My Story
Grab your tissues…
Because this is my story.
It is a story that begins long before I ever knew my own name.
A story of two sisters, a young mother trying to survive, a grandmother’s impossible choice, and a journey that carried me from the streets of Seoul to a small town in America.
It is a story of loss, love, culture, identity, adoption, reunion, heartbreak, forgiveness, and finally, peace.
And I am finally ready to tell it. Not just the beautiful moments, but the truth of all of it.
Before America: My Life in Korea
I was born in a small home in Seoul, South Korea. My mother was very young, and she relied on my grandmother for help because my biological father moved in and out of her life without warning. When he left for good, she was completely on her own with two small children.
She had to take whatever work she could find.
The job she eventually got required her to live inside the factory.
It was not a normal job where you work and then go home.
Once she walked through those doors, she often could not leave until her shifts were over, and the shifts were extremely long. There were small beds lined up for the workers to sleep in, and the rules were strict. It controlled her time, her freedom, and her ability to care for her children. It felt more like being confined than being employed.
She was stuck inside that building for days at a time, barely earning enough to survive.
She could not come home to feed me.
She could not hold me.
She could not be present in the way she wanted to be.
Because of the stress and lack of nutrition, her milk dried up.
Formula was too expensive for our family to afford.
My grandmother did everything she could, but she was older, caring for two young children, and trying to stretch food that simply was not enough.
My mother knew I was losing weight. She knew I was hungry.
She cried because she could not leave work to come to me.
It was breaking her.
This is the reality that pushed my grandmother into a corner she never wanted to be in. She was watching my mother work in conditions that took away her freedom, her health, and her ability to care for us. Watching me starve was destroying her.
This is why she felt she had no choice.
The Decision That Changed Everything
My grandmother made the choice to contact an adoption agency because she believed it was the only way to save my sister and me. She saw my mother working inside a factory she could barely leave. She saw her exhausted, trapped, and unable to come home. She saw me losing weight and crying from hunger. She knew my mother loved us, but she also knew love alone was not enough to keep us alive.
She made the decision without telling my mother, because she believed my mother would refuse, even if refusing meant continuing to struggle in a situation that was impossible to survive.
When my mother found out what had been done, it devastated her.
She blamed her own mother.
She felt betrayed, hurt, and powerless.
She tried to reach us, but the paperwork had already moved forward.
It took a long time for the two of them to talk again.
The pain was deep for both sides.
But over the years, they slowly rebuilt their relationship.
My mother eventually came to understand why my grandmother made that choice.
And my grandmother carried the guilt of it for the rest of her life.
They forgave each other because they loved each other, even after everything that happened.
That forgiveness became part of my family story too.
Life in the Orphanage
After the adoption paperwork was processed, my sister and I were taken to an orphanage. I was around four years old, old enough to understand that something had changed but not old enough to understand why.
The orphanage was crowded with children of all ages. Caregivers did their best with what they had, but resources were limited. Everything had a routine. Meals at certain times. Naps at certain times. Playtime on a schedule. It was structured but unfamiliar.
My sister was only eighteen months old. She was still very much a baby, and I felt responsible for her. I held her when she cried and fed her when I could. I tried to comfort her even when I did not feel comforted myself.
I missed my mother and grandmother, but I did not have the words to express it. I only knew that we were not at home and that our world had changed without warning. Children in places like that learn very quickly to adapt because they have no choice.
The orphanage was not cruel, but it was not home. It was a place where children waited for their lives to be decided for them.
And one day, ours was.
Being Chosen for Adoption
One morning, the caregivers washed us carefully and dressed us in clothes that looked new but did not fit properly. They pinned name tags to our shirts so that officials and escorts could tell us apart and keep our files organized. There was no explanation, no goodbye to the children we had slept beside or eaten with every day.
We were placed in a white van and driven through the streets of Seoul. I watched the city I had always known pass by the window. I did not understand that I was leaving it behind permanently.
When we arrived at the airport, the adoption escort guided us inside. It was loud, bright, and overwhelming. I remember gripping my sister’s hand, trying to keep us together.
