사랑은 자유를 닮아간다

The first name I ever learned for love was sacrifice.

This is what love looked like when I was growing up.

It quietly gave away a part of itself so someone else could have a little more.

What remained was never bitterness.

It was silence.

A silence that asked for nothing.

A silence that never kept score.

A silence that felt like prayer.

That was the love my parents gave me.

Little by little, they gave themselves away while raising me.

They gave their time before I knew what time was worth.

They put aside dreams I never even knew they had.

Looking back now, I wonder how they did it so naturally.

To them, it never seemed like losing something.

It simply looked like love.

Perhaps that is why it was so beautiful.

And perhaps that is why it hurt so much.

When I was young, I could not receive their love as a gift.

Somewhere inside me, it became a debt.

Not because they ever asked me to repay them.

They never did.

But because their love felt so much greater than I was.

The more they loved me,

the heavier my heart became.

Their years quietly became mine.

The things they gave up became the ground beneath my own future.

I thought that one day I would have to return everything they had given me.

Now I think differently.

What my parents gave me was never meant to become a debt.

It became the direction of my life.

Without realizing it, I began walking toward the kind of person their love had shown me.

Perhaps love is like that.

It does not force us.

It simply becomes the place from which we choose to live.

Maybe I did not learn responsibility before I learned love.

Maybe I learned that real love naturally grows into responsibility.

Not because it asks something from us,

but because it quietly changes what kind of person we want to become.

Sometimes I still ask myself,

Who was I, that I should be loved like that?

I still do not have an answer.

I only know that my parents loved me far beyond what I deserved.

And even now,

that love still teaches me how to live.

Perhaps that is why love never felt like a feeling to me.

It felt like a way of walking through life.

It gave me the courage to face difficult things.

It taught me to keep believing in people.

It showed me that loving someone often means making room for them, even when it costs something of yourself.

So I gave.

Again.

And again.

Until, without noticing,

I began to disappear.

I thought that if the person I loved could smile,

that would be enough.

Even if I slowly faded from the picture.

I never questioned it.

I thought that was simply what love was.

—

But there was something I never learned.

I never learned how to hold on to love.

I never learned how to ask someone to stay.

For a long time, I thought love was something you should never hold too tightly.

If it was real, you let it go.

You trusted it enough to leave your hands open.

Maybe that is why love always felt like a season to me.

It came quietly.

It stayed for a while.

And before I knew it, it was already leaving.

Then one day, I found myself asking a question I had never dared to ask before.

Does love always ask us to lose ourselves?

That question stayed with me for a long time.

It did not leave all at once.

It sat beside me through different seasons of my life.

Very slowly, another understanding began to grow.

Maybe love is not about keeping someone beside you.

Maybe it is about making a place where they are free to become who they are.

Love is not ownership.

It is not even letting go.

It is standing close enough for someone to breathe.

It is trusting that love does not become smaller when another person becomes more fully themselves.

I used to think love meant becoming less.

Giving more.

Needing less.

Asking for nothing.

But somewhere deep inside me, there was a small voice that never disappeared.

It was quiet.

Almost too quiet to hear.

Still, it remained.

It simply said,

I want to be here too.

Not instead of someone else.

Not above someone else.

Just…

here.

Looking back, I think that little voice was never selfish.

It never asked me to love less.

It only wanted me to stay alive inside my own love.

Perhaps every heart carries that longing.

To love.

And somehow,

not disappear.

That may be why my life has taken the longer road.

My career.

My relationships.

Even my faith.

Nothing came quickly.

Sometimes I wondered if I was simply slower than everyone else.

But now I think I was learning something that cannot be learned in a hurry.

I cannot make another person love the way I love.

I cannot ask someone to carry my heart the way I wish they would.

Love cannot be persuaded.

It cannot be negotiated.

It cannot be rushed.

The moment love becomes something we try to force,

it quietly stops being love.

—

There is one thing I still believe.

Sacrifice is truly beautiful.

There is something deeply moving about a person who willingly gives part of themselves for someone they love.

I still believe in that kind of life.

A life where people make room for one another.

Where we take a step back so someone else can take a step forward.

Where love sometimes looks like giving up our own comfort for another person’s good.

I hope I never lose that.

But I have learned something I did not know before.

Sacrifice is not all that love is.

