soopastryheart

I was reminded the other day, that despite all my gung ho-ness of moving forward, how much of the past I’m still holding on to.

In what can only be described as the fastest slow month of my life, I’ve had to adapt to a series of new challenges and adventures, and still finding it difficult to comprehend the reality of everything that has now become part of the everyday. For someone as neurotic as me, there has been no adjustment period because time did not allow for such luxuries. Instead, I’ve been thrown into this very bizarre dichotomy where it’s hard to believe that this is me, that this my life, while simultaneously feeling more comfortable in my own skin than I have in recent memory.

As many of the readers of this blog are aware (all six and a half of you), I have taken the sharpest of career path turns, taking a cautious step into new and exciting territory. To be removed from such a structured life to one with so much freedom can be a difficult pill to swallow (especially for someone who loves her planner as much as I do). In these past few months, I have often felt an overwhelming amount of panic as to what my next move should be, or even, in which direction I should point my feet.

From this beginning of this unexpected expedition, I have promised myself only one thing: that I would be more open than I’ve ever been, both in career choices and in personal growth. It would have been far too presumptuous and unrealistic to say that I was going to completely change who I was, and who I am. At 25, my past experiences have already formed a solid foundation, and after all the ambiguity, all the confusion, all the gray area – I am finally in a position where there are certain truths that cannot be moved or chipped away. But even with the gospels of my life, I know that it’s foolish to believe that I will forever remain the same person.

And who would want to? Who can be that stubborn? Or that dedicated?

Not too long ago, I came to the stark realization I had unknowingly allowed certain experiences to influence me in ways that I am now trying to reverse. I will admit now, that at the beginning, after certain events, I was trying to portray the image of someone I thought I should be. The problem was that I did this during my most susceptible years, the time period where I was most impressionable, before I could realize the harm I was really doing. When you become your biggest influence, your strongest advocate, it’s only a matter of time before you accept certain things as the truth. And when you begin to build on that, it becomes increasingly more difficult to admit your mistakes and convince yourself to go back. It becomes nearly impossible to distinguish the real with the pretend. It wasn’t until a fiery battle that I confessed to myself that I had become a caricature of who I really was (and wanted to be).

I was incorrect in stating earlier that I’ve been shaped by my experiences. I don’t think it’s the experiences that change us, more so as our responses to those experiences. No matter how false the pretenses may have been, the bottom line is, I am who I am now because I chose to respond in a particular way. And clearly, I wasn’t aware of how significant those choices would be, because it wouldn’t be nearly as difficult to walk away now. Certain experiences, or, more precisely, the emotions involved with certain experiences, don’t just disappear. They become part of the fabric that is you, they become part of the choices that you make, inherently or not.

Even though they may have been made on a shaky infrastructure, I can’t say that I completely regret making those choices. They have become the ultimate defense mechanism, protecting and preventing me from making the same mistakes and becoming too vulnerable to careless inclinations. The problem is that this has become too automatic, and I may have become a little too callused, a little too protected, a little too defensive.

Recently, someone boldly told me that people don’t change, that maybe we wish to, but we ultimately don’t. I think that’s a crock of shit. If you’re growing, if you’re evolving, you’re stepping away from the standard, from what you were. And that is change. By trying to correct my mistakes, that is change. By even acknowledging the need to, that is change. Every adjustment, every addition, every subtraction, big or small, contributes to change. When you no longer are what you were, that is, by all purposes of definition, change.

There are many things I am sure of, but there are many others I am not. I’m not talking about a complete rebuild, because I am plenty comfortable with certain aspects of who I am. I would like to consider this more as a partial remodel, a repair, if you may. Still though, a wall that took a decade in building will be difficult to penetrate.

No wrecking ball, only a sledgehammer.

Dear KiMooniePants,

This letter should have been delivered a few months ago, near the time of your graduation. But as you remember, there was quite a bit going on at that point, and I found myself feeling wholly unqualified to fill the pages up with the words I wanted to say to you without feeling like an utter hypocrite.

I don’t need to tell you that our family is special. If you ask around, you’ll quickly understand that there are very few families who are as close as we are (or as laughably insane). You might shake your head or question if you were adopted whenever you see some bizarre antic, but it’s these little quirks that make us special, make us undeniably, us.