On the plane, a flight attendant brought us trays of fruit salad. It was colorful and sweet and unlike anything I had tasted before. At the time, I did not know that this was my first taste of what life in another country would be like.
The long flight made me sick. When we landed in the United States, I threw up all over the woman who would soon become my adoptive mother. It was not the perfect first meeting, but it was real, and it became part of the story we still laugh about today.
Meeting My Adoptive Family
When we landed in the United States, my adoptive parents were waiting at the airport. My father stood out right away. He had bright orange hair and an orange mustache, something completely new to me as a little girl arriving from Korea. His appearance was unexpected, but he had a calm, gentle way about him that made him seem less intimidating.
My adoptive mother was Okinawan Japanese. She looked nervous but hopeful as she watched us walk toward her. Neither she nor my father spoke Korean, and I could not speak English or Japanese, so we all depended on the translator during those first moments together.
Even without a shared language, my new mother tried to show care in small ways. She fixed my jacket, kept me close as we moved through the airport, and handled the mess from the flight without any frustration. Those quiet actions became the first signs that she wanted to make us feel safe.
I did not understand everything that was happening, but that moment marked the beginning of life with the family who would raise me.
Adjusting to America
When my sister and I first arrived in the United States, we spent only a short time in Pennsylvania. It was just a temporary stop while my adoptive parents got everything settled. Within a few months, we moved to Ohio, where my adoptive father’s family lived. Ohio is where most of my childhood memories were made, and it felt like our real home.
The house was small but surrounded by a lot of land. There was a creek behind the property, open space to run around, and a big garden that my mother worked in every day. That garden became one of the first things that helped me feel grounded. She planted vegetables the way she had been taught in Okinawa, and she used cooking and gardening as ways to take care of us.
Learning English was a slow process. I watched children’s shows and copied the sounds, repeating words even when I didn’t understand them. Little by little, the language started to make sense. By the time I reached first grade, I could understand my teachers, and I began feeling less lost.
That same year, I became a United States citizen. I remember standing with my mother and sister in the courtroom, not fully understanding everything but knowing it was an important moment.
Even with those milestones, adjusting to America took time. I came from one culture, was adopted into another, and now lived in a place that worked completely differently from everything I had known. It took years before I felt like I truly fit anywhere.
Growing Up Between Cultures
As I grew older, I started to understand how different my upbringing was compared to the kids around me. I was Korean by birth. I was raised by a Japanese mother. And I was living in an American community. Each culture had its own expectations, and I had to learn how to navigate all three at the same time.
My mother grew up in a strict, traditional household in Okinawa. She was the youngest of fifteen siblings, and she learned early in life that hard work and discipline were necessary just to get by. Because of her upbringing, she parented in the way she knew. She kept a very structured household. She believed in doing things the right way, not the easy way.
She showed love through routine and responsibility. She cooked homemade meals, cleaned constantly, tended the garden, and made sure we always had what we needed. She wasn’t someone who naturally expressed affection through words, but her actions were consistent. In her mind, that was how you cared for a family.
Living between cultures sometimes made life confusing. At home, I followed the rules and expectations my mother set. At school, I was surrounded by kids who lived completely different lives. I did not always fit perfectly into either world. It took time to understand that this was not a flaw. It was part of my story.
Over the years, I learned to appreciate all the cultures that shaped me. They gave me strength, resilience, appreciation for different ways of living, and a deeper sense of identity.
Siblings Through Adoption
Our family was made up of pieces that came together in an unusual way. My brother had been adopted before us. His biological parents were young and not able to raise him, so he joined the family first. When my sister and I arrived, the three of us became siblings through adoption rather than biology, but it still made us a family.
My sister and I had already formed a connection back in Korea. I had comforted her in the orphanage, fed her when I could, and held her when she cried. That early bond followed us into our new life. We shared the same beginning, and we went through the same major changes together, which created a natural link between us.
My brother had his own journey and his own challenges, and we all learned how to grow up together in a multicultural adoptive household. Our family looked different from the families around us, but we made it work in our own way. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it shaped each of us into who we are today.