It may be where love begins.

I no longer think it is where love ends.

The first language of love I learned was sacrifice.

It was my parents’ language.

Later, without realizing it, it became mine too.

Only much later did I begin to learn another language.

A quieter one.

Love does not ask me to disappear.

It asks me to remain.

To remain beside another person without losing myself.

And to let them remain themselves too.

I cannot decide how another person should love.

I cannot ask someone to carry my heart the way I once hoped they would.

Love has its own way of arriving.

Its own timing.

Its own voice.

Perhaps loving someone also means making peace with that.

These days I no longer ask,

“How much of myself can I give?”

Instead, I find myself asking,

“Can both of us become more fully ourselves because we loved each other?”

That feels like a different kind of love.

A gentler one.

Perhaps even a truer one.

When I was young,

I thought love meant becoming smaller.

Now I think love asks something much harder.

To stay.

To stay beside another person,

without asking either of you to become someone else.

The first name I learned for love was sacrifice.

It was a beautiful name.

It taught me generosity.

It taught me gratitude.

It taught me how to carry another person’s life with care.

I will always be thankful for that.

But love kept teaching me.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Year after year.

And somewhere along the way,

almost without noticing,

I discovered another name.

Freedom.

Not the freedom to leave.

Not the freedom to love less.

But the freedom to stand beside one another

without either person disappearing.

Perhaps love begins with sacrifice.

But if we are willing to keep learning,

perhaps,

after many years,

love slowly learns

freedom.

내가 처음 배운 사랑의 이름은 희생이었다.

사랑은 언제나 자신의 몫을 조금씩 덜어 누군가의 삶을 채워 주는 일이었다. 그렇게 비워진 자리에는 말보다 깊은 침묵이 남았다. 아무것도 바라지 않는 침묵. 묻지도, 계산하지도 않는 오래된 기도 같은 침묵이었다.

나는 그런 사랑을 부모님에게서 배웠다.

부모님은 나를 키우며 조금씩 자신을 덜어 내셨다. 그 비움은 슬픔이 아니라 기쁨처럼 보였다. 자신의 시간을 내어주고, 꿈을 미루고, 삶의 일부를 기꺼이 건네는 일이 그들에게는 너무도 자연스러웠다. 그래서 그 사랑은 더욱 아름다웠고, 어린 내게는 더욱 숭고히 다가왔다.

어린 나는 그 사랑을 온전히 선물로 받지 못했다. 어느새 그것은 마음속 깊이 내려앉은 빚이 되었다. 그 사랑에 비해 내가 너무 부족하다고 느꼈기 때문이다. 사랑을 받을수록 마음은 가벼워지기보다 무거워졌다. 부모님의 시간이 나의 시간이 되고, 그들의 포기가 나의 내일이 되는 것을 보며 나는 언젠가 그 모든 것을 돌려드려야 한다고 믿었다.

하지만 시간이 흐른 지금 돌아보면, 그 마음은 단지 갚아야 할 빚만은 아니었다.

부모님의 사랑은 내 삶을 붙드는 하나의 방향이 되었고, 내가 어떤 사람이 되어야 하는지를 조용히 가리키는 나침반이 되었다. 사랑은 사람을 짓누르는 의무가 아니라, 기꺼이 책임지고 싶은 삶을 선물하는 일이기도 했다. 우리의 부모님들은 참 아름다운 사람들이었던 것 이다.

어쩌면 나는 사랑보다 먼저 책임을 배운 사람이 아니라, 사랑이 책임이라는 이름으로 한 사람의 삶을 이끌어 갈 수 있다는 것을 먼저 배운 사람인지도 모른다.

내가 무엇이기에 이렇게까지 사랑해 주셨을까.

지금도 그 생각 앞에서는 그저 이 세상 부모님들이 참 대단하다는 말밖에는 떠오르지 않는다.

그래서였을까.

사랑은 내게 가벼운 감정보다 삶의 방향에 가까웠다.

사랑은 서로를 위해 기꺼이 책임지는 일이었고, 서로의 삶을 지탱하는 힘이었다. 부모님이 보여 준 사랑은 나를 억누르는 짐이 아니라, 어떤 어려움도 직면하게 하는 용기였고, 끝까지 사람을 믿게 하는 긍정의 힘이었다.

