The freshness of eating something that the earth provided in her own timing. As I squish the edges around the stem and take note of the farmer’s words of wisdom, I take a tentative bite. The tart sweetness pools in my cheeks, my lips puckering into a smile. It’s full of natural richness, each bite reminding me that this is only possible through true effort and risk. There is no guarantee that each peach I eat will be a good one, but I spend so much of my time optimizing the circumstances that might get me there.

I live so much of my life on my own timeline, rushing into things that have no business being in the present.

The farmers market peach reminds me that the best parts of life are never guaranteed. Each fruit, each vegetable is fought for by its farmer. Its vibrancy is drawn out through tenderness and care.

I don’t know why it look me so long to visit a farmers market. Maybe it was the allure of Whole Foods’ air conditioning and well-organized, colorful aisles. Maybe it was the ease of access that grocery stores provide, as opposed to a farmers market’s time and location bound nature. Compared to the messy outdoor market with leftover, half-eaten bits and pieces strewn across the floor, it never occurred to me that I was leaving the ripest, sweetest fruit on the table.

Mess is what makes life memorable. What makes the farmers market stand out against the Whole Foods of the world.

So when did effort—the harbinger of life’s mess—become unsexy?

Maybe it’s the fatigue of adulthood or the mere realization that a life well lived requires more than we’re often willing to give. And now, AI is our enabler. Effort and the mess of thoughts that trail behind are seen to be wasteful tasks, reserved for those who didn’t invest in Claude Pro.

Efficiency is the newest hallmark of a life well lived, and there’s a new smugness in not allowing a single effort to go wasted. There is no more struggling through or investing in the fraught parts of life. Friendships. Passion. Work. If they fail, it is a mark of the other’s character, not ours (and we have AI to tell us exactly that as well).

Effort is incredibly unsexy.

We no longer want to be caught dead living a life that could be considered taxing. “It’s about the journey, not the destination” is merely a pithy saying that we performatively nod along to now.

So instead, we live in a world where friendships are one-sided, leaning against the person who has not yet given up. Relationships sputter and die at the first sign of hardship or real friction. Effort is reserved for the few who we have deemed can handle the weight of it. Those caught in the past. It’s reserved for the sacrificial lambs, placed on the stone either by ignorance or manipulation.

Yet there is a certain beauty found in mulling over a problem, working through it bit by bit and wringing our hands together with little prayers for it all to work out. I found it as I bit into the farmers market peach. The moments leading up to it are always filled with potential, the burgeoning excitement that sits ballooning in my chest. The smile that crosses my face doesn’t come from the guarantee of a sweet peach, but from the realization that this venture was worth the effort: picking up each one at the market, checking for the ripeness, and talking to the vendor in hopes that their advice will produce results. (And don’t even get me started on all the effort that it even took for the farmer to get to that market.)

To me, effort is charming. Sexy. Perhaps due to its rarity.

Its consequential mess is an artifact that we were here on earth, that we struggled, toiled, and won against the facts of life.

In a world where media and messaging are produced at an unthinkable rate, I want to become an expert on how to do it better because information flow and accessibility communicate much more about our values and culture than we’d expect.

Writing, communication, and information dissemination reveal our assumptions and priorities. Where content is king, those who choose to prioritize ingenuity and vulnerability will ultimately prevail—at least that’s what I’d like to believe when confronted with a sea of monotonous, monetized ideas.

The words we choose, the internal that we make external, the truths we choose to reveal—these are all windows revealing the inner mechanisms of our minds.

This is what drew me most to the field of internal communications and organizational development as a writer.

When I applied to grad school, it felt like jumping off a cliff—committing to a career pivot, taking on a heap of debt, and investing a year of my life where value was not necessarily guaranteed. In theory, I knew I would land somewhere, but not before sinking just enough to feel a new terror burgeoning in my chest.

The free fall at the start of grad school felt like an eternity, lifetimes passing as the grey and tan of USC’s walls blurred in my periphery—the classrooms were devoid of windows, tunneling my vision only to the academia before me. I often reminisced about the moments before when I could have made a completely different decision. In another world, my feet were planted firmly on the ground and my stomach didn’t know how to lurch like this. Pay stubs were deposited consistently, whether I gave my work 50% or 100% of myself those past 2 weeks.

I allowed myself to doubt my grad school decisions. It would be untrue to myself to pretend that I knew what I was doing wholeheartedly. This breathable uncertainty gave way to a desperation that made me aware of work that I otherwise wouldn’t have been privy to. It all started with asking myself why we don’t optimize the context of work when we spend all our time optimizing everything else. So much of our lives are spent working—there are surely simple and mighty ways that we can improve our workplaces.

Even with my novel on the back burner, I never wanted to give up my writing. As I sat through my evening classes listening to ideal leader communication and parsing through organization case studies, I saw a common thread.

Miscommunication. A lack of communication.

Our work culminates into something, but do organizations take the time to speak with and to their employees? Instead of treating them like the cogs they’ve been told time and time again that they are, does the organization trust them enough to discuss how the machine runs? Often, organizations move faster than they can communicate, rushing through the details and asking employees to play catch up on their own time.

Organizations often forget—or rather, disregard—communication, now brushing off those responsibilities to AI, flattening any and all divergent thinking.

Yet when we forget to debrief decisions and slow down, we move with less and less intention. Trust runs low and assumptions are dangerously crafted together. When companies can’t keep up their communications, what is their work for? And how long will it really sustain itself through a purgatory of understanding?

We think that communication, writing, and information dissemination can be replaced or minimized. That it can all be sanitized and filtered through this new robotic voice that is meant to mimic ours.

But the endearing imperfections, careful (yet somehow still imperfect) word choices, and effortful stumbling all show intention.

My obsession with writing doesn’t have to live only within the confines of my creative life, but it definitely stems from there. When we read good writing that stirs emotion within us, we can’t help but feel seen.

Someone—emphasis on someone—out there understands what I’m feeling, so much so that they organized it into real words.

There is a place for good writing within the corporate world—a place where words communicate care, and care communicates best intentions. While AI will inevitably play a (hopefully minor) role in workplace writing, I hope that I get to be the arbiter of what makes good internal communication, while infusing it with the kind of character and personality that only a flawed human can.

We were primed to think about it as early on as elementary school. Adults smiled whenever we said something lofty to the age-old question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Answers like president of the free world (lol), astronaut to explore space, doctor who cures cancer, and hero who saves the world were welcomed with excessive cooing. Little did they know that most of us would become trapped in jobs that take advantage of our planet, rather than ones that find ways to salvage it. The adults forgot to tell us—no, warn us—about the draining need for the 9-5 and the rat race that comes with it, even at the expense of future generations.

Instead, they encouraged us to dream big in our childhoods. While dreaming is a muscle developed with time, it is also a muscle that will atrophy without the financial stability and survival instincts to support it. Our dreams should not have been decontextualized to the point that we were blindsided by the need to make money.

When reality finally hit us, we learned how it felt to ask Shannon for the millionth time how her weekend was, a dry smile plastered on our faces. How it felt like (death) to nod when Pam described the unavoidable need to work overtime, accompanied by empty promises that this was the exception, not the norm. This could not have been what the adults were thinking of when they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. And yet, here we are.

(As is often the case,) my disillusionment led me to grad school. I wanted to reposition myself in a place to learn anew. I wanted to start from scratch and prove that there is meaning in work and that we do not need our daily dose of disassociation. For me, “returning to the basics” meant learning why work exists, why our relationship with it is so broken, and how we can improve it.

Admittedly, the basics are not glamorous. In fact, they are often disregarded while we tell ourselves that they should be intuitive. But when we begin to see a deficit of basics everywhere, we start applauding the bare minimum. We say that “the bar is in hell” as we watch the demand for quality quiet. All too often, the goal is prioritized over the journey. So only when the end is compromised do we see why the path there was so important.

When we do not grasp the foundational “why”, the path is rocky and sharp, not at all paved. We are only as good as our preparation. No matter what the resume brag sheets would have us believe, nothing happens in a vacuum. Success is not the one, shiny LinkedIn post, but the way we got there. The story of who we are comes from the steps we take, not the way we trampled everyone along the way.

I see my graduate studies in organizational psychology as the foundation for any work I choose to do in the future. It informs the way I approach communication, change, and leadership. It reminds me that being an employee is a conversation and that we each have more agency than companies would like us to believe. It reinvigorates my love for writing because I know intentional communication fills a very important need: the dissemination and leveling of power. So, as I wrap up my Master’s degree, “the basics” are the intentional ways I approach work and the tools I equip myself with to advocate for myself and others.

The basics are in no way a dismissal or delay of my dreams. Rather, they help me to see them more clear-eyed for the future.