Losing My Adoptive Mom
As I got older, I understood more about why my adoptive parents chose adoption. My mom had suffered multiple miscarriages, and adoption became the way she could finally have the family she wanted. She raised us with structure, routines, and a strong work ethic, but she also struggled with mental health challenges that were never talked about openly or understood in our home. As a child, I didn’t have the words for any of it. I just knew some days were unpredictable and confusing.
When I was around twelve, my parents divorced. It changed everything. My siblings and I stayed with our dad after the separation. He worked long hours, sometimes leaving before sunrise and coming home late at night, but even with that schedule, he tried his best to be steady and present for us.
Because he was gone so much for work, I naturally took on more responsibility as the oldest. I learned to cook. I helped keep things together at home. My brother was old enough to take care of himself, but my younger sister needed more help, so I stepped into that role without thinking twice. Those years shaped a lot of who I became.
My dad passed away on February 2, 2008. Losing him was a major emotional shift in my life. He had been the stable parent during my teenage years, the one who showed up every day even when he was tired. His death left me with a huge sense of loss, and it stirred up questions about who I was and where I truly came from. That was when I first began to feel the pull to reconnect with Korea, my birth country, and the parts of my identity that had always been kept in the background.
My adoptive mom passed away later, on January 19, 2019. Even though our relationship had been complicated, losing her brought up another wave of emotions. She had raised me from the moment I arrived in America. Her routines, her cooking, her way of doing things, and even her struggles had shaped my childhood. Her passing closed a chapter of my life, but the desire to reconnect with my roots had already started years earlier when my dad died.
Searching for My Biological Family
After my dad passed away on February 2, 2008, something inside me shifted. Losing him made me think more seriously about the part of my life I had never fully understood. I didn’t know what my life in Korea had been like. I didn’t know why my sister and I were adopted. I didn’t know if my biological parents were still together or if I had more siblings. These questions started to matter in a way they never had before.
So I began searching.
I emailed every adoption agency I could find, both in the United States and in Korea. I reached out to anyone who might have access to records or even the smallest piece of information. Most agencies never replied. Some said they couldn’t help. Others said they had no files.
But I did not feel frustrated. I didn’t expect anything to happen. I had already prepared myself for the possibility that I might never get any answers at all.
Then, after about a year, everything changed.
Out of nowhere, I received an email from Eastern Social Welfare Society (ESWS) in Korea. They told me they had my biological mother in their system. Not a guess. Not a possibility. They had her name listed.
They asked if I wanted them to send the police to her home to see if she would be open to reunion.
I said yes.
The police went directly to my mother’s house.
They informed her about the search and explained why they were there.
The very next day, my mother and my aunt went to the ESWS agency together.
When ESWS told me this, it felt unreal.
After years of not knowing anything about my past, suddenly everything happened all at once.
My biological mother was alive.
She had been found.
And she wanted to see me.
That moment changed the direction of everything that came next.
Reuniting in America
Once ESWS confirmed that they had located my biological mother and that she wanted to reunite, the next step was figuring out how we would meet. At the time, my husband and I had just had a baby, and traveling to Korea with a newborn would have been extremely difficult. On top of that, it would have been very expensive for my entire family and my sister and her family to fly across the world.
So instead of all of us traveling to Korea, we decided the best option was to fly my biological mother and her husband to America. It was something we were grateful to be able to do, and it allowed the reunion to happen in a place where my family felt safe and settled.
Her neighbor happened to be an English teacher, which changed everything. With her neighbor’s help and translation apps, we were finally able to communicate directly without relying on the adoption agency. It gave us our first real sense of connection, even before meeting in person.
When my biological mother and her husband arrived in America, the emotions were overwhelming. We were complete strangers and family at the same time. There were a lot of tears, long pauses, and moments where none of us knew exactly what to say. The language barrier was real, but we communicated however we could. Sometimes through words. Sometimes through gestures. Sometimes through simple understanding.
My mother was embarrassed and anxious. She worried that I might hate her. She worried that I would blame her for everything that happened when I was a child. And for the first time, she shared how much pain she had carried. She told me that after losing us, she had tried to take her own life. The guilt and grief were overwhelming, and she believed she had failed us. She never thought she would have a chance to speak to us again.
