visit showcases my mother, a woman conservative in her thinking and mannerisms but liberal in the ways she shows her love.

—

In contrast to the pasta of less than a handful of ingredients, my mother’s Korean dinners are always “just” a main dish and “just” a 찌개 (stew) and “just” a few 반찬 (side dishes) and then “just” a few more things. Each time she cooks at home, the serving dishes don’t stop coming.

Not just any meal

—

My father had planned an elaborate golf outing for the three of us. Mind you, what I attempt with a golf club should in no way be referred to as ‘playing golf.’ But on the dawn of our tee time, it was just my mother and I heading to the course as he unexpectedly succumbed to a sudden onset of the flu. The other days spent traveling Jeju Island were exclusively ours, as he was unable to travel.

“Let’s take a picture!” – 엄마

“Okay.” – 인애, as she busily prepares the selfie stick.

“Do you want a picture of you?” – 엄마

“No.”

[minutes later]

“Oh this is all so pretty. Let me take a picture of you.”

“No, I’m good.” – uninterested daughter

 

The incorrigible mother  decides that she’ll then take photos of her eldest daughter as she walks down an icy hiking path.

“Look at me! But look natural!”

“How am I supposed to look at you and not fall?!”

Her handiwork

 

—

We have a tradition of saying good-bye until the very last minute at airports. These are fairly frequent for our long-distance family, unfortunately. In years past, the clear glass partition that separated residents from travelers allowed for visible hand-waving.

 

Recently Incheon International Airport decided to frost up the glass… but that wouldn’t deter my mother.

 

How do you not love a face… an eyeball like that?

I love you, 어머니.

#whatinnaeworld?! SF 3rd Edition, or “Why Innae is Not Yet an SFer”

You’re never too old to be new.

DANGER! DANGER! This is a warning for all Google Maps public transit route users!

Yes. That red highlighted route? The one that says it will be so much shorter than the other serpentine routes you usually take? Obviously the right answer. Obviously the one you take on the first day of training for a new job. And being a seasoned rider of MUNI (SF’s public transportation route), I felt confident about all the complex going-ons, such as signaling when to get off, and how to touch the yellow tape or kick the handrails to open the back doors.

Transit world gods, you win.

You’re looking at the back of a bus that got me to my workplace in a speedy fashion as advertised…

… at the cost of $10 for 3 miles.

Still a noob. Still learning my way around. By the way, what is the neighborhood to the west of NoPa called?

P.S. Googling “Google Maps red bus route San Francisco” doesn’t work. Yes, I tried that.

The Commitment to Fulfillment

“But your fulfillment in life will not come from how well you explore your freedom and keep your options open… Your fulfillment in life will come from how well you end your freedom.”

– David Brooks, NYT

It has been quite the roller coaster ride, these last 15 months. An obscene amount of travel, reunions with friends old and new, and all the soul searching one could wish for (and yet not want at the same time). I’ve journeyed through valleys and stared up at a sky blanketed with a self-made fog of hopelessness. Elation has rushed through me as I realize near strangers are willing to take a chance on me out of the goodness of their hearts and the immediate connection we forged. And still – as of this publication – I am unemployed.

One could say I gave up the world of fame and recognition to be in this place of uncertainty. ‘You stepped down from being an anchor in air-conditioning… to being a reporter in the elements?!’ ‘You walked away from a glamorous career where free haircuts and holidays at work are the norm?!’

It’s not the one-way ticket most people envision booking.

 

Yet David Brooks’ recent commencement address at Dartmouth reminded me of words my own father shared with me in one of his epic birthday card messages.

Freedom is not always being free from something, but being free to do something. And as Brooks so wisely detailed, true fulfillment comes from understanding that limitations such as commitment can provide you with what you really want.

And so:

I am committed to seeking my next path in the Bay Area.

I am committed to being invested in my community (though which specific one is still to be determined).

I am committed to loving my family, friends, and those who I shouldn’t have any reason to love.

I am committed to giving God glory because “by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain.” [1 Corinthians 15:10]

 

Once again, the estimable David Brooks.

“You have to give to receive. You have to surrender something outside yourself to gain something within yourself. You have to conquer your desire to get what you crave.”

 

My chains are (not) gone. I’ve been set free.

Beautiful Feet

I wanted to share a letter I wrote to the staff at Kiva on my last day of my internship (today!). It took me some time to get the thoughts out, but it felt necessary to make them public too. Now that I’m entering the world of unemployment again, it’s a reminder of why I gave up what I did to try to do what I want to do.

I’m definitely at a loss for words with this email.

As I mentioned in All Hands this morning, the last 5 months have been extremely influential. It has been a privilege to be part of a team that is filled with joy, passion, vision and… lots and lots of delicious sweets from the TOW (I kid you not, when I say I’ve gained so much, I also mean in the form of physical weight).

Yet the powerful impact each of you has on an individual – the individual mother who has been told she can’t financially back her own family, the individual immigrant who refuses to let limited English capability hold him back, the individual intern who’s trying to figure out her next professional footing – is widespread.

Isaiah 52:7 says in part, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news…”

I realize that Kiva will see many interns come and go, and it’s easy to get lost in that shuffle, but I wanted you to know this: You are bringing such good news to our neighborhoods and the world. Thank you for climbing the mountains with me.

Stay in touch,

Innae

The Heels Have Clicked

Back in another airport. Are you sick of reading those words yet?