It’s where you go to spend every waking moment dissecting your lives, jumping from Airbnb bedroom to bedroom, and sharing massive plates of food, only to stress over the leftovers. It’s learning how to drive a FWD when none of you has even ridden in one, diving into the ocean to see glowing manta rays (silently afraid of being eaten alive even though that’s impossible), and listening to High School Musical and old Taylor Swift songs on repeat in the car.

For as long as I can remember, I prayed for good girlfriends, ones that I could process my emotions with unapologetically and without worry of being judged. Ones that I could go to for anything, even if we were all in different stages of life. I collected each of these friends from very different milestones of life: middle school and college.

They all first came together like the Avengers for my bachelorette trip.

All I remember is panicking, fingers crossed that they would get along just enough for the trip to go well. Little did I know that they would spend the night talking until 2am while I crawled up to bed at midnight, absolutely exhausted. In the morning, I would wake up to the sound of them laughing and sharing last night’s dreams, eager to pick up where they left off before drifting to sleep. We would all sit huddled around the same standing mirror—doing our makeup, curling our hair, and indiscriminately sharing blush, face rhinestones, and make-up hacks.

Since then, we’ve gone to visit each other in LA and New York and have made future plans to visit one in the Bay Area next year, now that she’s started grad school. With our hands open with little to no real expectations, we are always pleasantly surprised when the next trip happens and we get our unexpected reunion.

Since I was a child, I always craved deep and meaningful friendship, the type that could make me forget that I am an only child. So my middle school friends have been my sisters for as long as I can remember. We’ve seen each other cry over failed math tests and dumb boyfriends. When we were separated for college, I learned what long distance relationships looked like and the impact of our winter break reunions. I still remember introducing them to my college boyfriend (now husband) in an ice cream shop, as they all awkwardly stared at each other while grasping at straws in their conversations. Even though we missed the day-to-day dramatics of college life, we came together to debrief our lives on long walks around our childhood park, accompanied by squawking geese.

While my college friends came a bit later, their impact on my life still lives in me strongly. With them, I learned what true honesty and feedback looks like and the acknowledgment that no friendship starts perfectly. They taught me that love is a choice and that friendship takes effort, work, and intention. College was a battleground, fighting for each other’s split attention while drowning in our respective Google Calendars. Through the busy-ness of it all, we still won each other’s loyalty and affection: I do not take that lightly.

The girls trip reminds me that God works in His own timeline and that prayers are answered, even if it’s not at the pace that I expected. I feel so lucky that I have kept each and every one of these friendships in my life, even as they evolved. Instead of being spooked by change, we embraced it and opened our lives to each other, and now we see the beautiful fruit of our decisions.

The girls trip—no matter how many times it happens—is a grand culmination of wishes and prayers. It is healing. It is magical.

P.E. was my least favorite hour of the school day when growing up. I dreaded everything that came with it: the grey and yellow t-shirt that stopped at our upper thighs, the black mesh shorts that hung well below our knees, the smell of sweaty shoes in the girls’ locker room. Then, when we filed out of our hiding spots and into an obedient little line, we were forced to run our sorry excuse for a mile beneath the blazing, California sun. During heat waves, we were ushered inside to play badminton or dodgeball in the hug of the cool AC, our saving grace.

Even still, the AC did not help with the coping. In dodgeball, I was forced to be the hunter, if I did not want to be the hunted. Some of the girls would stand at the edge and beg their friends to tap them lightly with the ball, as they would yell “I’M OUT” before anyone could hurl anything faster at them. By unfortunate and sheer luck or invisibility, I would be one of the last ones standing. My hands were clammy and a cold sweat broke out on my back. It was always me and one of the boys whose eyes glimmered with the permission to throw a ball at someone (even if neck down).

Safe to say, sports were not my thing, especially in the glow of puberty.

So of course, I don’t recognize this version of me that visits LA Historic State Park three times a week to play volleyball as the sun sets behind us. We race there after work to set up a perimeter and a net. I practice my overhand serves, sets, and cross hits. I ask my husband for tips from his holy grail of knowledge after having played club volleyball in college. He adjusts my approach steps and my hitting technique, demonstrating for me what he does now on instinct.

I have graduated from “spectator” to “player”. And not just “player”, but “fanatic”. I revel in a clean hit, cheer myself on when my overhand serve makes it over the net, and backpedal to position for a better pass. Even at the expense of my lower back, shoulder, and knees, I have dedicated the last year to improving my skills.

And last week, I played in my first volleyball tournament.

Might I add: my first competitive sports tournament.

The nerves tingled up my arms and legs and left a buzzing sensation in my forehead. The adrenaline heightened all my senses and allowed me to lunge for the ball in ways that I did not know my body could react. By no means was I elegant or calculated in any of my movements, but I was having fun.

It was only when I met Thomas that my approach to sports—and frankly anything athletic—changed. Thomas grew up playing outdoor basketball, ruining whatever shorts or jeans he was wearing with irreparable rips and holes. When we met in college, he was playing volleyball three times a week, having decided that rowing was not for him. So of course, my way of flirting with him at our college fellowship retreat was chasing every stray volleyball so he didn’t have to.

I would never have guessed that this would be a foreshadowing of my own love for the sport eight years later.

Pursuing volleyball in my twenties has reinforced to me the power of growth mindset. Every time I wanted to quit because I felt that I had hit my “limit”, Thomas would encourage me to take a different approach. When I pouted to myself and simmered in my perceived failure, he did not understand why I would give up, rather than try again.

Thomas was the gentle embodiment of growth mindset.

He showed me that anything is possible with effort and practice, a tenacity I lost when I refused to show weakness in college. While I gave up on new endeavors at the first hint of failure (while justifying that I was simply saving myself time), he took everything as stepping stones.

Unbeknownst to me, volleyball healed my childlike wonder.

I learned what it means to care about something that I need to work at. I happily show up week after week to work on a skill that is not “natural” to me. I choose to love my body and the play that it brings. There is no better feeling than finding a new hobby, especially in an age when scrolling on my phone feels like the main contender.

I look forward to what else I have not yet discovered in this life, and when I will fall in love again next.

If I was throwing $100,000 down the drain, it would never be for yet another suboptimal academic experience. I would rather save my money and my sanity.

But against my better judgment, I put down a deposit and enrolled. This time though, I was determined not to let it be a repeat of college where I went to class, suffered from imposter syndrome, and refused to squeak a single word. I wouldn’t spend another year crossing my fingers and hoping that it all goes by quickly.

Having once shrugged it off as an urban legend, I am happy to report that I have finally experienced psychological safety in a classroom setting. I have professors who prioritize contribution over correctness and collaboration over individual genius. There are no more GOTCHA! moments.

GOTCHA! You didn’t catch this obscure little detail in the reading.
GOTCHA! You’re actually not the smartest in the room.
GOTCHA! Asking for help means you’re not smart enough to do it on your own.

In college, I felt (academically) alone.

So I still wonder if my current program is too good to be true. Everyone wants to help each other, and we all make the effort to get to know one another better. We share information openly and widely. We ask questions in class and give answers that we don’t always know are 100% correct. My heart still races as I raise my hand, still drowning under the pressure of sounding put-together and “smart”.

But the difference now is that I find myself naturally curious about organizational psychology. I gladly ask follow up questions, while racking my brain for the last time I can remember being this talkative in a classroom.

There are no hidden GOTCHA! moments here. We all want to learn and do better. Together. While the optimistic part of me does not doubt the goodness in this program, the pessimistic side wonders how and if this will truly last.

Right now though, I’m just grateful that I found my natural curiosity: questions that flow out of me before I can overthink and feel self-conscious. I’m not tricking myself into believing this is something I care about, I just do.

As the year goes on, I want to hold fast to what I am passionate about:

• fostering creativity in the workplace

• establishing psychological safety in the workplace

• diversity, equity, and inclusion in all its forms

• making a world fit for our most vulnerable communities

I attended my first full day writers’ retreat!! (**SCREECH**) In-person. Butt in chair. Six hours.

I met other writers, creatives, and professionals in the field: each one of us ready and willing to carve out time on our precious Sunday, our sacred weekend, to ideate for a whole day together, uninterrupted. My favorite part of the retreat was when we had the chance to share our written work of the day. One of the writers raised her hand timidly, qualifying in the beginning that she was nervous but that she wanted to make herself proud by sharing with all of us. Heads turned and attentions were glued as we all listened to her shakily read her piece.

And it was so good.

She represented each and every one of us: nervous to chase our dreams, but refusing to let that stop us because we would rather shock our nervous systems by trying. This was what it looked like to pursue our passions in the face of adulthood.

I’m not gonna lie—I was actively fighting the urge to tear up. It was inspiring to see others invest themselves in their art, in these extensions of themselves. I get this same feeling when I read books where it is clear that they left everything on the page, leaving nothing to chance. I get this feeling when I watch movies like Wicked where they did everything to honor the storyline. I get this feeling when I watch feel-good shows like Stick and Ted Lasso that commit to their characters, making them fully human and fully flawed.