누군가를 사랑한다는 것은 기꺼이 나를 조금씩 덜어 내어 다른 사람의 삶을 채워 주는 일이라고 믿었다.

그래서 나는 주었다.

아낌없이.

또 주었다.

내가 희미해질 때까지.

끝내 내 흔적이 사라진다 해도 그 사람이 환하게 웃을 수 있다면 그것으로 충분하다고 믿었다. 그것이 사랑의 가장 아름다운 얼굴이라고 의심한 적이 없었다.

하지만 사랑을 붙잡는 법은 배우지 못했다.

사랑을 청하는 법도,

사랑을 머물게 하는 법도.

사랑은 너무 아름다웠기에 붙잡는 것이 아니라 흘려보내는 것이라고 믿었다. 그래서 사랑은 언제나 내 손을 스쳐 지나가는 계절 같았다.

그러던 어느 날 문득 스스로에게 묻게 되었다.

사랑은 정말 나를 잃어야만 완성되는 것일까.

그 질문은 오래도록 내 안에 머물렀다.

그리고 아주 천천히, 나는 또 다른 사랑을 배우기 시작했다.

사랑은 상대를 내 곁에 붙들어 두는 일이 아니라, 그 사람이 끝내 자기 자신으로 살아갈 수 있도록 곁을 내어 주는 것인지도 모른다는 생각이 들었다.

사랑은 소유가 아니라 허락이었다.

그 사람이 그 사람일 수 있도록 바라봐 주는 것.

그의 속도를 기다려 주는 것.

그의 자유를 두려워하지 않는 것.

그리고 무엇보다 나 또한 나 자신으로 살아가는 것을 허락하는 것.

그제야 비로소 알게 되었다.

나 역시 사라지고 싶었던 적은 없었다.

오랫동안 내가 없어지는 것이 사랑이라고 믿었지만, 마음 가장 깊은 곳에는 끝내 꺼지지 않는 작은 불씨 하나가 남아 있었다.

나도 나로 존재하고 싶다.

그 불씨는 누구를 밀어내기 위해 타오른 것이 아니었다.

누군가를 덜 사랑하기 위해 피어난 것도 아니었다.

그저 사랑 안에서도 나로 살아 있고 싶다는 아주 조용한 생명의 목소리였다.

아마 그래서였을 것이다.

나의 커리어도, 나의 사랑도, 삶의 걸음도 언제나 느렸다.

누구보다 멀리 돌아왔고, 지금도 돌아가는 길 위에 있다.

하지만 돌아온 길은 헛되지 않았다.

그 길 위에서 나는 한 가지를 더 배웠다.

나는 사랑을 강요할 수 없다.

사랑의 표현도,

사랑하는 방식도,

사랑의 속도도 강요할 수 없다.

누군가의 마음을 내 뜻대로 바꿀 수 없고, 내 마음 또한 쉽게 바뀌지 않는다.

사랑은 강요되는 순간 사랑이 아니기 때문이다.

희생은 여전히 내게 가장 아름다운 사랑의 언어다.

누군가를 위해 기꺼이 자신을 내어주는 마음은 지금도 나를 뜨겁게 한다. 나는 여전히 사랑하는 사람들을 위해, 함께 살아가는 공동체를 위해, 서로 조금씩 자신을 내어주고 양보하는 삶을 아름답다고 믿는다.

하지만 이제는 안다.

희생은 사랑의 전부가 아니라는 것을.

희생은 사랑을 시작하게 하는 언어일 수는 있어도, 사랑을 완성하는 언어는 아니라는 것을.

사랑은 누군가를 위해 자신을 비우는 용기이면서도, 동시에 서로가 자기 자신으로 살아갈 수 있도록 자유를 내어주는 용기다.

내가 처음 배운 사랑의 언어는 희생이었다.

그리고 오래 돌아온 끝에, 나는 사랑의 또 다른 언어를 배웠다.

사랑은 상대를 붙잡는 것이 아니라 자유롭게 하는 일이며, 나 또한 사랑 안에서 나 자신으로 살아가는 것을 허락하는 일이라는 것을.

그래서 이제 나는 안다.

사랑은 나를 잃는 일이 아니라, 서로가 자기 자신으로 살아갈 수 있도록 곁을 지켜 주는 일이라는 것을.