As I wait to board a plane to the coast where I spent the last dozen years, it is no triumphant return.

For better or for worse, I have made a vow to California. This visit East is to say farewell – at least, for now. There is reluctance, trust me. I am fearful of what it means to make a decision to stay in a place with no definitive reason to do so. There is no job offer enticing me to stay in the Golden State. I still find myself impatient with some of the slower-paced San Franciscans. When fall hits, I am going to be longing for the rock-your-world foliage of the Adirondacks and wishing deeply for the plentiful apple cider of upstate New York.

Yet thanks to some pretty fabulous weather, a grandmother who brings me bananas after I fall asleep (ask me about it) and a church community that has given me roots and growth at the same time, I can’t deny the longing to stay here. Blame it on the drudgery of wanderlust, or the allure of start-ups and playground-like offices. It’s not quite ‘home’ yet, but the potential. Oh, the potential.

Sonoma

San Francisco

Half Moon Bay

 

And if I were holding Toto and wearing shiny ruby slippers, I have a feeling I would open my eyes after three heel clicks and find myself facing the Pacific.

#nolongerinnaefarawayplace

A Tragedy that Reflects Back Hope

For all those who took the time to read Ki’s story (and comment online or to me directly!), thank you.

Credit: Leah Loves That Photography

Toya didn’t flee from country to country. Her first language is English. Yet what this Pittsburgh woman made of her life is inspiring, incredible and illuminating. Even without meeting this woman face-to-face, her story drew me in. Take a look.

My Happy Place

It’s only 30 minutes of quiet, but it’s enough to survey food options, schedule my life (on a real calendar!) and dive into a book. 



When Two Worlds Collide

You may accuse me of being quiet.

(This is partially true. I feel that my tendency to be an extreme extrovert has weakened with time).

The words are still spilling out, though! The reason for my silence on my blog and other social media outlets is all the planning and tweeting and writing I’m doing for Kiva Zip. If you don’t know what that is, I will cast no judgment if you go now and make a $5 loan! 😉

That being said, I still wistfully think about my former reporter life. Having conversations via Twitter is not quite the same as face-to-face.

Then the opportunity came in the form of a meeting with a Cambodian woman who was forced to take refuge in Vietnam and then immigrated to the U.S. She and her husband want to borrow $5,000 to help their small sandwich shop succeed.

For a little while, philanthropy and reporting are going hand-in-hand. Meet Ki. 

#whatinnaeworld?! San Francisco 2nd Edition

I don’t often wake up at 5 a.m.

I don’t often attend concerts in front of a spectacular view at 5 a.m. either.

Thanks, San Francisco, for being a city that celebrates the [temporary] end of a beautiful piece of work.

#whatinnaeworld?! New York 2nd Edition

In a world where everyone is connected and life is digitized, a simple sign in a New York cafe stirs shock.

Computers be gone!

For an unemployed New Yorker who was looking for a haven to job-search, this was not a pleasant sign. For a coffee drinker who finds herself full through conversation? Well, it left an impression… and a blog post.

Happy #ThrowbackThursday! #tbt

The humble brag about a humble brag that isn’t supposed to be a humble brag

This already got complicated.

The problem with humility is that when it becomes public, there is a very strong likelihood that it turns on itself. Humility in the limelight? Heaven forbid, that’s nonsensical! Oil and water, attention and humility. Hence, the long-winded title of this post.

Right, back to the post.

My team at Kiva had an off-site team-building day last week. We stopped by a few businesses who have benefited from the 0%-interest loans that Kiva Zip and crowdsourcing provide. The day ended at Abbotts Lagoon in Point Reyes.

I have never been to Point Reyes. It was stunning. Also, this is not the humble brag.

In a team-building discussion, one of my managers paid me a very high compliment.

“She is so humble, when she has every right not to be.”

I heard this and felt two emotions:

1) Gratitude

2) Guilt

—————————————————–

I have a lot of experience. Well, a decent amount. I’ve worked for years in a unique field that requires communication, aptitude at learning and a tolerance for pressure and deadlines,

The last month, however, I have felt incompetent more than I would like to admit. I have been absent from many friends’ and family members’ lives because I felt like I was fighting to simply keep my head above water hour by hour. I have felt panic – sheer panic – multiple times since starting my internship at Kiva. I found myself constantly checking my email to ensure there wasn’t a task I had left undone, then realizing there was always something I could be working on.

While my manager meant his words as a compliment, he touched on something in my heart that I knew I had to articulate.

As someone who has “succeeded” in the worldly sense of the word throughout most of her life, these four weeks have humbled me. It wasn’t that I needed to be acknowledged for my display of humility. I needed to acknowledge my need for it.

While it is odd to share about one’s failings, I’m not the first to find this contrary belief the path to freedom.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

 – 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

Once I did, the panic subsided. The incompetence shaken off, bit by bit. Now I know: I am humble.

#whatinnaeworld?! Hartford Edition

It’s been awhile.

Seeing that today is Thursday, this is an appropriate time to #tbt it to a month ago (does that really count?) to a trip to the lovely capital of Connecticut. In the tour given by the illustrious Cary Chow, he made sure to bring me to this very Starbucks because it was sure to be…

closed.

 

I’m sorry, which Starbucks do you know that closes at 6:30 p.m. on a weeknight?

And remains as shuttered on the weekends?

THEN WELCOMES CUSTOMERS ON CHRISTMAS EVE?

