From the heart-wrenching beauty of summer and its strong residue to brief moments of reality in New York, and through contrasting phases of convenient sanctuary and unfamiliarity in Korea, I now prepare to return to my everyday life, marked by numerous changes. Everything is happening so quickly, and as always, I do not feel ready.
What does it truly mean to be “grown-up”? Am I overthinking this concept? As I consider my next steps, I find that playing the piano remains the most endearing and liberating pursuit—perhaps an indication that, in some ways, I am still a child at heart, quite immature. What can I do to gain the wisdom needed to navigate life more effectively and confront who I am and what I am capable of?
For the first time in a while, I revisited my old neighborhood in Korea—the place where I grew up, attended pre-school, elementary, middle, and high school, formed friendships, and spent cherished time with my family. Although I have lived abroad since 2006, returning there each summer or winter has always brought me profound joy. When I first decided to immerse myself in a place as isolated and distant as possible—not just geographically, but spiritually as well—I strongly believed in the sense of trust that came with “coming back home.” I knew where my home was, which allowed me to embrace being physically nomadic and mentally free. Knowing I had a home to return to, whether in the US, Germany, or Israel, I eagerly (almost desperately) anticipated these visits and worked hard for “the day of return home,” which felt like a great reward for my solitary efforts. In that space, I experienced a return to a simpler self—curious, unburdened, yet deeply reflective and engaged.
A few years ago, my parents relocated, and I stayed with them in their new home during my visits. While returning to my old place and reconnecting with familiar faces was once a source of immense joy, that sense of “coming home” has diminished since their move. I now feel more at home in the United States. My visits to Korea have become primarily about seeing my family. Perhaps that is all I truly need—family. Especially my grandpa. I also feel as though I am losing time with them, along with memories, places, and my youth. And their youth. (And our youth.)
Two days ago, I visited my old town, and it evoked a flood of emotions and nostalgia, providing me with a deep sense of belonging. The familiar and nostalgic memories of the neighborhood offered peaceful solace, leading me to wander there for hours.
I once considered myself inherently nomadic, yet I have always yearned for stability. As I navigate these complex feelings, I return to the US—a place I cannot yet fully call home, but where I find a sense of belonging and connection, supported by friendships and professional ties. There is also significant freedom there.
As I reflect on my future, I wrestle with the notion that I may not find a true “physical” home until I discover it. What am I willing to sacrifice? How can I balance a physical home, an emotional sanctuary, and a fulfilling career? I feel a pressing urgency, as though time is slipping away, and I long for a sense of peace to go back to, even though I understand that perfect tranquility may be unattainable. Where do I return? Do I have a place to return? And why do I want such a place of return? Ultimately, perhaps my truest home is found in the heart of my mother—a place of unwavering comfort and love throughout my journey of exploration and self-discovery. Although she often says she has failed to show me love and she is sorry—a possibly beautiful confession—she has exemplified the greatest form of unconditional love. That is my real home. One might say that the way I wrap my rambling thoughts is rather nonsensical or cliché, but I say, “Why not?”
musicthattouchesyoursoul 