You’ve always been the second smartest between the three of us kids (because let’s face it: Honie beats us both by a long shot), but you’ve also been slightly clueless when it came to common sense (part of your charm, really). I have always cherished the fact you’ve come to me as much you have for guidance (and hope you continue to)– it’s meant so much that you trust me this way, that my opinions, my words could matter in your world.

I don’t know when you became the man you are now. The change, it seems to me, happened abruptly and quickly, like when you hit that 9-inch growth spurt one summer and lost your man boobs. I just know that one day, a short while back, I noticed the obvious growth in your maturity; you were a little more patient, a little less stubborn, a lot more generous, and a lot less careless.

Despite my track record and the recent turn of events in my life, I hope my advice will still mean something to you. Let me tell you that things will fall apart no matter how desperately you hang on, and life will have more bleak moments than bright ones. But take it from me Ki, don’t let those moments define you. Don’t let your shortcomings mean more than everything else you have to offer this world (and trust me, that’s a lot). Don’t hold on to the things you can’t control; I know you Ki, and I know you worry yourself like crazy when things aren’t going your way, but I hope that you learn to readjust and continue, because that’s really all you can do. You’re becoming more and more like Oppa everyday – which means you will become an amazing father and man, but it also means that you’re like him in that… you’re just as impatient and easily flustered as he is, especially when things aren’t going your way. The truth is, sometimes, no matter how prepared you are, good intentions won’t be enough. Sometimes, no matter the effort and dedication, the favored results will evade you. But I promise, especially for a kid like you, you will always figure it out. You’ll learn that misfires and setbacks aren’t always necessarily bad – that sometimes, it’s through those so-called errors that you learn from the most. Take it from your beloved Legos and K’Nex, and build from those experiences. Take those challenges, the adverse moments, and make them matter in ways that count.

Being the oldest has its fair share of obligations and responsibilities, but none more so than wanting to be a good person for you and for Honie. You should know by now, KiKi, that I put you and her before everything else, and I love you two more than words could ever adequately provide. I have never wanted to be anyone less than what I wanted you two to see me as; someone you could look up to, someone you could be proud of.

But truth is, I’m the one who feels the most proud by being able to say that I’m your sister. You are the first person I think of when the phrase “limitless potential” comes to mind. And maybe you don’t feel like you’re in the position you thought you’d be at this point in your life, but I see where you are now and truly believe you’re well on your way. Your ambitions will change and evolve as you do, until you reach a point you will become content, a point where you realize that all the shittier stuff had a purpose.

You’re 23 today. 23 was the age I gave myself ridiculous deadlines and milestones I thought I should have. I hope you haven’t made that same mistake. I hope you give yourself enough leeway to appreciate everything you have right now – your new job, your new car, your newfound journey into adulthood – and realize that there’s no age cap to experiences and success. I can’t imagine everything you’ll have done by 24, 25, and the years beyond. I can’t wait until you introduce us to a girlfriend (and I feel sorry for her already, since no girl will ever meet the impossible standards I have set for you). I can’t wait for all the things you have yet to achieve, all the things you have yet to embark on; because I know that no matter what the endeavor, you will be great.

As you get accustomed to your new life, don’t forget to make time for your crazy family, even when we’re bothering you with ridiculously mundane questions and favors, like when Oppa calls you to log-in to his bank account because he’s forgotten his password for the twenty-seventh time. It’s not that we are incapable of fixing the clocks in the cars for daylight savings, or figuring out how to set up wireless internet without you…. it’s just what we hang on to all these things because we are all well aware how quickly you are growing. So don’t think we are morons the next time we call you about the pilot light in the oven going out. It’s just another ploy, a pathetic excuse to hear your voice, to keep you close, and hold on to for as long as we can.

And once you are unfathomably successful, something I have never doubted you won’t be, please remember that your sister, your beautiful, wise, brilliant sister, who has supplied your wardrobe since grade school, and dealt with the state trooper during your 21st birthday, loves all things Balenciaga and Yves Saint Laurent.

Happy birthday Ki.