 

Boggling. Welcome to Hartford.

Not in Kansas Yet

A few confessions:

1. I avoid Home Goods like the plague.
2. The photo of my family in my living room dated back to my high school graduation until I changed it out just two years ago.
3. I refuse to buy a salad spinner even though I desperately covet it.

 

Stay away.

 

Let’s unpack these, shall we?

 

Since college, I discovered that I inadvertently chose a nomadic life when I chose to enter broadcast journalism. From contract to contract, I found myself in places I had never even heard of. Moving became commonplace. Minimizing my possessions seemed necessary.

Then I’d enter a friend’s beautifully decorated house and feel envy.

 

I dream of a home. Home means a space I can decorate, with the creature comforts of ottomans filled with board games, a wine cabinet and a memory foam bathmat. I know, my fantasies are extravagant.

Source of fun. Takes up too much space.

 

There are so many physical items I have refused to purchase until I can guarantee the next and possibly final destination of my life. I am waiting for the freedom to call a place home without an end date in place.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas… yet.

 

There seems to be potential in the area of San Francisco. If only I could click my heels twice and know. However, I will be lugging a percentage of my belongings across the country in a meager few suitcases. The rest will remain in a generous and clever friend‘s basement and wait to be unpacked… one day.

 

Did I tell you how much I enjoy unpacking? Ask my friends Annie and Steve: I unpacked their entire kitchen in an afternoon and managed to send a few boxes to the dumpster while I was at it. The enjoyment comes from knowing each item has its place. It will return to the space in which it dwells.

 

Unlike their kitchenware, I’m still #innaefarawayplace. Sure, I lived in NYC for two months but I tacked that hashtag all over my Instagram feed. I know New York isn’t an exotic place. In fact, I remained in the same state as my last job. Not so far away.

Also, even though the opposite coast awaits me for the first half of 2015, it’s very likely that I will continue to use that phrase. This journeying isn’t over yet. I have yet to find my Kansas.

 

And when I do, I’ll buy my first salad spinner.

How to Make the Right Decisions

A wise man (also known as a friend of mine) says he faces at least 20 forks in the road each day. How do you decide which direction to take at each crossroads?

 

In his words:

Pick the path that means more for someone else and less of yourself.*

 

This is not to say that you allow yourself to be stomped on, crushed, ignored and forgotten. Rather, if there is a benefit to someone else, it is very likely that should be the choice you make, even if you walk away with no apparent reward.

 

Completely counterintuitive. What about getting ahead, stepping atop others to attain success? I looked at him a bit skeptically across the table.

 

—-

My mother came and sat down on my bed right after I pulled the covers up to my chin. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

I sat up.

“I’ve been thinking this for awhile. You are too nice.”

“Huh?!” my high school self exclaimed.

“You are too nice,” said my mother. “You will be taken advantage of, if you haven’t already. You need to be more selfish. Your dad and I have discussed this. Stop being so nice.”

I fell back onto the bed in disbelief.

—

 

As my friend and I unpacked this concept, I realized that my parents and I were both wrong.

 

As painful as it is to admit, there have been too many ulterior motives in my kindnesses. Was I really offering to cook a meal for a family because I genuinely felt the burden of a newborn child? Well, yes and no, because I have never raised an infant. However, there is a tiny corner of Innae realizing there is some social perk to performing this public deed. I will be viewed as altruistic! I will not be wasting my time! I will be considered a great cook! (highly unlikely) And I will feel good about myself!

 

Select service, Ted* urges. Give my time, energy, wisdom, all of it away.

 

He isn’t the only one to say such nonsensical words. Who can forget this?

And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.

[Mark 12:30-31]

 

‘Tis the season for giving. Time will tell if I’m ready to make it year-round.

 

——————————————————-

*This is paraphrased. Sorry, Ted.

One More Airport

I haven’t been in New York City long, but I will admit the Big Apple has become quite satisfying. Sure, I’m still the person who takes candy from strangers on the subway and then spins like a ballerina to orient herself once on the surface. At the same time, there is a coffee shop I can call mine and I have successfully completed multiple loads of laundry at my local laundromat in my six weeks here.

 

 

In the middle of all this comfort, though… there’s another airport waiting to greet me.

Hint: It is one of the two that feels like home to me. Who remembers? Prizes if you know! And by prizes, I mean a shout-out and an enthusiastic high-five if you’re anywhere near San Francisco or NYC.

 

Oops, there it is.

 

It’s an unconventional decision, but I am going to take my next very large step over to the other side of the country as an intern with the non-profit Kiva.org. If you don’t know what they do, well, that’s why there’s a hyperlink for you to learn! So click and get to it!

 

All kidding aside, I have been intrigued and inspired by what this organization and what many other microfinance groups are doing to encourage entrepreneurism, and more importantly, empowerment. My interest in small business development grew throughout my reporting career as I witnessed and contributed to the growth of the downtown areas of Salisbury, Md. and Troy, N.Y.

We dressed like this every Friday night. [Main St, Salisbury]

I am pretty sure all – and yes, all – my hard-earned dollars went to wine and cheese at the Confectionery. [Troy]

 

 

As someone who often lacks courage, I admire the bold spirit of these visionaries and I only hope that I can help foster that among men and women in countries where aid can’t be found in the form of loans.

That’s where you and I come in.*

 

 

I am leaving for California in January for five months. That’s the charted territory for now. You’ll be learning more of the life that’s unmapped alongside me as we go. Well wishes are welcome. So are food, hugs and prayer.