I also felt it strongly when my husband and I were in the crowd for the My Chemical Romance concert, where they performed their songs from their 2006 album, “The Black Parade”. We scarfed down a Shake Shack burger and a Mendocino sandwich in the car to make it after my writing retreat had ended. After we sat down, snugly fitting into those Dodgers Stadium seats, I was bombarded from start to finish by screaming, adoring fans from all generations. At the end of each song, the lead singer would thank the crowd for encouraging them to perform again. Without missing a beat, he then launched into the next song, putting his whole heart and soul out there for us to sing along to. Nearing twenty years since the album release, the band’s and the audience’s passion remain unchanged: if anything time has kindled its growth.

I want that kind of legacy with my writing.

It does not have to be a Dodgers Stadium worth of impact: even if it touches a small few, I will be so utterly happy. If it finds resonance in one person, I will have made it. Writing is the mending of the head and the heart and a love letter to both. It is not an art that can be replaced by artificial intelligence because there is nothing artificial about someone’s rendered understanding of the world. Pen to paper, it is an homage to the great Creator. We resonate with certain books, shows, and movies for a reason—they represent the human condition that is so flawed, but in its broken pieces, refracts the light in a stunning way.

When I write, I want to honor our experience as people put on this earth. And for that reason, my main character—Jayeon—is utterly and completely imperfect: she makes all the wrong judgment calls and makes life harder than it needs to be because she represents all of us. We unwittingly fall victim to the depths of our desires. We excuse the actions of others because we want to believe the best in people, swearing to ourselves “never again” when we are scorned. We search for someone to trust deeply with our whole selves, misguidedly blaming ourselves in the face of betrayal.

Jayeon is the same.

She hovers over next steps, at square one in the aftermath of betrayal. As the eldest daughter, she trips over her steps before she can even take them, overthinking everything. That is, until she meets someone she can trust, who sees her for who she is and has decided to stay. By the end of my novel though, life has beaten her down at the prime age of twenty-six, and she questions all that came before. Revenge? Forgiveness? Even this, she hesitates to answer without a thorough audit of her life. Her own worst enemy is her own mind and her overwhelming love for her people.

I crave to write about a character that lives in the grey, does not fit into a simple archetype, and reluctantly learns from her mistakes. Someone who pulls her own hair when everything goes wrong, asking herself what she could have done better. Someone whose moral compass short-circuits in the face of getting everything she has ever wanted. Someone who still puts others before herself, despite the consequences that accompany that sacrifice.

I know that the writing process will be messy, roundabout, and complex for no good reason and that writing a character like her will make it even harder.

But this is me showing up for my art, my craft, my passion. This is me making sure that I have a book I am forever proud to look back on and a character I admire for her core.

I laugh. The space you take up is suffocating and silly. Do you notice the toll you take on others? The light you snuff out? The privilege to feign ignorance is not a flex: it is a failure. I trip over myself to save you from harm’s way, when deep down I know that you would never do the same.

You remind me that womanhood is exhausting.

There are so many expectations. So many voices. Moments of true, quiet rest are rare because we are asked to take care of others: think of their feelings first, make room for them even if we must simmer and shrink. We are told to sit still, dress well (but not too well), and look put together at all costs. It is a perennial balancing act: moving the weights from one side to the other at someone else’s whim.

Womanhood evolves.

We are not in the room where it happens: where the discussions over the definition occur. But we know that the standard is golden, and anything below that is disgustingly beige. If you reject any of the expectations, you are not a good woman. A good woman does and is what she is told. A good woman serves others at the cost of herself. The more she is committed to her obsequiousness, the more praise she receives.

Womanhood is being a chameleon.

We have gotten used to taking up as little space as possible—in fact, we take pride in being as light of a burden as we can be. Light as air, quiet as a mouse, no matter our desires. We are adaptable and disposable, and we birth a new, disposable version of ourselves to match the situation. In impossible situations, every decision feels like a trick question and every moment feels like a brain teaser. We must always be ready for the mental jumping jacks, the constant and undeniable discomfort that squeezes our chest and pumps our heart for us.

Womanhood is confusing.

Because we’re told that none of it has to do with being a woman. So we grow silent, unsure if we’re being “sensitive” (oh, how I hate that word). When people in our life ask us how we are, we simply respond: “I’m just tired.” These are the only words we have left in the face of our disillusionment; the others have been robbed from our vocabulary, undermined at every turn. Our back hunches and our breath seeps out of us slowly. We make ourselves small to fit into unnatural spaces—this contortion changes our bodies in ways that we never expected, simultaneously draining our life force.

I shut down in the face of womanhood.

I turn my brain off.

I stand there as others tell me “no”, roll their windows up, and talk over me mid-sentence, unilaterally deciding that my role in the conversation is over. I am dismissed too easily, frustratingly.

So I learned to hold my breath.

I speak when spoken to. I run through small openings, apologizing to the doors when they shut on me.

Sometimes I wish I had the confidence of the average man. The average man who self identifies as “advanced” when asked what his skill level is (for anything). At least then I would know what it feels like to take up space and finish the rest of my sentence.

On my best days, I am confident and bulldoze through my whole thought because my thoughts also deserve to be full formed and voiced.

But those days do not come often.

All I know now is that I am done with this bone deep exhaustion. I am done being a doormat, step stool, punching bag. I am done watching other women be trampled on next to me. I will no longer play into this idiocy that society pushes upon us. Even if I end up looking like a bitch, I would much rather that than being his1 bitch.

So consider this my resignation from the golden standard.

Sincerely,

the pessimism of a woman :)

Let me paint you a picture.

You lose control of your nostrils and start uncontrollably sneezing on a random Thursday. You blame the uncanny timing of allergies or the spices flowing in the air from the dakdoritang (spicy chicken stew) you just made. The decline is quick. You look inside your throat and your tonsils are white—you can feel the congestion clogged up in your body and breathing is suddenly an act of labor. The familiar sound of the water kettle clicking prefaces your trip to the restroom. It boils while you pee again from the deluge of tea and water you chugged during the last hour. The graveyard of mugs stares back at you longingly, begging to be sorted back into the cupboards after a good wash. The idea of ordering food creeps up on you, no longer a decadent decision but a necessary one. Any indulgences are a salve to make everything feel better for a few minutes once again.

My most recent bout of sickness felt a lot like this. I made desperate bowls of chicken jook (porridge) and poured mysterious, brown, Japanese powder down my throat for my white tonsils. A dull pain plagued each strained swallow, and I convulsed at night from the violent cough that wanted to see the light of day. I curled up in a fetal position and held my breath to suppress it, so as not to wake up my husband, stirring gently next to me. I must have looked like the cricket bug emojis.

What I didn’t realize was that this demonic hacking would strain my ribs, specifically my intercostal muscles (which I learned existed for the very first time). A quick Google search enlightened me that this is actually quite common—horribly painful, but common. The spectrum of “dull to sharp” pain oscillates as I breathe deeply, laugh, cough, sneeze, hiccup… just simply exist. I now avoid my favorite foods (anything remotely spicy) because I don’t want to run the risk of being punched in the ribs if a spice gets caught in my throat and triggers a cough. And forget about drinking ice water too fast lest your body decides that this is the moment for your airways to seize up and cause a new coughing fit.

The introduction to my night is always a flood of tears, because somehow, changing positions from standing to supine is inexplicably painful. But you know what’s even scarier? Sneezing. Sneezing is terrifying. I pinch my nose in desperation, begging my body to let it go just once. I scrunch my nose over and over and breathe in aggressively in hopes that this will assuage my body’s needs. When my own body finally betrays me, I brace for impact as the muscles inside my ribcage spasm and stab, leaving me crouched on the floor while gasping for air.

It all sounds and looks very dramatic. Trust me, I know.

The other day, my husband asked me if I was okay… mentally. Lately I’ve gotten into the habit of randomly laughing when I think about the variety of pain that has dogged me since May 19th. Most recently, I’ve found myself repeating “pain is my friend”.

Conclusion: I have gone insane.

As I approach the one-month mark of my myriad of ailments, I celebrate the little wins. I have had the privilege of eating Hot Cheeto Fries (YAY!) and drinking iced coffee. I can lie down and get up without crying. I can walk an hour on the treadmill without a coughing fit.

I know that with more time, life will return to my “normal” again. I’m excited to be able to play volleyball again. I’m excited to weight train at the gym again. I’m excited to sneeze and laugh deeply again.

Each time I am sick or injured, I am reminded that my body is a garden: carefully grown, but easily destroyed. When I get sick, I take it as a signal from my body that I need a break. I will do my best to use this time to rest, instead of lamenting all the things I cannot do (while this is easier said than done).

My body is not invincible, and it is my responsibility to love it through all of its ups and downs.

Hope everyone is staying healthy out there! (And if you find yourself sick, don’t hold in your coughs, unless you also want to injure your intercostal muscles.)

