At seven years old, I already knew to protect my innermost feelings. I loved to write. A relative gifted me a locked diary—which I treasured but did not trust. In a household with surveillance cameras in bedrooms, boundaries weren’t up for discussion.
At five years old, my white adoptive mother was already asking me to choose between my race and hers. “Do you think you’ll marry an Asian man someday?” I shook my head—not because I hated Asian boys but because I’d never met one.
Like every story about a woman who tries to have children and can’t, mine is deeply personal. It begins with my own adoption. I arrived from Korea at six months old, expected to be one of those clean slate babies with no memories or trauma.
The reason I spent decades waiting for real life to begin is greatly due to not knowing or understanding my life’s true beginnings.
The more I was able to see the entirety of you, the easier it was to begin to see me.