———————————————————————————

*Check Kiva.org again, please, if you don’t understand.

#whatinnaeworld?! New York Edition

I’d like to think after six weeks, I’m a bona fide New Yorker.

This weekend, however, I realized I am far from it.

 

It’s not just because I ended up in a different part of Queens because I forgot the hyphen in the street address (yes, 40-17 Broadway is quite different from 4017. Is that not obvious to you?). It’s not because I still manage to come out of the wrong exit at the 34th Street stop which is always, always, always closed on weekends.

 

Well, maybe it is. However, the realization came when a man offered me candy on the L train.

 

It was a wrapped Starburst. Red. Still in the original row, though the outer packaging was torn open.

so inviting

 

My companion stared at me once he realized it was already in my mouth. “Did you really eat that?” he asked.

“Yup,” I mustered with teeth half-clamped together.

“I would’ve never eaten that.”

 

Still a newb, my friends. Still green. And apparently still in need of reviewing my stranger danger kindergarten education. Oops.

 

P.S. It wasn’t laced with coke.

Being Silenced: Where Change Can Begin

I can’t tell you how many articles I’ve read, statements posted, comment threads and tweets resonating with anger and injustice. This has been a charged, painful, frantic few weeks, and while one would hope it is to come to an end, this is the beginning.

Funny. There is hope in that statement, isn’t there? We are entering another civil rights era, a time where men and women march to ensure equality. This time, people of all races and backgrounds will stand shoulder-to-shoulder, repeating the cry. Black Lives Matter.

 

I have wrestled with blogging about these current events because I did not want to simply fume on the internet until I had all the facts. Yet it wasn’t until I realized how uncurrent these events were that I began to type.

#CrimingWhileWhite has been a shameful testimony of how many times one’s appearance has provided a second chance. Granted, these are anecdotes. Here, however, are the numbers. In this ProPublica article, there is proof of the racial disparity when it comes to bullets fired and lives stolen in an instance. Just a few years ago, the federal data revealed that “blacks, age 15 to 19, were killed at a rate of 31.17 per million, while just 1.47 per million white males in that age range died at the hands of police.” Essentially, the authors of the article estimate that young black men face a 21 times greater risk of being shot by an officer than a white male of the same age.

And this is data that isn’t even fully complete.

 

——————————————-

All this being said, this post isn’t just a rant about what is wrong.

 

We must recognize we have created an enemy too. Who is “the other side?” Do we condemn all uniformed men and women? I know many who have taken the oath who grasp the dignity of life and the delicacy of justice. There is no doubt that a medical examiner ruled Garner’s death a homicide, and the man last seen with his arms around the black man’s neck is not facing any repercussion. The days to come though, may be punishment enough. What we need to seek is a solution, not revenge.

 

A former mentor of mine urges us all to “lean in and listen” in his editorial in the Huffington Post. Call me old-fashioned, but respect garners further respect. I have no right to command that you silence your voices now. I just ask you to be aware of the potential prejudices spilling out of our hearts as we speak. At times, a listening ear will heal more powerfully than a spoken word, and a conversation more effective than a lecture.

——————————————-

Chaz Howard also wrote about the incongruity of Philadelphia’s protestors against the backdrop of the Christmas tree lighting at City Hall Wednesday night.

“A huge tree stood over all of us. Today shiny ornaments and lights hang on it. Not very long ago a black man would have hung on it.”

 

 

About 2000 years ago, a Middle Eastern man hung on it too. And He did have the right to say this:

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.”

All lives should matter. Let us strive to make them so.

How I Know I’m Still A New York City Newbie

It’s been awhile since I’ve packed a lunch. The last time was when I went on a road trip with my friend Molly to the mountains and rivers of Colorado this summer.

 

It was glorious. So were the turkey and veggie wraps we made.

 

This weekend, however, I scrambled to grab whatever I could from my fridge (think yogurt, fruit and the oh-so-basic peanut butter sandwich) so that I could eat a cheap meal and avoid purchasing something on the way to Philadelphia. As you know – or should have heard – New York City meals are not so friendly on the wallet.

 

In my haste to be frugal, I let some precious minutes slip away. Having then missed the express 2 train by seconds, I found myself at Penn Station with 4+ avenues to walk and only fifteen minutes (for the record, avenues are very, very long). I walk at a fairly fast clip normally, but armed with two heavy bags, I doubted my feet. Begrudgingly I raised my arm…

 

 

And hailed a cab.

 

So much for saving money. New York, I know you’re chuckling.

Never Say Never

You know when you say you’re never going to eat monkey brains? Or you would never jump out of a plane for “pure pleasure”? Or that you would never live in New York City?

 

So that one might just be me.

 

The thrilling skyline of vibrant skyscrapers. The epicenter of tourism. The hub of finance, media, fashion and food. Home to 2 to 8 million rats (Actually, I need no further reminder as to why I did not want to live here).

 

Yet here I am, a now two-week resident of NYC.

 

Granted, it was more than a decade ago when I first said I had no interest in living in the Big Apple. Since then, I’ve visited countless times, navigated the metro system with ease and recognized most neighborhoods by name (I don’t think I’ll ever understand TriBeCa). Even so, there was a reluctance to fully embrace the highly revered metropolis. I loved the grittiness of Philadelphia, the natural open arms of San Francisco, and the hard earned knocks of Boston. New York? Too glamorous for me.