I worked in immigration law for three years as a Paralegal, only to realize that the field is nebulous and unnecessarily complicated. It is a series of paperwork and justifying your presence, until someone in the DHS ether determines you are worthy to stay in the U.S. In the meantime, your mental health is taken for a joyride as wait times fluctuate seemingly without reason, at the whim of the reigning administration.

The whole process is arbitrary. Made up. Fickle.

All too often, immigration law seems to be wielded every which way—tragically dependent on public sentiment, fleeting feelings, and the current president’s temperament.

And no one is safe.

What was legal one day is attacked the next. Case in point: Trump threatening Harvard’s SEVP accreditation.

When we see people ripped away from their homes, elementary school graduations raided, and unaccompanied minors in immigration court, the natural response is rage. It should not be apathy—it should be “this could easily have been me, my family, my loved ones”.

Because now, I’m calling my parents and telling them to carry their passports and dig up their citizenship papers (that are God-knows-where in their apartment).

Because now, when I see a car crash in LA, I just pray to God that everyone involved is documented.

Because now, America feels (even more) dangerous.

So if you find yourself devastated by current events, know you are not alone. Empathy in the face of violent injustice means you are an advocate for humanity. Channel that emotion to volunteer for legal clinics, protest the administration, or share online resources with the community.

Each and every act of protest is necessary. Solidarity (in all forms) is the death of oppression—do not let anyone convince you otherwise.

Now, In Defense of Reposting that Sh*t on Your Story

Amid the calamity—reporters shot with rubber bullets, people bludgeoned by officers on horseback, and tear gas released into the streets of LA—posting and resharing content online feels performative and futile.

I’m no longer an immigration paralegal who can “actually” help, and I’m ashamed to admit that Trump’s fear tactics are effective: the last thing I want to do is come face to face with the National Guard. So I stay cooped up in my apartment, scrolling and reposting content on my silly little phone as sirens wail outside.

Most recently on my adventures indoors, I’ve been researching revolution and war for my climate fiction novel. After desperately checking my college Canva log-in and fiddling with Duo Mobile, I recovered my final paper from my War, Revolution, and Organized Crime Sociology course. And even though it was an analysis of South Korean revolution in 1980, it felt timely in LA today.

Nineteen-year-old me described how revolutionaries’ lack of media control negatively impacted their ability to establish their ideological argument and gain public support. I analyzed the Gwangju Uprising in South Korea in 1980 and focused on the language that partisan media outlets used to push their harmful narratives, without any pushback. They called protestors “hoodlums with guns” and “rioters”, as opposed to “revolutionaries”. (Sound familiar?)

The revolutionaries of 1980 did not have social media at their fingertips to combat language like this. They did not have people screenshotting New York Times articles and rewording the title. They did not have netizens sharing resources, legal clinics, and representatives’ phone numbers. They did not have community members taking videos of the injustice running rampant in their country.

Even in 1980, the Korean government knew that videos and photos were powerful tools in exposing unchecked violence. During the Gwangju Uprising, German Reporter Jurgen Hinzpeter filmed and revealed the events in Gwangju by sneaking into the city. He lied to the Korean CIA about his occupational status—the media back then was highly controlled, and telephone lines to Gwangju were cut, so that other cities and countries could not understand the true objectives of the protestors. Someone like Jurgen was essential in exposing the military oppression of Gwangju’s civilians. His video footage communicated the harsh, hidden reality to the rest of the world.

My college final paper reminded me that media-based activism is undeniably important. It’s not cringey. It’s not futile. It’s not performative. It garners support in ways that were impossible before. It’s a privilege that revolutionaries past would have risked their lives for.

So, in the spirit of wielding media for the greater good and centering language that resonates with the cause, here is some valuable content I’ve encountered recently:

So the next time my finger hovers over the “Share” button, I’ll press it, remembering that language and knowledge are power.

It was my first year of college, and I was a doe-eyed, naive little freshman, always susceptible to the common cold, flu, or some new disgusting concoction of germs. In the context of my incompetence, Thomas was immediately the cool upperclassman, the treasurer of our Christian fellowship to whom I had to admit my aforementioned incompetence. I had forgotten the $100 payment for my first weekend college retreat, and the bus was about to leave.

“You can pay us on Venmo,” he said. I hated admitting my thoughts out loud: what the heck is a venmo.

It would be another year after the Venmo incident before we begin dating. Our first unofficial date is a dumb, scary movie (Happy Death Day). He leans his head closer to me during the scary parts, and I pray to God that he can’t hear my heart beating over the theater sound system. When the movie is over, he asks me to late-night ice cream. His treat, he insists.

Our first official date is off campus at Toscanini’s, the coolest new gelato spot in Boston, where I promptly spill chocolate ice cream all over my bright blue shirt. While I’m sure that he’ll never want to be seen with me in public again, he laughs and hands me a napkin, insisting that it’s cute, not cringey.

After a few more study dates and long chats over ice cream, we admitted our feelings for each other, and I have never stopped walking on air since.

During our six years of dating, we experienced over a year of long distance: some months in the States and some across countries and continents. Then, insert a pandemic and a cross-country move together, we landed in Los Angeles. LA brought us to grad school, chasing our dreams, and healing in church together.

Thomas was my first long-term, serious, “I love you, and I mean it” relationship.
My first “let’s talk instead of breaking up” relationship.
My first “this feels like fate” relationship.

In a fingerprint-locked Note from November 4, 2017, I confessed:

“You make me excited over and over again. Two months in and it still feels like the first time I found out that you also liked me […] Maybe one day I’ll be reading pieces of this as wedding vows. I write this not because I expect us to reach that point but because I want us to, and maybe this is my way of willing it into future existence. But for now, one day at a time.”

And now here we are, two years into marriage. We are living the life that I wrote about and prayed for just a few days after we had made our relationship official.

Relationships are miracles.

The faith to confess, the courage to be vulnerable, the uninhibited willingness to invest in someone else—all of these commitments are so hard to come by, especially in a day and age where we entertain so many potential realities.

Thomas is someone I love having tough conversations with because we process and discuss until we find the root of the issue. When I look at him, I know that we truly meant it when we vowed to take each other in sickness and in health, for better or for worse.

When I was discerning if I was ready to marry Thomas, it was never about how many people I had dated before or following a certain timeline—it was about the person I was choosing to put my wholehearted trust in. When I thought of my future, there was no version without him. While doing life together, Thomas showed me time and time again that he is consistent, self-giving, and wise. I believed in who he was at his core, and it made me want to meet every version of him to come.

Of course I do not know what the future holds. Already in the span of eight years, we have metamorphosed several times over. Sometimes life is so sweet that it can make your mouth pucker, and other times it knocks the wind out of you, leaving you to heave and catch your breath. In the face of life’s chaos, I know that it is our burden and joy to bear together.

So, my dear Thomas,

I love you with all that I have, and I will strive to do right by you every day. I will protect your heart and cherish us always. It is a privilege and an honor to love you and to be in your life. Thank you for choosing to have me in yours.

Too often, it feels like information overload and content for the sake of it. In my cynicism, it is meaningless, draining, and performative. In the sudden bursts of confidence that I delete Instagram and Tik Tok, I tell myself that it’s for my own good (even if my resolve is never long-lived). When these moments inevitably pass, I redownload and scroll through once again, giggling under the covers at a funny reel and smiling when I see friends’ life updates.

My relationship with social media is fickle.

I have noticed that my outlook ebbs and flows based on my mood. When I’m in a good place, I remember to be grateful for the community I have found online, a community that has now transcended into real life. But when I’m in a bad place, everything reads overwhelming and trite. I consider erasing my online presence and crawling into a hole where emojis, comments, and likes no longer exist.

I all too often forget that social media is meant to serve me, especially when I cannot break myself from the little dopamine hits that keep me satiated, and therefore, addicted. This addiction especially latched on when I began posting consistently, when my relationship shifted from consumer to producer. Now I find myself poring over what attracts views, what people enjoy, and what would make them watch more. I think about how to make my videos as fast-paced as possible, so that no one can think to scroll past or click out of them. I don’t claim to be successful at this, but at the very least, I have become obsessed with cracking the code.

I miss the days when the Internet was a less calculated place.

Facebook likes to remind me of these “good ol’ days”.

These memories serve as reminders of random conversations posted on my or my friends’ Facebook walls, littered with our version of emojis back then: xD >3< -_- :3 We would ask each other for help on homework, follow some benign online trend, or post how we were feeling (“is so bored rofl”). Social media was never about how many views you could garner or how cool you looked. We took the “social” part of it literally.

It is not lost on me that all creation evolves. They change over time—to remain relevant, to remain youthful. Facebook, YouTube, and Instagram are no exceptions. However, I am allowed to reminisce, even as I also conform to the new editions.

The social media of today reminds me that we all have such different and unique ways of processing the world and documenting our experiences for posterity. There is no such thing as generic or boring—we each have our own voice. And because the Internet is such a scary place, I admire anyone who approaches it with true vulnerability. It cannot be an easy thing to imagine that so many eyes will fall on you.