Hearing that was heartbreaking, but it helped me understand her reality in a deeper way. She was not someone who walked away from her children without feeling anything. She had been living with a wound for decades. She showed incredible courage by choosing to reunite after all those years.
She had kept her past a secret her entire adult life. Even her current husband, the man she eventually married, never knew she had two daughters before meeting him. She had carried that secret alone because the pain was too heavy to speak about. Yet he treated her with kindness and understanding. Even after learning the truth, he stood right by her side.
The reunion was emotional, complicated, and full of moments we will never forget. It was the beginning of rebuilding something that had been broken for more than thirty years.
The DNA Test
Before my biological mother returned to Korea, my sister asked if we could take a DNA test together. It wasn’t unexpected. She had been carrying a painful question for years. A woman had told her, when she was already an adult, that we weren’t real sisters and that she was half Chinese. It happened only a few years before I started searching for our family, and it shook her. She wasn’t sure if she had been lied to, and she needed closure before she could move forward.
So the three of us, my mom, my sister, and I, took a DNA test before my mom left. We did it to settle the doubt that had been planted in her mind and to give her the answers she deserved.
After my mom returned to Korea, some time passed before the results came in. Then something unexpected happened.
My sister called me, crying so hard she could barely get the words out. When she finally managed to speak, she told me that the results showed that the three of us were truly blood related. Every bit of doubt that had followed her for years disappeared in that moment.
We were sisters by blood.
Not just by adoption.
Not just by being raised together.
We were truly connected.
Hearing that felt like another twist in a life that has been one big roller coaster. I never imagined any of this happening in my lifetime. To find my biological mother, to reunite with her, and then to learn that my sister and I were truly blood sisters felt like blessing after blessing.
But even with all those answers, there is still one part of my story that weighs on me. My biological father. I know what I know from my mom, but there is a part of me that wants to meet him and his family, even if the truth is complicated or painful.
There is another part of me that is afraid.
Afraid of what I might learn.
Afraid of reopening old wounds.
Afraid of finding something I am not ready for.
I bought a DNA kit three years ago. It has been sitting there ever since. I look at it sometimes and think about all the answers it could bring. But I also think about everything it could change.
One day I will be ready.
I just don’t know when.
Returning to Korea for the First Time
After reuniting with my biological mother in America, the next big step was traveling to Korea. For most of my life, Korea was a place I only knew through adoption papers, a few old photos, and bits of information from the agency. I had very few memories from early childhood. In reality, I had no real memories of my life there at all. So the idea of returning was overwhelming. It felt like traveling back to a place that belonged to me, yet was completely unknown.
Planning the trip felt surreal. It wasn’t a vacation or a simple visit. It was a journey back to the beginning of my story. My husband and I prepared everything, but as the date came closer, the weight of what this trip meant became heavier. I was going back to the country where I was born, where my life first started, and where everything changed for my family.
When we arrived in Korea, the experience was unlike anything I had ever felt. Everything around me was unfamiliar, yet it stirred something inside me. The language, the food, the city lights, the way people moved. I had grown up American, but somewhere deep inside, there was a quiet sense of connection. Like my body recognized something even if my mind didn’t.
Seeing my biological mother again in Korea was different from seeing her in America. This was her home. Her life. Her everyday world. Meeting her there made everything feel deeper. I could finally see the environment that shaped her. Her surroundings. The culture she lived in. The routines she followed. It helped me understand her in ways I couldn’t when she visited America.
She introduced me to relatives I had never met. People who knew about me only through her. There were a lot of emotions. Moments of confusion. Moments of comfort. A lot of tears. And times where I didn’t know how to react because everything felt new and familiar at the same time.
Being in Korea made my adoption feel real in a way it never had before. My biological family. My history. My roots. For the first time, I could physically stand in the place that shaped the beginning of my life.