 

When I realized I needed a place to lay my head at night for more than just a week’s stretch, I had a couple of hospitable options. In the end, I was given the opportunity to live in an amazing apartment with a reduced rent, and friends who would continue to look out for the rest of my belongings upstate.

 

God works in beautiful, but humbling ways. Unsettling, too. I’m still adjusting to being a quasi-Manhattanite, no matter how short or long my time here may be. I guess it’s time to put on my high heels and get to work.

 

(Who am I kidding. I’m still wearing flat shoes).

Cider Doughnut Bread Pudding for the Soul

Have you ever heard of a guard llama?

How about a pet skunk? They aren’t allowed in New York State (with the exception of certain permits), but there’s an underground effort to justify the domestication with a therapy sort of role.

 

These aren’t the topics one would expect in a conversation among food bloggers and foodies (+ one wannabe foodie named Innae). Yet across breakfast pizza, cheddar biscuits and apple muffins with a date and garam masala crumble, I found my belly aching from gluttony and giggles.

 

That’s right, we sat across from each other in the same room, not in a web conference.

 

The reunion was unexpected. I reached out to Deanna Fox of Silly Goose Farm to follow up on a promise to visit her home, and the hostess-extraordinaire decided a full-fledged brunch was nothing short of necessary. Along came a few of my favorite food writers and lovers from the Capital Region, and I was giddy with anticipation for the delights that would soon be in front of me.

 

Case in point. Yes, that’s also homemade maple burnt sugar ice cream.

As I caught up with the ProFUSSor – whom I hadn’t seen since he and his wife left for her sabbatical over a year ago – we chatted about the merits and difficulties of a changing menu for local restaurants. Expected, right? Also discussed with Albany Jane, Albany John and the others: pregnancy, mining and honey badgers (I have now made plans to watch a documentary on these apathetic animals thanks to the recommendation of this marketing guru).

(These are those aforementioned muffins. Stunning flavor profile)

 

 

There were also moments that morning where the laughter waited on the sidelines as these men and women listened to my journey thus far. They offered encouragement, advice and suggestions with such sincerity that my heart was just as full as my stomach.

 

As we’re all aware, the Internet is a connecting, yet isolating place. While I’ve carried conversations with these eaters online for some time, the in-person opportunities weren’t as frequent. A few minutes here, inbetween bites at a tasting there, and soon we’d have to finish up our trains of thought on Twitter.

 

Even with so little face-to-face contact, I felt fully comfortable. The words I had seen on a screen or in print were backed with the warmth of a voice. The delightful images I’d scrolled through were taken by hands that baked and cooked to delight my tastebuds. And now we’d created memories that would feed my heart.

At the Table with 아빠

A series of moments with my inimitable 아빠 (dad) during my three weeks at home.

 

—–

We had just sat down with our first round of buffet plates.

“Before we continue the conversation,” my father said. “I have something for each of you.”

He pulled out four envelopes from within his ever-present journal and handed one to my mother, one to me, and the last two to my sister. He instructed her to give the other to her boyfriend.

The cards too gave instruction.

 

And that night, we celebrated each one of us.

—–

Hearing groans from the living room, I immediately ran out to see why my father was in pain. He was gingerly lowering himself to the ground, moaning as he went, since he had thrown out his back a day earlier. He picked up a fallen honey cracker even as I told him to stop.

I then said, “아빠, 제가 버려줄게요.” (Dad, I’ll throw it out for you)

He grinned, popped it in his mouth, and then offered me a cracker from the full bag in his other hand.

—–

After getting stuck in traffic, we rushed into the rice-paper walled restaurant two minutes before our reservation. Our faces fell: there was no television inside. My father hollered at the hostess, “TV 없어요?” (You don’t have a TV?)

Her answer, with an arched eyebrow, “우린 전통 한식당 인데, 왜 물어보세요?” (We’re a traditional Korean restaurant. Why would you ask that?)

His answer: “박태환 선수가 지금 수영하잖아요! … 금방 갔다올게요…” (Park Tae Hwan is swimming right now! We’ll be right back…)

At that, my sister, father and I ran back to the parking lot and watched the Korean swimmer win bronze in the 200M freestyle of the 2014 Asian Games —

 — in our car.

—–

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he said, as he started to boil water.

“Only if you’re sure, if you don’t mind,” I worried in the last hour before I had to take the shuttle to the airport.

He looked at me and said, “As long as you want to eat my food. You sure you don’t want Korean food for your last meal?”

“Absolutely.”

I set the table for two.

 

As he grated parmesan cheese onto our plates, he said, “You won’t find anything this simple at a restaurant in Korea. Oh, and you have to drink this wine with it.”

 

I ate my last meal of my trip sitting across from the man who made it for me. Just a few ingredients made up this pasta dish, and its simplicity reflected the purity of his love for me.

Some Things You Never Forget

Like which subway car to get into on the #2 line to exit right where you need to transfer to the #4.

#winning

Why America Needs Refugees

A few months ago, I was moved by a young girl skipping rope in a refugee apartment complex in Denver.

While she and her family may be struggling daily in ways that I can’t understand because of my unsolicited abundant life, they have changed the life of my friend Molly. Not only her life, but those of the people around her, like me. I’m still blinking in disbelief because I so often choose to close my eyes and the light is only going to keep streaming in.

enjoy this reblog:

mojoy1494

Yesterday, I went back to visit my former apartments. The beauty and chaos of the 3-tiered brick-on-concrete low-income-housing buildings located right off the intersection of Colfax Avenue and Route 225.