If there ever need be a proven case of absence making the heart grow fonder, I would be a perfect example. If this were a relationship, I would’ve been the underappreciative boyfriend who has seen the error of his ways, returning, begging to be taken back, flowers in hand and a pathetic puppy dog face for complete effect. And Seattle would be the merciful girlfriend, taking me back without reprimand, because she always knew I’d return once I got my shit together.

Still though, even after three weeks of being back in Seattle’s loving arms, there’s an air of hesitance, a certain uncertainty I cannot grasp. It’s an oscillation of conflicting emotions, some that I fear if I don’t conquer soon, I will find myself in a dark grey room of second-guessing.

I never saw this move back to Seattle as the ultimate solution. I am not so naïve to believe that it works that way: I know that change, significant change, takes time. And when you’ve decided that after nearly two decades of taping postcards of Johns Hopkins and Stanford on your walls, suffering crazy sleep depravation in college, and bordering all sorts of suicidal thoughts during the week of your MCAT’s, that you want to walk away from the only life you’ve envisioned for yourself, there’s bound to be repercussions of the soul.

And that expected wave of doubt came crashing down on me with unrivaled fury while I was stuck in traffic on Montlake, shortly after my move. The UW Hospital seemed more conspicuous than ever, even when I turned my head to deliberately focus on the license plate ahead of me. The campus it seemed, despite the beautifully sunny day, was haunting – a ghost of a life forfeited. On the corner, waiting for the light to turn was a girl in powder blue scrubs, a backpack strapped behind her, chatting away on her cell phone. I wondered if we were the same age, and if she had been in any of my biochem classes. My eyes flooded with tears as I imagined that she had just gotten off an overnight shift, and the person she was talking to so excitedly was her mom, telling her about her first successful attempt at an IV drip. I’ve never prayed harder for traffic to move as much as I did at that moment.

I can’t pinpoint when it happened. I don’t think it was one event, because a decision like this never comes to one suddenly or without resistance. I have always loved medicine. I have always loved the workings of the human body. And I have always loved the prospect of being someone who could do something about it when it went haywire. I have always been good about watching surgeries; I never felt squeamish or light-headed at blood or exposed organs, but rather, exhilarated by the efficiency and knowledge of what medical professionals could do. And with the right training, I believed I’d make the type of surgeon my parents would read about in the Korean Daily, where they had clipped profiles of world-renown Korean-American doctors for me since middle school. I would live a noble life, one with purpose and honor, and one that I could be happy with for the rest of my life.

Maybe one day, when my head is a little clearer, I will take time to analyze when and where I started to deviate from the life I had dreamt for myself since I was little. But the only rationalization I can conjure up at this moment is that, in many ways, I think I’ve always known that this wasn’t for me. When you were as invested as I was, denial can come in many deceiving forms. It can be mistaken by weariness and insecurity, that it is typical doubt clouding every other ambitious future MD. You find yourself chalking it all up to stress, and convince yourself that it would roll away on its own. After all, I can be astonishingly hardheaded, and each time I felt a hint of ambiguity, I reinforced my consciousness with positive affirmations.

As expected, my decision caught my parents in a tailspin, and the only real regret I will always have is how I chose to handle my announcement. Such jarring decisions require a bit more finesse in their delivery, but mine was blunt and unexpected. I had not thought it through. I had not made a bullet-point list. I had not known those initial words were going to come out of my mouth in that 30-minute drive from Monroe to Seattle. And things did not get much better once we were back in Florida, seated around the breakfast table. Blame it on miscommunication, blame it on our characteristics and tendencies to be stubborn, blame it on our passionate nature – but in that hour, that terrible hour where emotions and words ran without censor, my parents and I had the worst conversation we’ve ever had. There were plenty of things said that never should have been spoken – both parties were left feeling betrayed for vastly different reasons: I had blindsided them, I had never given any reason for them to doubt. And in return, despite a level of heartbreak I knew I had caused, I felt terribly disappointed by how they chose to react.

But like I said before, my family and I are nothing if not passionate; we often employ the spit it out now, figure it out later philosophy. After a couple more rounds, we called a truce. The initial shock and resistance had worn off, and my parents returned to being the amazing people I recognized. Sure they were disappointed; I had all but promised them a certain life – but above all else, they wanted the same thing all parents want for their kids: a happy life.