Leaving Korea after that first trip was emotional. The experience gave me something I didn’t know I needed. A connection to a place that felt both foreign and unexpectedly familiar. A deeper understanding of the woman who brought me into this world. And a stronger understanding of myself.
That trip changed me. It brought answers, but it also brought new questions. It brought healing, but also reminded me how complicated identity can be. Korea became a part of me that I could finally feel, not just imagine.
And it was only the beginning of building a relationship with my biological family.
A Journey of Two Mothers
My trip to Korea was already emotional, but there was another purpose to this journey that made it even heavier. I had planned to spend one week in Korea with my biological family and then travel to Tokyo. I was bringing my Japanese mother’s ashes with me so I could release her in Japan. It was something I had carried in my heart for a long time, and I wanted to do it the right way.
But the trip did not go smoothly from the beginning.
On our way to Korea, during our connecting flight, our plane malfunctioned in Minnesota. Instead of continuing our journey, we ended up stuck there for a couple of days with no luggage. It was me, my husband, and our two younger girls. Then a huge snowstorm hit, making everything even more difficult. We were told our luggage would be forwarded to Korea, so we waited, hoping for the best.
When we finally arrived in Korea, we were exhausted but ready to focus on the important things. Except our luggage never showed up. No one knew where it was. No one had answers. And in that luggage were not just clothes or toiletries. My Japanese mother’s ashes were inside. The entire purpose of going to Japan depended on something that seemed to be lost.
But I refused to let it ruin our trip. We rented an Airbnb, and the owners were kind enough to wash the clothes we had been wearing. We had one outfit each for an entire week. It was inconvenient, sure, but I didn’t care. I was in Korea. I was with my biological family. The emotions were real, and the clothes didn’t matter.
What mattered was my mother’s ashes.
The week in Korea went by, and we still had not received our luggage. Then it was time to leave for Japan. I accepted that maybe the ashes were gone and tried to focus on the reason we were there. I wanted to release her somewhere meaningful, somewhere beautiful, somewhere connected to her roots.
Then something unexpected happened.
As we were heading to the airport to fly to Japan, our luggage finally arrived. Out of nowhere. After days of having no idea where it was. After worrying that the ashes might be lost forever. There it was, waiting for us. Another blessing. Another reminder that things have a way of working out even when it feels impossible.
In Tokyo, we went to the Rainbow Bridge near the Statue of Liberty replica. I held my Japanese mother’s ashes and released her there. The moment was peaceful. Emotional. Healing. I felt like I had done right by her.
Later, when I told my sister where I released our mother, she shared her own story. She and her son released their portion of our mom’s ashes in Mexico. And when they released her, they looked up and saw a rainbow. They had no idea where I had released mine. And I had no idea what they had seen until that moment.
Two different countries.
Two different releases.
Two rainbows.
When she told me that, I got chills. It felt like a sign. A connection. A moment where everything came together in a way none of us could have planned.
This chapter of my life was about both of my mothers.
The one who gave birth to me.
And the one who raised me.
It was emotional.
It was chaotic.
It was healing.
And it was full of moments that I will never forget.
Staying Connected From Far Away
After my trip to Korea, staying connected with my biological mother became part of my life, but not in a constant or daily way. We do not talk every day. Our communication is simple and occasional, and it happens through a Korean messaging app. We still rely on translation, and most of what we send each other are emojis. Hearts, smiley faces, little flowers. These small symbols say the things we often can’t put into words. Our conversations may not be long, but they still mean something.
Over time, she has shared pieces of her life when she felt ready. I learned that her husband became very sick and eventually had to get a lung transplant. After the surgery, he could not leave the house for about a year. It was a long, difficult recovery for them both. Even though her messages were short, I could sense the stress she was carrying.
She has also opened up about her past. She once owned a butcher shop in Seoul and lived in the apartment above it. She also ran a bed and breakfast on the beach at one point in her life. Later, she and her husband sold those places and moved to the countryside, where they bought a chicken and beer restaurant. It became their new life together.
I know they talked about selling the restaurant because of my stepfather’s health, but I never ask about it. I do not want them to think I am questioning their finances or judging their situation. Some topics feel too sensitive, and I want her to feel safe and comfortable when she messages me.