But when we take a chance and connect, it is so powerful and beautiful. It restores my faith in humanity in one fell swoop.

As I continue sharing my life, writing process, and grad school journey online, I want to challenge myself to be more and more intentional. I don’t want to run on any hamster wheel for the sake of it, so I aim to ask myself whether what I share is vulnerable, connective, or creative.

And even if it is hard, I will

— resist the urge to create for views.

— chase authenticity in each written piece or post.

— write for myself rather than for others.

— create and post as long as it brings me joy.

“April!” I interrupt. April’s never exactly been good at being discreet but throwing out her recommendation of a crude one-night stand while we’re in a coffee shop feels like a new record.

“Just consider it,” April scoops up the papers strewn across our table, preparing to make her exit. “It’s been a while since you and Jason have broken up. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess there were cobwebs down there.” She gestures towards my pants.

I swat her away with a newfound conviction. I could find a fling if I wanted to. I’m just focusing on my novel right now. After all, I can’t have quit my job to write for nothing. Anxiety swells up in my chest as looming bill payments take up their usual spot in the back of my mind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I had promised to help April with her latest interior design project of Savant’s House: LA’s newest—and therefore most coveted—social club. April is one of the city’s best interior designers, so it came as no surprise to me when she had bounced into the coffee shop with good news that she had been hinting at for the past week over text.

April huffs in protest, “No, not tomorrow. Tonight! You promised you would come out to Noir with me. You know how hard I had to work to get our names on the list.” By “work” she means “flirt”, but I let her get away with it since it’s the hardest night club to get into right now.

“You’re right, you’re right. Okay now go! I have to get some writing done.”

April skips away while blowing me a goodbye kiss. I pretend to catch it and put it in my pocket, as is our tradition. When she’s finally disappeared from the window, I pull out my laptop and open my latest chapter, sipping the same vanilla latte I had been nursing for the past three hours. I avoid eye contact with the barista who pointedly wipes the table next to me.

* * *

The Uber ride is already stomach-wrenching.

April’s text glows, instructing me to go in because she’s running late. I suck in air through my teeth and muster the courage to go inside, forsaking the introverted coward inside of me. The red rope opens easily once I give my name, and I steel myself for the ear damage I’ll regret one day in my old age. Noir is small, dark, and damp, with pools of sticky alcohol on the ground. There aren’t enough people to hide among and I curse myself for coming on time like a fool.

“Two tequila shots, please,” I yell over the music to the bartender, seeking liquid courage against my better judgment and empty stomach. I order one for April before the line gets crazy. I knock mine back and swallow quickly to trick my taste buds.

“Maeve?” The familiar voice is distinct and grating. Images of our final argument, screaming at each other as he stormed out of our apartment, play in my mind. I swallow April’s tequila shot before I turn around.

“Jason!” I grit my teeth and grin through the unwelcome surprise. The inflection at the end of his name goes up a pitch higher than I would have liked it to, but I power through, eyes darting to the door in search of April.

“Are you here alone?” The pity in his tone drips heavily as he pulls the girl draped around his arm closer. I blush as I push down the lump in my throat.

My spatial awareness heightens as a half-baked plan hatches in my mind, “Of course not,” I turn around and grab the first arm that I can feel. In the loudest voice I can manage in this godforsaken club, I yell, “This is my date.” I almost can’t bring myself to look at the unwitting victim I’ve pulled from the abyss of club-goers.

“Honey, introduce yourself.” I tug lightly at the arm in my hand as I sheepishly turn my attention to him. I can’t make him out in the flashing lights of the club, but I just hope that he’s equally as blurry to Jason.

“I’m Oliver.” His voice is confident and calm. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that I had hired him for the role of fake boyfriend. He sticks out his hand for Jason to shake. Surprised, he reciprocates and mutters a flimsy “nice to meet you”. I could die now knowing how quickly this stranger is shrinking Jason’s inflated ego.

Oliver suddenly wraps his arm around my waist and something in the pit of my stomach warms at his touch. Maybe it’s the tequila shots, maybe it’s the tallness towering over me, maybe it’s the fact that he’s the perfect improv actor—all I know is that he’s everything I needed tonight.

While they make small talk, the strobing club lights wash over Oliver’s face and flicker like broken elevator lights. I can feel the liquid courage turning into liquid anesthesia as Jason’s voice floats into my ear.

“Woah, Maeve, do you need to sit down?”

Oliver’s strong hands grip my shoulders and steady me as I sway to house music that’s starting to sound really good. Before I black out, all I remember is violently lurching forward and emptying the contents of my stomach in LA’s most popular night club.

* * *

“Finally! You’re awake! Good, because we’re running late,” April’s shrill stress bombards me as I stir awake in her bed.

“What am I doing here?”

“Girl, don’t even get me started. I get to the club to find—are you kidding me—you and a random man with your vomit all over his Dior Timeless Oxford shoes.” She gags as she grabs a dress from her closet, a dozen already littering the floor from her scavenging.

I rub my temples with my middle fingers, trying to coax my migraine away, “Are those… nice shoes?”

“Nice doesn’t even begin to describe them, Maeve. They’re $1000. That’s like half your rent.”

I snap up in bed and stare at my friend who’s now assembled an entire outfit for me on her bed. “$1000?!”

“And what the hell was Jason doing there? Little shit looked pretty smug when I got there and asked him who the hell was propping you up.”

A rush of red flushes my face as I crawl out of bed. “So… Jason knows that the club guy isn’t my boyfriend?” Each word spills out slowly as realization sinks in.

“Boyfriend?! Okay, we’ll get more into that later—” she would have looked prouder if she wasn’t trying to muffle her panic, “—but first, get dressed. We’re late.”

I shimmy myself into April’s dress, feeling like a tube sock by the end but accepting my fate. April’s passenger side car door is flung open expectantly: the minute my butt touches the seat, she slams on the accelerator towards Savant’s House.

“Why were you telling Jason that rando in the Dior shoes was your boyfriend?!” This is the fastest April’s ever driven, I note to myself as I try not to hurl in her BMW. She definitely wouldn’t appreciate that.

“He was at Noir with some woman, who—by the way—was so pretty. What was I going to do? I can’t compete with that. By myself. Already two tequila shots in. Friendless. Boyless.”

“Okay, yes, I’m sorry that I was late. I got caught up preparing for today. Not everyone gets asked to design Savant’s House for their holiday party.”

I put my hand on a very anxiety-ridden April and squeeze. “It’s going to go great. You’re April Williams.”

“And you’re Maeve Yoon. You totally could have taken that piece of shit. Friendless. Manless. Jason is nothing.”

The entrance to Savant’s House is hidden in an inconspicuous coffee shop in the middle of downtown. April all but abandons her car in the middle of a busy street and fast walks—doing her best not to break a sweat—to the front desk. I dutifully trail behind, determined not to bring her any more stress than she’s already juggling.

The Mr. Moseby lookalike raises his head from his laptop with a practiced grin on his face. “Hello, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today?”

“Hi, we’re here to take a look at the dining hall for the upcoming holiday party.”

The lookalike drops us off at the biggest room that I have ever seen in my life. It’s decorated with draping, gold curtains and a massive chandelier with footlong candles at each point.

After he leaves, April enters a trance as she drawls distractedly, “I’m going to take a look at the room to see what we’ll need. You can feel free to explore a little bit, but just be careful not to break anything.” She shoots me a knowing look, her words accounting for my perpetual bad luck.

I stick my tongue out at her and smile. Mesmerized by the architecture and inventorying new ideas for my book, I wander the halls and gravitate towards the laughs of rich people. ‘Huh, huh, huh,’ I imitate in the safety of my own mind.

A comforting, vaguely familiar voice interrupts my thoughts, “Hi again.”

I whip around to find myself face-to-face with a clean shaven, sharp jawlined, six-foot man. I clear my throat as my eyes make their way from his neatly barbered hair to his polished shoes with the word “Dior” etched near the shoelaces. Epiphany erupts in my mind as I stumble backwards.

As though by instinct, his arm whips out to catch me by the small of my back. The same ember that was in the pit of my stomach last night rekindles as he steadies me with ease.

“Oliver,” he points to himself.

“Yes, no, I know. I mean, I recognize you,” I gulp loudly. “Thank you for last night, Oliver.” His name feels familiar in my mouth as I punctuate my sentence with it. “And I’m so sorry about your shoes. I’m more than happy to pay you back for their cleaning. It might have to be a payment plan type of situation, but still.”

“No, no it’s fine,” a softness blooms in his voice. “It’s my fault for wearing them to a club. What was I thinking, right?” He jokes, gracefully letting me off the hook. “I’m sorry that we didn’t get to keep up the ruse in front of your ex though. I really loved being your boyfriend for even a few minutes.”