사랑은 희생으로 시작할 수 있다.

그러나 오래 사랑한 끝에 닮아 가는 것은,

어쩌면 자유인지도 모르겠다.

Recent flowing thoughts ..

The tenderness that lives in silence — I am slowly discovering that tenderness moves in two directions: one that extends outward, and one that gathers inward. What I long to learn is this inward-turning tenderness, the quiet beauty of receiving.

In music, my wish is for tenderness to reach outward, to touch the hidden depths of another’s inner world. For me, tenderness is warmth, and also the courage to be vulnerable.

I want to learn the tenderness within my own soul and within music — and how it weaves itself into the vast vast vast universe of our hearts

Just another day commuting to Syosset. I got on the train at Penn Station and found a seat — one of those backward-facing ones, looking out toward where I would come from.

Once I settled in, something about it felt slow and intimate.
As if my body was in sync with something I hadn’t noticed before—
the quiet act of looking back.

As the train moved forward, the city began to drift behind me—
buildings, streets, fire escapes—
all slipping slowly into the distance.

But for once, I wasn’t rushing to hold onto anything.
I just watched.

Strangely, the farther I moved from things,
the more clearly I could see them.
Not as noise or blurs,
but as stories—
soft, unfinished,
full of lives I’ll never know,
yet somehow felt connected to.

My eyes weren’t busy this time.
I wasn’t scanning, chasing, collecting.
I let them rest—
on one rooftop, one flickering light—
and as the train pulled away,
the world around that single point
began to open like a breath.
Stillness made the view wider.

It’s funny how sometimes you see more
when you stop trying to see everything.

When I face the same direction as the train,
I feel the thrill—
the motion, the urgency,
that sense of moving forward.
Anticipation. Excitement.
And I love it.

But it can also make me anxious,
like life is sprinting past
and I’m just barely holding on.

Facing backwards, though…
it felt peaceful.
Like watching things leave
without them being torn away.

There was no panic. No anxiety.
Just a soft parting.
Like life whispering to my heart,
“You can let go now.
You don’t have to carry everything.”

It made me think about people.
How some of them drift away too—
quietly, over time.

And I’ve always found that kind of goodbye the hardest—
when someone just disappears.

But maybe,
if I could see them slowly becoming smaller,
fading softly instead of vanishing all at once,
maybe it would hurt a little less.

Yes, it would still hurt
to know that they’re getting further away with time—
but I might appreciate their life, their presence, even more.

I try to live forward—I really do.
But looking back,
when I’m not running from it,
has its own strange, aching beauty.

When I let my mind rewind gently,
I remember the smallest things:
the way someone laughed with their whole face,
the warmth of sunlight on a sidewalk I’ve walked a hundred times,
the feeling of a moment
before I knew it would become a memory.

There’s comfort in not always racing toward what’s next.
In just watching where you’ve been,
and letting it slip away with grace.

It reminds me—
I’m not always the one steering.
And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I don’t always have to be moving forward
to be moving “meaningfully.”
Maybe sometimes,
sitting still as the world moves behind me
is exactly what I need.

I have been blessed to receive a lot of love in my life. Perhaps that is why each farewell feels like a quiet unraveling—like a piece of my own life and my being loses its strength. In those moment, I feel a part of myself grow fainter, as if love itself had been holding me together.  

In those moments, I realize how fiercely they must have prayed for me, how deeply they must have loved me, and how costly true love really is. To love fully is to give away pieces of oneself, never knowing if they will return whole. And to lose those who loved with such sincerity is a sorrow that lingers in the bones.  

I wonder—when they leave, they take parts of me with them? Am I becoming smaller, more fragile, with each passing loss? Life is a relentless thing. To live it well is no small feat, and I sincerely respect those who have walked this path with quiet strength, wisdom, and grace.

And then, in the quiet, I find myself (over+over)thinking…  

Life moves forward in an unbroken line, though I often forget. In the moment, it feels anything but linear—one day, I am drowning beneath the weight of it, the waves pulling me under, deeper and deeper, until I can hardly breathe. And then, without warning, I am standing at the summit of something extremelyvast, wind against my skin, breathless with wonder and fresh spirit. But when I look back, I see it clearly: all of it, rising and falling, yet never breaking from its course.  