Sandwiched between streets that have only letters for names, construction projects, and strip malls with cell phone stores, liquor marts, and fast-food joints are the Shadow Tree Apartments.

I suppose the name comes from the few scraggily evergreen trees clinging to life in the middle of the cement  courtyards of “A” and “B” buildings.

I haven’t visited often this past year. Not as often as I’ve wanted to, and certainly not as often as I’ve thought to.

There was the time I showed up with bags of items to drop off that were given to me by my sister’s former roommate (the contents of which were quickly claimed and made new homes to grinning faces). I saw an 8^th

View original post 1,688 more words

Two Decades

I’m frantically writing a blog post as I reflect on the last few days of wedding preparation.

 

Don’t be alarmed, there’s no ring on my finger.

 

It’s that of a friend whom I have known for more than 20 years. A friend who has been by my side through thick and thin (she being the thin and I was the former). A friend at whom I shook my head for years because there were times where she was just beyond me. And then a friend who received the same head-shaking in recent years because of my delight at who she’s become.

[around 1994]

Now, after two decades, I get to see her walk down the aisle and marry a man who cherishes her deeply. We’ve seen our share of hurt, of mistreatment, betrayal and even abuse. Now her story will be marked by a new beginning – where another friend will be by her side for hopefully more than twenty and beyond years.

[before 2002]

 

 

Don’t worry, Yong Hee. Janet and I will always be around.

#whatinnaeworld?! Bay Area Edition

I thought NYC was exclusive.

 

However, I was awakened to the rarity of certain dim sum options in the Bay Area thanks to two cousins who went to a restaurant and then returned the next day because this dish wasn’t available the first time.

You’re looking at (what’s left of) 1 of 6 crispy pork belly portions that are served each day at Hong Kong Flower Lounge in Millbrae, Calif.

ONE of SIX.

We made sure to come before noon AND tell the primary server we were here to get this particular plate. It was hand-delivered (versus cart-delivered) as a result.

Was it worth two days of dim sum in a row? Go try it.*

Happy eating!

 

 

*Okay, fine, it was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Go.

#whatinnaeworld?! Lisbon Edition

Seeing that I just wrote about how Lisbon’s history has touched my heart, I figure I’ll head back there for this #whatinnaeworld?! post.

 

A seemingly ordinary sight, no?

free bread box!

 

FACT: This is not complimentary. I repeat, not complimentary. In fact, you will get charged for any seeming courtesy treats before your meal in Portugal, and even in restaurants in Spain. That includes bread, olives, cheese, you name it. So be sure to turn it away unless you really want to carbo-load before your entree arrives. Don’t worry, this tip IS free, no charge 😉

 

Happy Monday!

Earthquakes

Remember how I realized that I’ve explored two cities this summer whose goal is to be bizarre?

 

Another fun fact: I’ve also ventured through two cities whose identities have been heavily molded by an earthquake’s devastation.

 

I have never experienced an earthquake (knock on wood – preferably a sturdy doorframe). This is rather surprising, seeing that I called California home for years, visited the state frequently and am now considering it as a future home. However, even without the personal experience, I feel aghast at seeing what such a natural disaster can undo.

The Carmo Convent: ruined in 1755, still beautiful today.

 

It is even more gasp-inducing to see what humanity can re-do afterward.

 

In Lisbon, my sister and I stumbled upon the work of a pair of designers who have captured the personality of Portugal in childlike cartoons.

(courtesy of Soma Ideas)

A poem accompanies each city or national icon. For Portugal’s capital, one line immediately held my attention.

(courtesy of Yelp.com)

Urbanity risen from an earthquake. 

 

Saints Peter and Paul Church, San Francisco

National Shrine of Saint Francis of Assisi             (courtesy of about.com)

 

These churches are also the progeny of a post-earthquake era. Both existed before 1906. Both fell in that year. Now both have been born again.

 

“Born again” has a spiritual association, and I profess to fall into that Christian category. Joining my spiritual life is now my professional life. Please don’t misinterpret this: my decision to leave a career does not compare to the pain and destruction experienced in an earthquake. I am, though, starting anew. What existed before is no longer in front of my eyes, and I have to envision, reimagine what will stand there in the years to come.

That’s why the tales of these shifting tectonic plates has so grabbed me. Look at the beauty around you. Humanity is a people of resilience. Of strength. Of determination. In a time of desolation, the answer is not, “Let me leave.”

 

Instead, it has been, “Let me live.”

 

 

As I survey what is no longer there in my everyday, I pray for an existence greater than what was before.

#whatinnaeworld?! Albany Edition

I’ve posted quite a few in this #whatinnaeworld series, but hopefully you’ve been as entertained/shocked/illuminated as I have been along the way 🙂

Now back to where I’ve spent the last few years. I’ve had some phenomenal meals in the Capital Region. Then there are some dishes that have simply fallen short.

Now, I can’t call myself a connoisseur of fish tacos, and I don’t even like cilantro (blasphemy, I know). However, I’ve never seen raw green
onions in a tortilla alongside battered fish. And in such abundance!

For the record, they do not mix. Do not try this at home.

*disclaimer: I also ate the best fish tacos I’ve ever had in San Diego this summer, so I may be more critical than most after such a heavenly experience. But really? Scallions?