I choke on my spit as guppies swim in my stomach. “Honestly, I was just thankful that you played along so well. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had tried to wriggle out of my grasp.”

“You did have an ironclad grip on me,” Oliver laughs. “Either way, it definitely made for an interesting night, and I’m happy to hear that I have a shot as an actor,” he pretends to bow, unwittingly bringing his face closer to mine. He lingers for just long enough for my mind to wonder what’s hidden underneath the cleanly pressed suit. My breathing shallows as his presence now takes up my entire attention. The smell of his cologne, the smell of last night still in my hair. His leather briefcase hanging at his side, my phone protected by the cheapest Amazon case I could find clutched at mine. I don’t need to ask to know that we’re part of completely different worlds. I mean, he’s at Savant’s House on a Friday morning instead of loitering at a cafe with one drink for three hours.

Oliver’s posture straightens, finally relinquishing my attention back to me. I clear my throat, “So what brings you here?”

“I’m just here on my lunch break.” He points at the coffee in his hand from the cafe. “We get a heavy discount on our drinks at the front,” he winks. “What about you?”

I contemplate lying. For what purpose I don’t know, but I find myself considering it anyway. Before I can open my mouth to respond, April comes bounding down the hall.

“There you are!” She’s excited as though she’s hit an epiphany. Her bright eyes shift to Oliver as her pace slows. “Oh!”

“‘Oh’ indeed. Hello again,” He carries himself with such ease that I can only beam at my fake boyfriend with unfounded pride.

“Surprised she hasn’t scared you off,” April jokes as her breath catches up to her again after her small burst of energy.

“Not at all,” Oliver stares at me with such intent that I begin to wish that more had happened last night than another unfortunate night club story.

“Ooookay, I’m gonna go back to my interior design stuff. Maeve — feel free to… not come back,” she stifles a laugh as she finishes her sentence.

Oliver fills the silence that April leaves behind, “So you’re here for the interior design in the dining hall?” He bobs his head towards her direction.

“Ah, I’m just here as her assistant… I’m actually a full-time writer.”

“Oh my gosh! That’s awesome — anything I would’ve read?”

I stare at the space to the right of Oliver’s head to avoid eye contact, “No not yet. Still writing the first draft.”

“Do you have one of those boring, old nine-to-fives like the rest of us sad saps?” He teases, obviously searching for the best way to ask what I do with the rest of my time.

“No, none of those.” I still can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes. As though he can read my mind, he brings his hand up to lift my chin gently.

“Hey, you’re chasing your dreams. That’s incredible.” He beams at me with the warmth of a thousand suns, joy and excitement dripping from his gaze. “I can’t wait to read your book one day.”

Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept very much or very soundly, but I feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I do everything in my power to stop the lump in my throat from coming out as a gurgling sob. I had already had my fill of embarrassment for the week. I manage to get out a sheepish “thanks”.

“In the meantime, I’d love to take you out sometime. Maybe audition for my spot as a character in your book.”

A soft smile breaks out on my face as I nod, panicking when a stray tear makes it way down my face from the momentum. Oliver—as though by instinct—brings his finger to my face and delicately wipes the tear away.

“I would love that,” I say as I lose myself in his eyes.

When I came back from Hawaii, I was met with a resounding, “You didn’t tan at all!” from friends and an even louder, “Did you forget to put on sunscreen while you were there?” from my mom.

Evidence of my time under the sun is only visible close-up. You need to peer into my face to see the new freckles underlining my eyes while traversing my nose bridge. Only then can you trace them down from my cheeks, to my chin, to the great splatter on my arms. They are a diverse array of light, dark, round, oval, wide, and small, revealing their true shape only to those who look long enough at them.

My mom swears I will hate my freckles when I’m older. She promises this daily as she covers up hers with foundation each day. Meanwhile, my husband remains committed to the fact that this is his favorite feature of mine, especially when he points them out during long car rides under the harsh California sun. On the particularly radiant days, he’ll bring them up with a little gasp.

“Your freckles!” He would exclaim with a huge smile on his face.

“Are they that visible?” I whip open the car mirror from my passenger princess seat and stare closely at my face.

Panic is usually my first reaction as I realize how relentless my freckles are: no matter how much sunscreen I smatter on my face, my freckles pop up like weeds. As the panic subsides, it’s replaced with a recent conviction that I want to love this prominent feature of mine.

My freckles boast the amount of time I spend outside playing volleyball, going on walks with Harvey, and basking on picnic blankets. They remind me of how much life I’ve lived and how much more there is still to enjoy. They guide my youth and encourage me to live freely, daring me to create more with each new adventure.

My freckles are constellations on my body.

On some days, they are darker than usual. On others, they fade and go into hiding. When they are coaxed out, I stare into a mirror and trace them with my fingers, memorizing the new additions and greeting the old. They are relentless because they are a part of me.

I hope one day if I choose to have children, they will also have freckles that I can stare at and smile. When they are red and blotchy after a day of running around in the sun, their freckles will come out to say hello to mine. When new ones spread across their face and arms, I will know that the sun has watched tirelessly over them. My husband and I will exclaim giddily on car rides that their freckles are more visible today, and I will hold out my arm behind me so they can compare.

And when they pore over their freckling body parts, I will promise them that they will love their freckles even when they’re older, because they are simply constellations on their bodies.

Kindle + Libby

Starting off strong, I got a Kindle last October from my husband and vowed to myself that I would make good use of it.

And I’ve done just that.

I don’t buy any books on it, but I use Libby religiously, even hitting the cap on the number of holds I can have at one time. This Kindle + Libby combination has saved me from my reading slump, emboldening me to try different genres without the fear of wasting money. I can dnf (“did not finish”) books that I don’t receive joy in reading instead of being shackled to a book for the sake of saying I finished it. I simply return my loan and move on — if anything, I’m doing the next person in the endless Libby queue a favor.

Favorite Author

In my Libby era, I’ve also had the golden opportunity to try different authors out. An appealing cover, a good opening paragraph, an eye-catching pen name — it doesn’t take much to be added to my TBR (“to be read”) list. However, it does take a lot for me to finish a book or to remain loyal to an author. I love books that make me feel emotions deeply and surprisingly. If you can get me to shed a tear without realizing it was coming, honestly hats off to you.

Until Ann Liang’s A Song to Drown Rivers, it had been way too long since I had last cried over a book. Cry over a movie? TV show? Tik Tok about a dog who’s reunited with his owner? I’m your girl. But a book? So when I started this one, I didn’t expect to react the way I did: tears staining my pillow in the middle of the night as my husband slept soundly next to me, his snoring ambient white noise in the background. What drew me first was Ann Liang’s writing style: it was so striking even in the one minute that I picked up her book in Zibby’s Bookshop. Without hesitation, I added myself to the massive e-library waitlist and strapped in for the “several months” queue.

I didn’t just finish her book, it finished me. (A bit of a spoiler but) I cried thoroughly and endlessly throughout the last 20% of the story. It was a slow burn enemies-to-lovers and love at first sight. It highlighted why and how love can be so heart shattering in all of its nuanced nature. Miss Liang’s storyline is executed so masterfully and sorrowfully.

**Definite spoiler in next paragraph**

At the end, there is a huge feeling of regret that we share with the main character, as her reality dawns on her too late. There was a world—just within reach—where she could have gotten everything she wanted, yet she walked away with none of it. What do you do when you’re just one person in the midst of a years-long struggle? What do you do when your heart simply wants what it wants, even against your better judgment? What do you do when your knight in shining armor misses his timing, never to get a second chance?

A Song to Drown Rivers—in a lot of ways—is so simple, but in that simplicity, complex emotions are able to shine through. There aren’t many settings you have to follow and not many side plots you’re keeping track of. Instead, you’re allowed to fall deeply into your emotions and follow a clear train of heartbreak.

Ann Liang has found a new loyal reader in me. A Song to Drown Rivers is right up there with RF Kuang’s Poppy War trilogy, and while I wish this one were also a series, I know why it had to be a single book.

Now on to my next Ann Liang read: If You Could See the Sun.

Drinkity

If you know me, you know that I love reading my little Kindle books and writing in the cozy, feel good vibes of a coffee shop on a random weekday (the weekday part is important because otherwise the cozy and feel good aspects go out the window). My main hobby is chasing LA’s newest cafe like it’s catnip and I am the unwitting, tunnel-visioned kitten. I cannot rest until I know that I have checked it off my list and tried a signature drink (as long as it’s not syrup based). I take pride in knowing what I like about a cafe, equipped now to describe them to people who are curious but don’t want to risk the $7 themselves.

I’m by no means a coffee bean expert, but I am indeed an expert of my own taste buds. I’ve learned that I love cream top lattes: the milkiness and richness of them are so addicting and leave me wanting more each time, especially if my and the cafe’s ideas of a well-balanced drink are aligned.