The dreams I chase, the things (career) I build—they are nothing more than waves on this endless line, cresting and dissolving under the same sun. Some days, the fear comes to me. There are moments when time itself seems to tremble, when I feel I might lose my footing completely. I ask myself why I struggle so hard and for what is it all. 

But I am beginning to understand. “Life is not complete the moment a dream is reached.” The summit is not the end. The waves do not cease. It goes on. The fear goes on. The breath goes on. The peace goes on. Whatever it is- it goes on.  

For so long, I believed in the promise of stability, as if it were something to be earned, something that could be held. I really worked hard to grasp. But life does not grant such certainties. Some days, I walk with steady steps. Other days, I stumble hard. But if there is anything that holds me upright — the unwavering belief that I am under God’s protection. So are others. 

People, work, music, joy, sorrow—all of it shifts and fades. None of it exists to give me certainty or ultimate answer. 

And so, I keep walking quietly and alone. The more I come to know the world, the more I come to know myself, and yet, the more uncertain everything becomes. I suppose that is the nature of it. It is humbling, and at times, it feels like foolishness. But even in my doubt, there is one thing I cannot let go of.  

My grandfather once told me:  

“Never forget your calling.”

Not my name, not my title, not my career, not the things I can do—but the reason I was placed in this life at all. That, above all, must never be forgotten.  

And maybe, one day, when the moment is right, I will pass those words on to someone else—with both faith and conviction.

운 좋게도, 나는 많은 사랑을 받으며 살아왔다. 정말 부족함이 많이 아이었는데. 그래서일까. 내 삶을 가득 채웠던 이들을 떠나보낼 때마다, 마치 내 삶의 일부가 한 조각씩 힘을 잃고 사라지는 것만 같다. 그럴 때마다 깨닫는다. 나를 향한 그들의 기도와 사랑이 얼마나 간절했는지, 그리고 “온전히 사랑한다는 것” 이 얼마나 어려운 일인지.   

온전한 사랑을 주었던 이들을 떠나보내는 일은 가슴 사무치게 아프다. 괜히, 나도 더 작아지는 것은 아닐까 두려워진다. “삶을 잘 살아낸다는 것” 이란 얼마나 어려운 일인가. 그렇게 묵묵히 삶을 걸어온 어른들이 더욱 존경스럽다.   

그리고 문득, 생각한다.  

삶이 결국 평행선 위에서 펼쳐지는 것임을 가끔 잊곤 한다. 넘실거리는 검은 파도처럼 밀려오는 순간들 속에서, 때로는 그 깊이에 휩쓸려 숨 쉬기 어려울 때도 있고, 때로는 산 정상에 선 듯한 황홀한 기쁨을 느낄 때도 있다. 하지만 돌아보면, 결국 모든 것은 수평적이다.  

내가 이루는 “꿈”도, 쌓아가는 “업적”도 결국 그 평행선 위에서 일렁이는 파도이자, 그 위로 떠오르는 태양과 같다. 두려움이 엄습하고, 지금 이 순간이 나를 거칠게 흔드는 듯하며, 때론 모든 것이 버겁게 느껴지기도 한다. “무엇을 위해 이렇게 치열하게 살아가고 있는 걸까.” 하지만 이제야 깨닫는다. “꿈을 이루면 삶이 완성된다”는 단순한 결론 따위는 내게 존재하지 않는다는 것을.  

한때는 “안정”을 이루기를 바라며 살아왔지만, 삶이 주는 절대적인 안정감이란 없었다. 아직까지도 때로는 의연하다가도, 때로는 불안하다가도 하지만, 결국 나의 평온을 결정짓는 것은 오직 하나님의 보호하심에 대한 확신뿐이다.  

사람도, 일도, 음악도, 기쁨도, 슬픔도, 그 어떤 것도 내 마음의 확신을 위해 존재하지 않는다.  

그저 묵묵히 홀로 걸어갈 뿐이다. 세상을 조금씩 알아갈수록, 그리고 나 자신을 더 깊이 들여다볼수록, 불안은 오히려 커져만 간다. 어리석다. 하지만, 그 불안 속에서도 내가 붙잡아야 할 것은 분명하다.  

지금은 많은 기억을 잃고 어린 아이처럼 맑게 계신, 나의 사랑하는 할아버지는 말씀하셨다.