Even though we do not talk often, she still reaches out when she can. Sometimes she sends a heart. Sometimes a short greeting. Sometimes an emoji that simply means she is thinking of me. And I send the same back. It may look small from the outside, but for us, these small moments are enough to remind each other that we care.
Our relationship is quiet and gentle. It is built through screens, emojis, translation apps, and moments that show love without many words. Even though we are far apart, this is how we stay connected. It is the relationship we can manage right now, and it means more to me than I ever expected.
How My Children Reacted to Meeting My Biological Family
When my children finally met my biological family, it was a moment I never imagined would happen. They approached everything with the innocence and openness that children naturally have. They didn’t see the complicated history, the years of separation, or the emotional weight behind the reunion. They simply accepted the situation for what it was.
Traveling to Korea later gave them an even clearer view. They experienced the culture, the food, and the surroundings that were a part of my story long before they were born. They met relatives they never knew existed and took everything in with curiosity and ease.
One thing that became clear through all of this is how much our family has grown. Because of the reunion, we now have five generations connected in ways none of us ever expected. My children became part of something bigger than they ever knew, and my biological family gained a connection they never imagined they would live to see.
Watching that bridge form between generations reminded me that reunion shapes more than just the person searching. It creates new bonds, new stories, and new pieces of identity for the children who come after us.
Even with all of its complications, this part of the journey has been meaningful for all of us.
Today
Today my life looks completely different from the life I came from, and I am grateful for every part of it. I am married to my best friend. We got married in Hawaii on Magic Island on 12.12.12 at 12:12 pm. It was one of the happiest days of my life, and the numbers made it feel even more special, like it was meant to be.
Before we met, he already had two boys and I had one girl. They are adults now. After we got married, we added two girls to our family together. That brought all of us even closer, and our home has always been full of personality, noise, and love.
My husband and I actually met through his brother and my sister. Yes, they were once married. Which means my sister and I ended up having the same last name three different times in our lives. First our Korean last name. Then our adopted American last name. And then the last names from our marriages to the brothers. Not many people can say they have lived something like that.
My husband owns a construction company, and I own an ultrasound facility and spa for pregnant women. I built it with the idea of helping mothers feel supported and cared for. As you know, I recently started doing content creation, and I absolutely love it. It feels natural to me, and it has opened new doors and allowed me to express myself in ways I never expected. My oldest daughter runs my facility now while I focus mainly on content and being creative.
I am also a Glam-ma. My daughter made me one, and my oldest son has one on the way. Depending on when you read this, he may already be here.
I am very blessed with my in laws. They treat me like their own and have always made me feel welcomed and loved. That kind of acceptance means so much to me.
My husband is one of the biggest blessings in my life. He supports me, believes in me, and provides for our family with so much dedication. He has been steady and loving through every part of our journey together.
After everything I have lived through, all the ups and downs, all the pain and healing, I look at my life today and I know I am truly blessed.
A Message to Anyone Searching for Their Family
If you are someone who is searching for your biological family, wondering about your past, or carrying questions that have been inside you for years, I want you to know something. You are not alone. You are not wrong for wanting answers. And you are not selfish for wanting to understand where you come from.
Searching is not easy. It brings excitement and fear at the same time. You prepare yourself for everything and still nothing can fully prepare you for what you might find. You might learn things that bring healing. You might learn things that bring pain. You might face silence. You might face answers. And you might experience both.
What I learned is that searching is not about trying to replace anyone. It is not about choosing one family over another. It is about understanding your own story. It is about filling in pieces that have been missing for too long. It is about giving your heart a chance to breathe.
If you decide to search, go into it with an open mind. Be prepared for twists, surprises, and emotions you never expected. Some days will feel heavy. Some days will feel beautiful. And some moments will change you forever.
Do not rush yourself. Take breaks if needed. Give yourself time to process. You are allowed to feel everything. You are allowed to protect your heart. And you are allowed to celebrate your victories, no matter how small.
Not every story will look like mine. Some reunions happen quickly. Some take years. Some never happen. And each outcome is real. Each outcome is valid. Each outcome has its own form of strength.