Their only concern now is that I find something for the void that medicine failed to fill. I understand their worrisome faces: their daughter is now looking at an unstable future, an uncertain career, where she will undoubtedly struggle more than they ever wanted for her. I honestly have no idea what the future holds for me. With becoming a doctor, the road is paved for you in a nice little package: you go to med school, you go through residency, fellowship, and then you finally start feeling like a professional. There’s little room to deviate because there’s strict set of guidelines and procedures to follow. And now, to throw out that book, I feel an undeniable liberation as well as a compulsion to crap my pants.

At the beginning of college, I would have told you that by 25, I would be in my third year of medical school. I would be looking at residency programs around the country, and just to keep my mother from turning into a hot mess, I’d be dating a classmate, a future neurologist or orthopedic surgeon. If you would have told me that instead, I would be starting over, or simply, anything but going to medical school, I would have thought you were legitimately insane. But here I am, not doing all those things. Here I am, working on what is my first real resume, a pathetic list that leaves me feeling utterly unqualified for anything not in the medical field.

My parents see my current situation as being unclear and unfocused, a step back from where I should be at this age. But to me, it’s the opposite. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m taking a step towards progression. I wish I could comfort my parents, reassure them that despite this sudden pivot in my life, I will be just fine. That I am still who I am, who I’ve always been, someone no less determined to succeed than I’ve always been. And maybe I will spend the rest of my life worrying about the mortgage and the bills. Maybe I won’t have a closet full of Louboutins or a BMW 7-series sitting in my driveway. But at least I won’t hate myself at the end of the day.

Life is too short to not live it the way you feel you should.

I think I can expect a feeling of uncertainty and doubt regarding my decision will linger for a good while longer, especially when the ground I’m standing on feels this wobbly. It’s hard to say goodbye to such a significant portion of your life without feeling nostalgia and regret whenever you see reminders of what you’ve left behind. I think it’ll be awhile before I can see med school students without feeling a lump in my throat and tug on my heart. There’s a difference between giving up a certain life and walking away from a certain life. And hopefully, with a little time, I will feel the latter.

When trying to repair and reconnect with an old relationship or bond, there has to be time for the trust to rebuild. And that’s exactly what I need from myself right now; that no matter how unsettled I feel, it will not last forever. And no matter how scared shitless I may be, I will follow my instincts, and trust that I will figure myself out.

It’s good to see you again Seattle. I can’t wait to see what life has in store for us.

We had set a plan. Or, I had set a plan. I had written an itinerary, all with checkpoints I was sure we’d make if we kept with the driving schedule. I could finally put my insomnia to good use, I had thought. Ki and I could take turns napping and driving, and we’d be okay.

But in the first 45 minutes, just outside of Issaquah, I forced Ki to find a rest room – the early morning Starbucks was brewing a combative blend in my digestive system. Walking back to the car, Ki made a comment about “a shitty way to start to the road trip”. I told him to shut up. I wasn’t deterred.

Foolishly, stupidly, and stubbornly, we drove straight to Colorado. I was determined to keep with my schedule. We stopped to brush our teeth at a rest stop that Honie and I commonly refer to as “the one horror movies are inspired from”; ominously abandoned, complete with blue-yellow flickering lights. Looking back now, it was the sketchiest place and the dumbest decision I could have made. I had overestimated how draining and exhaustive sitting in a car and driving really was – it wasn’t even midnight yet and I could already feel the pressure of my eyelids wanting to close. But we kept going, arriving in Boulder at 9am, nearly 24-hours after we had said goodbye to Seattle.

My parents had hoped that we take our time, take in some sights, visit some landmarks, and think of the trip as a vacation. But after the first day, we were all in accordance that the only thing we really wanted to do was to get home. We stopped at even more questionable rest stops, lost count of all the porn warehouse billboard signs, and became so desperately hungry one night to have our first and last experience with Sonic. We escaped near flooding in St. Louis, wished for more time in Nashville, and endured traffic in sweltering Atlanta heat. We finally rolled onto familiar roads in Orlando, only to be greeted by flash-rain the last five miles home, forcing us to go well below speed limit just so we could see the road.