My most recent favorite has been Picnic Coffee’s Vienna latte. With a strong espresso base, signature sweet cream topping, and sprinkle of sea salt, I find myself going back at least once a week. Any week I can have Picnic is a good week. The aspect I love most of its Vienna latte is the balance of sweet and bitter. Not too much of either, so I can easily go back for my second, third, fourth sip.

It’s also inspired me to try to make better Vienna lattes at home — for the sake of my curiosity and wallet.

Editing Technique

I recently finished writing the first draft of my novel. It happened on just another writing session at Stagger Coffee, as I sat with my friend and we both typed away at our manuscripts.

The undeniable positive in finishing draft one is having the freedom to read the full thing and gain a better understanding of the plot and pace. As I explored different techniques with editing, I discovered the undeniable pull of a physical copy. I had hummed and hawed over printing it all, lamenting the dead trees whose sacrifices were necessary for this endeavor. But when I finally pulled the trigger and printed it out, I read through it in a week.

I bought an old school poster board and put my leftover sticky notes to good use, divvying up my focus on character development, plot, pacing, tension points, and pitfalls. Writing it all out by hand helped me commit to memory what I need to change in draft two.

There is something so personal and gratifying about editing by hand — the product, the creative endeavor, the world in front of me feels so tangible and real. It’s no longer something that flickers on and off with the open and close of my laptop.

It exists on its own.

Fitness/Sport (?)

This is a bit of an unexpected section because I wasn’t much of a movement girly, that is until a few years ago when I was forced to be with the onset of the pandemic. When it started, I was in Boston, surrounded by a seemingly endless amount of options for hikes. With the emphasis on social distancing, I naturally took to the mountains on weekends, where the only people you see are in the open air as you both respectfully fast-walk past each other, maybe muttering a little “hi” in the wind behind you.

Then I came to LA, where there is a woefully small number of good hikes, aka hikes that don’t leave you to bake under the hot California sun. After I had cycled through the same staple hikes, I started indoor climbing. I loved the way it felt: it made me more confident in my body and its ability. But after a while, even this became repetitive, especially when the routes weren’t changed out all too often and the thirty-minute commute to Culver City after work became a slog.

Now, ahh, finally, volleyball. I can’t believe I’m almost at my one year anniversary with it. In this year, I’ve gotten an outdoor volleyball from friends, a net from family, and indoor shoes from my husband. With new little gadgets like this and the natural progression of time, my instincts have slowly become better (if I may be so bold to say) and I find myself enjoying the sport more and more. As someone who serially tries and quits hobbies, I’m so happy that volleyball is something that I can do with my friends and husband, creating a community while getting some exercise in.

New Year’s Resolutions

My favorite New Year’s resolution has been to be my best advocate: putting up boundaries, maintaining them unapologetically, and choosing myself and my loved ones.

This resolution deserves a shout out because it has always proven to be the most difficult. As an Asian-American woman and pastor’s kid, it has been baked into my DNA to defer to others and optimize for their comfort, even if it comes at a cost to myself. With each year that passes, I’ve definitely improved at standing up for myself and maintaining better boundaries. But with more life comes more situations where this becomes harder and harder to commit to.

So as I take inventory of my favorites, I can’t help but give a huge shout out to this one. To me, it represents growth and immense healing that I wasn’t quite sure was possible after having lived under a certain matrix for so long.

…so to wrap this up again

I love doing these little “fran favorites” lists because they remind me to take stock of my life from time to time, just to make sure that the content, approaches, and pastimes are all what I want to do and not just something I’m passively swept up by.

Thanks for joining me another run through and feel free to share some of your favorites! Excited to hear from y’all so I can explore what else the world has to offer :)

In the midst of checking Gmail desperately for FedEx tracking updates, I stumble upon a different email I had received just minutes before. The subject reads, “Frances, Your Application Decision is Re…” Heartbeat quickening, I open the email. Something close to terror closes my throat as my eyes scan the words:

A taunting red button glows beneath it with “View Decision”.

I rip the bandaid off faster than I think most others would. In another world, I might’ve waited for my husband to come home, for me to not look like a disheveled wreck, for my dog to stop barking at the door and at the invisible enemy out there.

But this was the moment that I had waited five years for.

When I graduated in 2020, I graduated into the pandemic. And as some of us may have the privilege of remembering, jobs were really hard to come by back then. Offers were getting rescinded, budgets were in flux, and job openings felt like rage bait. So it wasn’t a matter of finding my dream job, it was a matter of finding any job. I felt fortunate to find work that I enjoyed doing for the time being and that taught me so much about business immigration, an otherwise extremely niche set of knowledge.

But as the years went on, I also knew that being a paralegal was never my dream job — I didn’t even know it existed until I was about to become a jobless new graduate in very ~unprecedented~ circumstances. The job search for years to come after that was also very rough. Every entry-level position asked for five years of experience or a Master’s degree, while my five-year reunion wasn’t even upon me. It felt like some sort of cosmic joke.

So in Fall 2021, I applied for a Master’s in Asian American Studies at UCLA. In Spring 2022, I was rejected. In Spring 2022, I applied for and was offered a position at Asian Americans Advancing Justice, but with a pay cut that I couldn’t afford while my now-husband was still in law school and we were planning and paying for a wedding by ourselves.

So I rejected my dream job.

In 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024, I applied feverishly for jobs whenever my mind felt it had the bandwidth. As the years went on, my pile of rejections or non-responses grew, until I quit my job to give myself room to breathe and pivot.

So in Fall 2024, I began preparing my Industrial-Organizational Psychology application with bated breath. I vowed to learn how to make workplaces better and healthier and advocate for the working population, especially for those who couldn’t risk to themselves.

Every time I read my personal statement, anxiety riddled me. It felt like so many doors kept shutting in my face that even wondering what God had in store for me through each of these “no”s or “not yet”s felt laborious and meaningless.

So, laying sideways in my bed—face aglow with the decision email—I open the portal with little to no expectation because no longer would I get my feelings hurt by the way that fate hurled me.

It’s been five years in the making, but I am finally pursuing (professionally) what I want to do.

When my husband came home, the floodgates opened.

I wasn’t even able to say out loud that I got into school. I just opened my phone and handed it to him, letting him read the words himself. No prompting from him needed, I started bawling. Every anxiety, worry, and self-deprecating thought I had ever had began to melt away as I watched a door finally open for me. Who knows if it’s the “perfect” next step, but all I know is that this is the next step that I want to take, and being able to move forward is privilege enough.

[insert photo here, except I can’t because mine are all of me sobbing while holding my phone]

Y’all!!! Your girl is going to grad school!!

LA’s still on fire.

It feels like just yesterday that I was marveling at the strong winds that were ripping through the city, bending palm trees to their will. But all too quickly, I wished they had never come to fan the embers, to light the flames across a city already in such a fragile state. The orange hues that covered the city became a deadly beauty that taunted its perverse triumph in our faces.

A large part of me is so grateful for the many people who reached out to check if my friends, family, and I were all okay. A twinge of unforeseen guilt simultaneously bubbled up in my chest as I answered that we’re fine, that we’re outside of the evacuation zones, that we are disaster-adjacent but not disaster-stricken, knowing full well that there are those who can’t say the same. Sending texts, asking friends to stay safe—that was all I could do, but how is it that all that I can do is so futile? The city I love is burning, our people are struggling, and I’m sitting at home watching Selling Sunset and all the beautiful—but now flattened—homes in the Palisades on repeat.

It’s odd to see this version of LA on display so relentlessly and it made me think about what others have thought of the city that I love so much: the city where I play grass volleyball on a wintry Sunday (which here just means sunny with a chance of wind chill); the city where I hop from cafe to cafe and watch as people around me work on their latest passion projects, small businesses, or academic endeavors; the city where I moved when I needed spiritual refuge from abusive religious dynamics in Boston.

This city means everything to me.

I know that it hasn’t always had the best reputation to others and now it’s shrouded with a forced sympathy. For so long, folks in LA have been known as cold, reserved, and even vapidly shallow at our worst. But having lived here for three years now and having grown up in Orange County—LA’s little sister—from third grade until college, I see the beauty it hides.

LA is a city of resilience and of passionate pursuit. It pushes you to be true to yourself—lest you get swept up by the sea of dreams around you—and surround yourself with people you truly vibe with. We may seem picky, but it’s because we’re fiercely loyal. Once we give and once we get, that’s it. We are bound for life.

LA’s sisu was on full display this past weekend when our communities came together to organize relief efforts for the impacted. My husband and I went to Bakers and Baristas in Orange County to drop off donations and it was so, so heartwarming to hear them say that they already had a U-Haul’s worth of donations to take. With less than a day’s notice, the community had rallied. In less than a week of the fires swallowing communities whole, people had found ways to resist these forces of nature.

If this city didn’t already have my heart, it definitely does now.

Seeing the many faces of LA reminds me of everyone I have ever had the privilege of meeting here. We have so many different sides, experiences, and characteristics that make us us and it would be untrue to pretend they didn’t exist.