“이 삶 안의 너의 사명을 잊지 마라.”  

나의 이름도, 나의 직업도, 나의 재능도 아닌, 이 삶에 주어진 나의 사명. 그것만큼은 절대 잊지 않기를. 그리고 언젠가, 나도 누군가에게 같은 말을 건넬 수 있기를..

Where life unfolds beyond control,
One departs, another fills the soul.
An empty space, a silent breath,
Yet life resounds, defying death.

I am myself, a truth I wear,
To change so deep feels quite rare, so rare.
Emotions stir when hearts entwine,
Yet beauty blooms where light does shine.

When I see myself as flawed, unkind,
The weight is heavy, it grips my mind.
Each day, each night, it holds me tight,
But still, there’s space in all I see—
In life, in love, in music’s plea.

A space remains, though whole I feel,
To breathe, to cry, to gently heal.
A sacred space to hold, embrace,
A tender pause in time and place.

Grateful am I for these spaces from God,
A gift of grace, a path well-trod.
A place to heal, a place to rejoice,
To cherish each breath, to hear His voice.

We honor the life His space bestows,
With humble hearts where gratitude grows.
Through love and prayer, His peace abides,
A boundless gift where hope resides.

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?”

Parting ways or saying goodbye is a heart-wrenching and emotionally quite painful experience.

I always reassure those around me that I am ready to let them go, never clinging or begging them to stay. Although I am never truly ready, and probably never will be, I say this to offer them a small peace. It’s okay to leave if that’s their path. Who am I to impose such demands? I am often driven by desire, yearning for things that frequently elude me, particularly the warmth of people. The challenge of letting go of people, memories, and time may be my greatest struggle in life, despite my usual words to those around me: “Leave when you need to leave. I am always here.” True friendship, love, and appreciation are not about holding on tightly, but about granting the freedom to depart whenever desired. Even when we are apart, we remember the warmth. Even if it’s my own misunderstanding or one-sided, I still feel surrounded by that warmth from the person or the people, like the comforting warmth of the sun on a winter day—I love inhaling the cold air with my absolutely red nose while being enveloped by the winter day light’s warmth.

Although I describe myself as a solitary person, my mind remains deeply engaged by interactions with others. I haven’t attended a music festival in years because I was “wondering,” and even in school, I was not necessarily the one to seek out social engagement. However, my intention to be alone still stems from a yearning for the warmth of others. The space left by others, though painful, has also been a source of fascination of my mind and emotional fulfillment.

Creating music, building memories, and sharing meaningful moments are central to my pursuit of inner peace amidst life’s constant ebb and flow. One hour I say, “Is that it?” Another hour I accept things as they are. Yet another hour, my emotions stir me up, and the next I sit in complete silence amidst confusion.

Upon returning to Korea, I slept through the entire flight, craving a single night of uninterrupted rest. Despite the turbulence, the crowd, and the cramped quarters, I slept deeply as if nothing else mattered. I awoke briefly to drink water before falling back to sleep, and when I next opened my eyes, we were preparing for landing. The profundity of that sleep, shrouded in darkness, provided a rare sense of peace which I haven’t had in a while. I am glad to let myself absorb the complete darkness of memory and emotion and forcefully shut myself off from the noise of minds and circumstances. Replaying the memories and turning them off, replaying and turn them off again and again.

Was this experience merely a dream? The memory lingers vividly, not just in beautiful images but in the air and sounds of the moment. I remain overwhelmed by emotions and thoughts, perhaps hoping to silence them, even if just temporarily. When people say it’s not a big deal, I find it precious. When people say I am overly sensitive to minor changes in my life, those changes matter to me. I connect the dots, creating significant patterns and spaces, and I am overwhelmed in awe.

Before I start my rehearsal later today, I may look for a piece of music that allows me to explore my current emotions, something that resonates deeply with me. I know for sure it will be very far from Hindemith. What do my ears hear?

Some random contemplation: is my life too disconnected from what is deemed “normal”? When did this divergence begin, and what is its nature? I am left questioning this gap and seeking understanding. I hope I am not too alien to anyone or anything.

I won’t allow it to cause me any pain, and even if I can’t prevent it from hurting me, I will courageously embrace it

Though I can’t distinctly recall how it all started, my initial curiosity has transformed into a profound responsibility, joy, passion, and a cherished dream.