#whatinnaeworld?! San Francisco Edition

Strange to think that it’s been more than a month since I was in the Bay Area, but the good news is… I’m returning! I’ll be in the Bay Area as I revisit friends and family and prepare for the wedding of one of my oldest friends.

 

However. This photo needs to be shared. I was folding a friend’s laundry when I found THIS:

Mind you, this was taken in the middle of July. JULY.

 

Gotta love NorCal weather and its sharp temperature changes. At least Karl the Fog has a sense of humor.

#whatinnaeworld?! Madrid Edition

I’ve sadly neglected this blog for a few weeks. I promise to remedy that soon. In the meantime, look at what’s on the menu at this Madrid bar:

Way to rep both my motherland and current land (good ol’ upstate NY), Madrileños. *thumbs up*

Jump Rope

Today I watched a little refugee girl jump rope with a black cord. It was a phone charger.

 

Help me not to forget the world I live in.

 

 

Calling: Let Your Life Speak

Here’s the promised post. However, I won’t do the book justice so please just read it..

 

As I’ve been traveling, I’ve been hoping that suddenly, epiphany will hit. A voice will pierce through the separating clouds. An owl will carry a message from who-knows-where (yes, I love Harry Potter). That’s the hope. Is it reality? Not… yet. Perhaps, not at all.

 

Vocation does not come from a voice “out there” calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice “in here” calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God. 

 

These are the words of Parker J. Palmer, the author of “Let Your Life Speak.”  It’s quite the contrary view of what a ‘calling’ truly is. Instead of waiting for the outside to resonate within, why am I not being called by my own heart? My own gifts? My own talents?

 

Interestingly enough, the primary reason I began to work in broadcast journalism in 2006 was that I felt that this profession suited me. My talents and abilities fit into the job search puzzle. I was never a news junkie, never dreamed of seeing myself behind the anchor desk as a young girl. Since I began this career though, I’ve developed an earnest desire to understand the business and give it my all. Does that signify passion? Or calling?

 

What a tricky concept.

 

Palmer urges the reader to listen. Not to others, not to self-help books, not even for a celestial voice to boom down from the heavens. Instead he asks you to see where your dreams head. To linger among what your heart longs for. To note the itchiness in your fingers when you’re given a task that captivates you.

 

So a few things that have come to my heart in the past few weeks — and these may not be the final landing place:

– I have a heart. An organ that hurts, empathizes, and has compassion for those who are in need. Who exactly might I serve? That’s yet to come.

– I love to listen. I love to share, but more importantly, I desire to draw someone out of their shell, discover the person beyond the name tag.

– There’s a standard I want for myself. That’s about all I’ve got there; within that lies an element of pride. I’ll be the first to admit that despite the confidence I show, there’s a very insecure woman underneath, daunted by the challenges that lie ahead. Yet I can’t deny there’s an innate reason as to why I am resistant to taking just any job.

 

There’s more peeling to do.

 

 

Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you. Before you tell your life what truths and values you have decided to live up to, let your life tell you what truths you embody, what values you represent.

#whatinnaeworld?! Seattle Edition

I’ve got a few gems from SF that I look forward to posting, but seeing as I just landed in Seattle this weekend, this photo needed to be on the interwebs.

Identity crisis. Or tourism efforts gone sour.

Guess I should be off to the Lone Star State?! Just kidding. Well…

Not really. I’ll be there in a few months. That’s NOT a joke. Maybe the Sea-Tac airport has been following #innaefarawayplace too ^_^.

#whatinnaeworld?! San Diego Edition

Unfortunately, these posts are coming a bit later in my travels, but you want to hear the words in my head, don’t you? Rather than just the sights I see? DON’T YOU?

 

…

 

Fine. Just be sure to follow me on Instagram (icon to the left!)

 

Anyway, back to the series.

I have never seen this before. And I am elated.

Pill: 50 cents. A night without digestive pain: priceless.

 

Thank you, Lighthouse Ice Cream for blowing my mind (and not my stomach).

Status Report: 6 Weeks

It’s been exactly six weeks since I walked out of YNN (still in the habit, dang it. I mean Time Warner Cable News). As I recount my thought process anew to friends I haven’t seen in years, others are checking back in.

 

“What are you learning?”

“Any clarity on where God is leading you?”

“Did you find your spirit animal yet?”

 

Unfortunately, the answer to all these questions is still: ____________________.

Well, perhaps not the latter. That’s just a “no.”

 

Or is it…?

I’d like to think mine is either a dolphin, giraffe, or koala. The latter a new addition because of my recent visit to Australia.

 

As exhilarating and exciting as these six weeks have been, there have been moments of anxiety, even agony. Looking ahead also means looking back, and tearfests have made their way into my life more often than brainstorming sessions.

 

Truth serum, or some crazy concoction of alcohol my recent college grad of a niece decided to order for us?

 

 

I knew it was going to be difficult. I didn’t realize how difficult.

 

For example: the balancing of time.

If you know me, you know I’m delighted by people. I’m also a chronic people-pleaser. This manifests itself in a packed schedule, day-in, day-out, with friends/family/strangers (?!) lined up in my calendar. As I meet with them, I have to look ahead to also plan which activities will be on my agenda in the rest of the Pacific Northwest, then on the East Coast, then across the Atlantic, and oh wait, Texas too?

 

*breathe*

 

It may not sound like a task to you, but for an über-organizer like myself, it’s been overwhelming. And there have been more moments of helplessness.