LA has always been that: a complex and incredible mosaic that makes us all one and the same, even despite our perceived differences.

So this is a love letter to my city, a city with a sisu so strong that I can’t help but be inspired by it.

Arriving

I solidly entered my mid-twenties this past year and turned 26. My twenties have been a process of arriving and desperately chasing the feeling of finding what I was “meant to do”. I agonize over each decision and am guilty of craving the destination more than the journey, despite what the inspirational and catchy phrases on my Instagram may say.

In 2024, I had to shift my mindset from “about to arrive” to “always arriving”. When I thought I was about to arrive, I would slowly press my foot on the brake in preparation to stop. Yet as I slowed, I could feel the disappointment spread throughout my body because I knew deep down that this was not finality. So, I decided that I would let go of the mirage of the destination. If I’m always arriving, I am also always ready for my aspirations to evolve.

Bodily Boundaries

This past year, I also learned how to listen to my body.

For you see, the side effect of my newfound obsession with volleyball is back and knee pain. I have no one else to blame but myself, especially as I flaunt my poor form at every game and dive forward to sacrifice myself for the ball, crashing my joints into the ground. Being a new athlete (*flips hair*), I’m learning how to take breaks when my body needs it and saying no to some days of play, no matter how much my heart and mind scream “yes!”

In 2024, I have become more in sync with my body, in that I am finally listening for its tiny screams of help. Besides my bodily aches, these yelps have come in the form of creeping migraines and panic attacks.

The migraines were new to me in 2022 and have stayed with me since. I’ve become pretty good at predicting when they’re about to happen and I dutifully slink away into the darkness of my bedroom, already having popped an Excedrin and chugged an obscene amount of water. I lay there with my Kindle on a brightness level of two and wait for the migraine to leave me when it pleases.

Migraines have shown to be the younger, milder sister to my mind’s bigger and scarier cries for help: my panic attacks. By the time I quit my job, I was averaging a panic attack at least once or twice a month. It got to the point where my husband would ask how work was going and I could only nod because I knew the hyperventilation and tingling headache were lying in wait behind the curtains. I knew it was coming from a mile away before it even saw me, vulnerable in the open.

While I was trying to convince myself that I could hold out, endure, and survive, my body was begging me for a reality check. No more were my panic attacks reserved for “special occasions” or big ruptures in my life, but they were now the canaries in the coal mines.

Now, 2025 is the year that I know what it means to listen to my mind and body, because they have proven to know me better than I know myself. I am grateful for its timing because this is also the year that I am beginning to see the small buds of the seeds I have sown for years past.

Dreaming Loudly, Writing Inspiredly

In 2025, I am nearing the first draft of my novel and the inevitable question of “what next?” ChatGPT has warned me that I will now be entering the editing stage and begin looking for agents, a response to which I close my laptop and promptly seek out my emotional support animal. The thing about loudly dreaming is that it forces me to make a plan for my goals and aspirations, even if I want to linger in the sweet spot for a while longer.

I am afraid to dream loudly because I inherently believe that I am only allowed to if I am good enough. In 2025, I am reminding myself and living out the belief that skills, aptitude, and dreams are all grown, not given.

In 2024, I have regained my love and voracity for writing. I average 2500 words a week, which to me is a huge feat, especially during the weeks when I feel uninspired and tired. I am running towards the end of my novel, and while I may eat my words later, right now I am excited to reach the finish line so I can look back and see all the little realities I have written into existence. I can’t wait to one day say that I have finished creating characters, unique personalities, new and fantastical places, and captivating storylines.

The fact that I get to enter the new year with habits I cultivated for the past year is such a big win. I can’t wait to see how they’ll transform with all the new stages that my novel-in-progress goes through as well.

Thank you for joining me in 2024!

Each year is infinitely precious because they bring with them lessons that are only gained with time. So as I enter another one, may I take with me all the learnings that I have gathered in 2024 and come out the other end of 2025 stronger, wiser, and one step closer to my dreams.

I hang there in the balance of being belayed, my weight tethered to some rope and a harness.

My husband always checks in with me before I start one of the harder climbs—“Are you going to get mad at this one if you can’t finish it?”—to which I indignantly respond no, when deep down I know that the answer is a resounding yes.

For you see, some days my arms are noodles, while on others they are strong and invincible tree trunks with popping green veins to boot.

The days when my arms feel like wet noodles are the hardest. They are merely there to stick to the wall and nothing more: not a single additional purpose than to just hang there. You would think that I’d know a noodle day before I get there, but it’s something that only shows itself when I start to climb. Not a second before.

Halfway up—

Are we in pain? I ask my arms.

Are we giving up? I knock at my mind.

Are we feeling okay? I assess my body.

I need to get to the top, I whisper.

On these days, nobody wins and all I’ve done is make a fool out of myself and yell at some rocks.

I wish I could say this feeling was unique to climbing, but it is anything but new. My novel and I have a similar relationship.

More often than not, I’m (metaphorically) yelling and praying that words will magically spill onto the screen. On these noodle days, I don’t know where the plot is going. I don’t know what the words on the screen are saying. I don’t know what my main character is doing.

You can’t force creativity, I convince myself.

You have to give yourself a break, I remind myself.

Even days that I don’t write a word are important, I tell myself.

But I quit my job for this, I whisper. 

Yelling at a wall is easier than yelling at myself.

So after I throw a temper tantrum in the air and as my husband lowers me from the wall, I breathe and collect myself. Climbing, writing are some of those things where you have to believe in their value before seeing the results. This is the nature of the game and the medal goes to the one who can hold out the longest, in the discomfort, doubt, and soreness. There is nothing easy or sanity-producing when pursuing something without immediate results.

No amount of oo’ing and aww’ing over its novelty can ease the sting of the unknowing.

So I will continue to yell at the wall,

so that I can get through the noodle days unscathed and ready to tackle the next.

Anyone want to yell at the wall with me?

She reminds me of a retired version of myself that I’ve desperately tried to leave behind. But not for nothing, I always greet her with a smile. It’s my feeble attempt at reminding myself that every part of myself contributed to my growth thus far.

So I smile.

Even if it feels fake.

Even if it feels like a part of myself is dying to not be doing this dance again.

<3 <3 <3

I’m growing double eyelids.

I googled it. It says that it comes with age.

My mom used to tell me that she — before her mid-twenties and before marriage — also had a monolid. I stare at her incredulously as I inspect the double eyelids that proudly adorn her face now. I tell her I don’t believe her. She probably thinks to herself that there’s no use in trying to convince me; I will also see for myself on my own face one day.

In the latter half of twenty-five, I’ve noticed on some mornings that I’ll wake up with double eyelids that I have no idea what to do with. I’ll open my eyes extra wide so that I can feel the creases of them as my eyes look out onto the world. Sometimes I’ll stare at the mirror and continuously change the size of my eyes so that I can watch as the doubleness of them appears and disappears.

I woke up the day after my 26th birthday with both my eyes flaunting double eyelids. Most mornings, only one of them boasts such a change but with the new year, it seems that both of them have gained the courage that I never expected them to have. I’m a little nervous that the double crease will stay and that I’ll have to re-learn how to do my eyeliner, glue on fake lashes, and put on eyeshadow. All unnecessarily difficult things that I learned in my early twenties, all things that I may have to throw out the window.

But the more I make peace with my bodily changes, the more I tell myself that maybe it’s not a complete loss. I’ll be able to apply some of the things I’ve learned over the years to my new double eyelid-dom, and I’ll pat myself on the back for having learned all those things so far, for this unforeseen moment.

~ ~

The birthday blues are real.

The end of 25 was honestly a huge shit show. I kept it together well for most of 25 and *bam* at the end, everything kind of fell apart. There’s no real *thing* I can attribute my mental breakdown to, but all I know is that this happens every year leading up to my birthday.

In years past, I was able to attribute it to the emotional instability I was trying to shed. This year, I’m finding that there’s a trend, and that trend is my birthday.

But the blues came and went, and in their wake, they left behind a sense of peace that comes after the rain has stopped falling. Somewhere in the internet ether, I saw a quote along the lines of: “If you ask God for flowers, don’t be surprised when He sends rain.” And that really stuck with me.

The last few years weren’t easy.

LA is a brutal city with a subtle hazing period. Its reputation is easygoing and chill, so much so that it’s actually harder to approach. You don’t know its boundaries, you don’t know the norms, and what’s more — no one tells you. You’re left to fend for yourself, truly weeding out those without any social noonchi1.

In these three years, I lost longtime friends, broke down at/quit my job, and questioned my worth as a functioning member of society. But in those same years, I grew a genuine and beautiful community, wrote half of my first novel, and am now applying for grad school in Organizational Psychology: all things I never expected to have, but all things I have prayed for in some capacity in my twenties.

Twenty-six.

Rain.

Flowers.

But not one without the other.