Entering a competition after a long time, I felt an overwhelming, electrifying happiness on stage which used to be filled with childhood fears. It’s more than just playing my music; it’s a lesson in truly listening to others, even in the most intense moments of performance. I’ve learned more than just stage experience; I’ve learned that I should be a person who listens, engages, and adjusts together, whether the circumstances are joyful or sorrowful. I’ve learned that I want to be someone who lives not solely for myself but for others, someone who knows how to live for the sake of others and is willing to let go of myself. Not entirely sure if I can really become the one, but this is my true wish.

Although my best friend is an opera singer, my interest in vocal music was initially limited to admiration and support. My journey into collaboration with singers started in Germany, where I learned “Swanengesang” and “Morgen” for the first time. As I returned to the States, my curiosity started to unfold studying with Jeremy. Observing the gestures of vocalists and playing various arias and art songs in Jeremy’s lessons led me to a realm of emotions I hadn’t encountered before. I still can’t explain them in my words. Jeremy didn’t just teach me about music; he imparted the essence of living for others, being sensitive, attentive, and sacrificing for their sake. Collaborating with singers allowed me to find joy and freedom in contributing my essence to their voices. It’s truly captivating to hear the beginning and end of their breath, turning every moment of anticipation into something extraordinary. Initially uncertain about my role, I found myself caught up in the busyness of following and waiting, and I struggled quite a bit. Then he taught me the precise role and meaningful mission of a pianist. The journey ahead still feels like quite a stretch. I owe a big thanks to Jeremy for always being interested and tirelessly helping me, especially when my curiosity, which I couldn’t quite put into words due to a lack of experience with singers, needed a boost. If it weren’t for being assigned in Jeremy’s studio in my first year, who knows, my curiosity might have just vanished into thin air.

Encountering Eunsung in my first year, I could never have imagined the profound experiences we would share, starting with Brahms and continuing this journey together. In it, I’ve discovered a big amount of joy. As someone too prone to emotional sensitivity, my perpetual worries sometimes wear on those around me. Eunsung’s silent reassurance, encapsulated in the phrase “….. hmm….. it’s okay. Just enjoy it,” left me feeling profoundly grateful for his unwavering understanding, respect, and patience. After the competition ended, I had a proper conversation with Eunsung for the first time. He’s truly a kind and sincere person with a wonderfully humble heart, and I am grateful to have faced challenges alongside such a well grounded friend like him. I ll always be rooting for Eunsung’s and his family’s life vision and his dreams in the world of music.

Strolling through Central Park yesterday, I couldn’t help but look forward to where God might lead me whether it’s good or bad. Life’s full of surprises, and things don’t always go as planned, but the priceless experiences gathered while waiting feel like little treasures. Whether on stage or in everyday life at Stony Brook, I ponder over my purpose, going back with a heart brimming with gratitude. A newfound realization has dawned upon the once extremely self-centered me, who always cherished solitude: Loneliness becomes a precious gift and privilege when you learn to truly love and embrace others. My resolution (or mission?) becomes clearer and stronger– to live not only for myself but to warmly embrace, love, and genuinely appreciate others.

Recently, I’ve been putting in the effort to manage my emotions. Even when I find it challenging and sense that I’m getting closer to failure, I persist in my attempt not to let my emotions take control of my thoughts. This is the extent of what I can accomplish.

As someone prone to overthinking, I’m trying to quiet my mind. When I interact with people, I often contemplate how I can be a source of strength and encouragement. I try to understand what’s beneath their thoughts and emotions. Yet, when I can’t genuinely support them, I feel their despair. I’ve always wanted people to be happy, and I would do anything to make them happy. However, now I’m trying to observe and intervene less.

These days, I’m simplifying my thought process. I’m working to shield my emotions from being too exposed, and I’m speaking less. Currently, this is the best I can do. I hope that people can truly perceive who I am, even with fewer smiles, less talking, and fewer emotional expressions. With fewer words, fewer thoughts, and fewer emotional displays, I wonder how others perceive me. With my reduced emotions and actions in daily life, I aim for my music to be a genuine reflection of my sincerity, passion, and love, so that my truths resonate through my musical expression.