 

Yet, even in that simpler of examples, it becomes clear. This period is not just about who I will be, but who I already am.* Who I am not. And most importantly, who God is.

 

In which case, falling apart is acceptable.

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*TEASER: Expect a post ahead about a truly insightful book called “Let Your Life Speak.”

California Dreaming

Hi.

I’m now in sunny Southern California.

 

If you’ve been following me, you’ll realize I was on a plane for three 10-hour-long trips within a week.

I spent a few days in Australia, came back home to Seoul for a day, and then flew for another 10 hours to the Golden State. The Fourth of July weekend was spent with some incredible women, most of whom I met for the very first time, as we celebrated a woman I’ve known for almost my entire life. Now the last few days have been spent in the City of Angels, as I catch up with other family and friends whom I love.

 

Thus far, I think I’ve had the conversation explaining why I left journalism at least ten times. I expect to repeat myself many times more.

 

However, I’ve also conversed with a man who wants to start a wave of Korean-American history awareness, an architect who has the success anyone would crave but chooses not to claim it, a tour guide who failed to achieve his dream of architecture but made art his muse, an ardent supporter of North Korea’s first privately funded university, a deputy director for the Ready for Hillary PAC and of course, the most loving and loyal friends I’ve ever had.

 

These conversations haven’t shaped a future path for me just yet. Right now, they’re pushing and expanding and opening my heart so that I can begin to grasp how big this world is and the hearts of you who support me in this state of uncertainty.

#innaefarawayplace: Down Under?!

If you didn’t catch the news on Facebook or Twitter (click on the easy buttons to the left), I’ve been in and about Sydney, Australia. More to come!

One Chicken: Date Night with Dad

For Father’s Day, I told my dad I’d take him out, just the two of us, on a date night. I had grandiose plans.

 

Instead, he wanted to come here:

 

For this:

닭한마리. One chicken. One night to remember.

#whatinnaeworld?! Danyang Edition

Sometimes things just leave you speechless. Like a 3 foot-high tunnel that a tourist spot in rural South Korea doesn’t warn you about – and normal adults are expected to be able to get through. Good thing I can kimchi squat.

Expect the use of this hashtag throughout my travels!

 

 

Oh, and that’s my mother saying “조심” [careful!] over and over and over again.

Twins

Like father, like daughter. Matchy, matchy. [in 단양 / Dan-Yang]

Home: Where the Heart… and Hate is

“So much love and hate.” Words from my father at dinner two nights ago.

 

I couldn’t help but laugh because that’s exactly what I felt I needed to write about next.

 

We all have our issues with our hometowns. Too small, too big, too indifferent, too intimate. And the relationship between Seoul and me is no different.

 

For example, LOVES:

The food. All of it. Now. [차이 팥빙수 / Chai Paht-bing-soo]

Transportability

More food. [떡복이/ddukboki]

Cafes: perfect for hours of conversation

Did I mention food?

There are so many reasons why being home = happiness.

 

At the same time, there are moments where being home can bring about a sense of lowness.

 

Here’s where I get real (welcome to the new-and-improved blog?)

 

A few things make S. Korea less palatable. Hard to believe with some of those photos I just showed, I know.

 

1. The land of couples

Don’t believe me? In 10 seconds, I snapped these four photos.

They’re everywhere.

 

With the Westernization of its culture, Koreans began to embrace romance wholeheartedly. A little obsessively so. Now, wherever you go, you will find yourself surrounded by couples, arm-in-arm. For a single lady, it’s a bit trying. I may sound bitter, and you can judge me for that, but I do enjoy being alone right now. That gets shaken when I realize I’m the only solo person on the street.

2. The image paradigm

Even after years of being in a career where one’s physical image is scrutinized, I feel the most insecure when I’m in Seoul. Women here are just naturally tiny, and somehow I didn’t get those genes. I grew up in a city that didn’t carry my size in clothing. I was taller than most. While those two facts are now false with the passage of time, the warped self-image still takes hold: I need to diet. Why am I so large? How do I look like her? I can’t possibly be attractive in this country.

 

While I was reflecting on this, thankfully, another fact came to mind.

For you created my inmost being;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.

– Psalm 139:13-14

 

This home is not my home forever. I don’t write that because I know I’m returning to the States. I write this knowing that I have faith in a God who gives me a greater purpose than looking like the elevated example of beauty. He sees me as beautiful, born to belong to Him, and better for that.

 

 

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It’s time to enjoy the city and all I love.

 

Sweet Potato Pie

Thanks to a friend‘s recommendation, this went in my belly today. Feast your eyes on this ‘za from the Korean chain Mr. Pizza, complete with BBQ ribs, sauce, broccoli, small potato wedges, squash and garlic (the garlic is optional, but that question is always answered with a “yes”).

 

Oh, and I forgot.

the Gold ‘O My Rib’ Pizza

 

There’s sweet potato mousse in the crust.**

 

*drops mic*

 

 

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**Honest assessment: I enjoyed it enough to eat three of the small slices, and the sweet potato in the crust was intriguing, but not desirable enough to order it a second time. Go for the cheese cap (cheese-filled crust).

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P.S. This is not an advertisement.

P.P.S. Thankfully (?) Mr. Pizza has gone global, so K-Towners, feel free to give it a shot.

P.P.P.S. This is a tease to my next blog post! Ta da! Applying journalism skills.