After we woke up from a 12+ hour nap and washed the 3,100-mile residue off our bodies, Ki announced, or rather, swore, that he would “never, ever again” partake in another drive (it was his second in four years). We made it from Washington to Florida in five-days, no thanks to the worthless plan I had worked up.

There were numerous reasons I left Seattle last June, but none more important than the fact that my parents requested it – there were various issues they needed my assistance with. And at 24, moving back home with my parents was never part of my plan (I’m sensing a recurring theme here), but I never felt burdened. It may not have been an ideal situation, but it was never a difficult choice to make.

Our family’s motto has always unashamedly been “Family First” (close second: “if you smelt it, you dealt it”). With that said, it’s not always easy. Often times, it’s those you love most who manage to drive you the most crazy, pushing your patience and understanding until you’re just about to go on a murderous spree.

I have done things against my parents’ advice and vice versa. And when those things have blown up in our faces, we’ve never maliciously taunted or ridiculed each other (lovingly teased, yes). Even after all these years, I am not immune to some of the embarrassing antics of my parents, but I never feel ashamed (even when my dad mispronounces ‘sheet’ with ‘shit’). There are plenty of things we make fun of and give each other a hard time about – my freshman year weight gain, Ki’s tendency to create words (‘tooken’ is not past tense for ‘take’, you dolt), and Honie’s newly formed pubescent pimples. But if anyone outside my dad’s tax return makes the grave mistake of commenting on those same jabs, we’re ready to whoop some ass.

We root for each other. When you hurt one of us, you better be ready to fight us all (and Honie always goes for the groin). The only times I ever truly harbor thoughts of ill will against others is when my family is wronged or hurt. If I witness my parents being manipulated because the asshole thinks the language is a barrier, I won’t think twice about belittling you with all these nice people watching. If Honie ever came home crying, you can rest assured Ki and I will literally and metaphorically break your fucking face. It doesn’t matter how severe the incident may be; if you’ve caused my dad’s migraines or if you’re the reason my mom lays restless at night, that is grounds for a bicycle to the teeth.

We all complain because – let’s face it – families can drive you batshit crazy. But we don’t hold grudges. We don’t hold debts. We always forgive. We accept every flaw, every bad habit, every questionable character trait. We protect each other in ways that’s exclusive and obsessive. These are the only people I know who will drop everything, and sacrifice all, and the only thing I would have to do is ask. And while we can get occasionally annoyed and tired of each other, we never consider the things we do for each other, work.

It’s this irrational love that keeps me sane.

There’s a lot of life that’s happened in this past month – a lot of frustration, a lot of misunderstanding, and a lot of heartbreak. But what’s come out is a renewal of spirit, a reinforcement of the bond we share with each other, and the undeniable truth that unconditional love is real. It is honest, it is invincible, and it is limitless.

I left Seattle last June because my family needed me. And I had hoped being in their presence would ease some of the doubts that had been clouding my consciousness. I had hoped the insecurities and weariness I had felt for a certain career and certain life would be banished, and I would come out of it refueled and more prepared than ever. And although I did it in the most unconventional way, with a result that surprised all of us, I do feel resolution. And with a sense of clarity that I haven’t felt in years, I’m about to embark on a journey I never fathomed a possibility. And I know I am supported by the only people whose approval matter.

Returning to Seattle has me almost salivating right now, as I am excited to return to the city with modest temperatures, people who hesitate to flaunt their confederate flags and can spell at a grade-school level. If it weren’t for my family being here, I don’t think I’d ever step foot in Florida ever again. And while being in Seattle is the most ideal right now, leaving home, leaving my parents, leaving Honie hasn’t been an easy decision. Even with their blessing, I am leaving with a heavy heart. But the beauty of leaving home, especially this one, is that you can always come back, and never have to feel an adjustment period. And if hating Florida has proved anything at all, it’s that home truly is where the heart is. So until my parents move back to the Evergreen state, I will continue to call this god-forsaken heat hole, home.

Yes, Ki swore on more than one occasion that he would never drive cross-country again. Phrases such as “I’d rather shoot myself in the face” and “Are you fucking crazy?” were thrown out whenever the suggestion was made, even as a joke.

My Civic is packed. We leave for Seattle tomorrow morning.