What matters most is that you honor your truth. Your story is important. Your feelings are important. And your journey, no matter how it unfolds, is yours.
If you find your family, let the connection grow naturally. If the relationship is gentle, let it be gentle. If it is complicated, give it space. If it is emotional, allow yourself to feel it. There is no right or wrong way to reunite.
And if you do not find the answers you hoped for, that does not make your story any less meaningful. You are still whole. You are still worthy. And you still belong.
Your past does not define your entire life, but it is a part of who you are. And you deserve to understand it in whatever way feels right for you.
Wherever you are in your journey, I hope you find peace, strength, and the courage to follow your heart.
You Never Know What Anyone Has or Is Going Through
One thing my journey has taught me more than anything is that you truly never know what someone has lived through or what they are carrying inside. People walk around every day with smiles, routines, and responsibilities, but behind all of that is a story you may know nothing about.
My own life is proof of that.
Most people who meet me today see the woman I am now. A wife, a mother, a Glam-ma, a business owner, a creator, someone who is building a beautiful life. They see the blessings, the joy, the confidence, and the love that surrounds me. What they do not see unless I share it is the story behind all of that.
They do not see the poverty my family lived through in Korea.
They do not see the heartbreak my biological mother carried.
They do not see the adoption, the confusion, the loss, or the unanswered questions.
They do not see the challenges that shaped me.
They do not see the strength it took to search for the truth.
They do not see the courage it took to reunite.
They do not see the fear that still exists when it comes to the parts of my story that remain unfinished.
They do not see that I lost two people who truly cared for me.
And at the same time, I do not know the stories behind the people I meet either.
Everyone carries something.
Everyone has lived through moments that changed them.
Everyone has battles that are invisible from the outside.
This is why understanding and compassion matter so much.
A kind word.
A gentle response.
A moment of patience.
These small things can mean everything to someone whose heart feels heavy.
Life has taught me that assumptions are dangerous. You never know why someone reacts the way they do. You never know what kind of loss they have survived. You never know what kind of hurt they grew up with, or what kind of strength it took for them to keep going.
If you knew people’s stories, you might view them completely differently.
My own story has made me softer. It has made me slower to judge and quicker to understand. It has made me realize that people are much more than what they show on
the surface. And sometimes the strongest people are the ones who have survived the most.
So if there is one message I hope people take from my journey, it is this:
Be kind.
Be gentle.
Be patient.
You never know what anyone has faced, what they are facing now, or what they are trying their hardest to overcome. And sometimes, kindness becomes the moment that helps someone get through one more day.
Before America: My Life in Korea
I was born in a small home in Seoul, South Korea. My mother was very young, and she relied on my grandmother for help because my biological father moved in and out of her life without warning. When he left for good, she was completely on her own with two small children.
She had to take whatever work she could find.
The job she eventually got required her to live inside the factory.
It was not a normal job where you work and then go home.
Once she walked through those doors, she often could not leave until her shifts were over, and the shifts were extremely long. There were small beds lined up for the workers to sleep in, and the rules were strict. It controlled her time, her freedom, and her ability to care for her children. It felt more like being confined than being employed.
She was stuck inside that building for days at a time, barely earning enough to survive.
She could not come home to feed me.
She could not hold me.
She could not be present in the way she wanted to be.
Because of the stress and lack of nutrition, her milk dried up.
Formula was too expensive for our family to afford.
My grandmother did everything she could, but she was older, caring for two young children, and trying to stretch food that simply was not enough.
My mother knew I was losing weight. She knew I was hungry.
She cried because she could not leave work to come to me.
It was breaking her.
This is the reality that pushed my grandmother into a corner she never wanted to be in. She was watching my mother work in conditions that took away her freedom, her health, and her ability to care for us. Watching me starve was destroying her.
This is why she felt she had no choice.
The Decision That Changed Everything
My grandmother made the choice to contact an adoption agency because she believed it was the only way to save my sister and me. She saw my mother working inside a factory she could barely leave. She saw her exhausted, trapped, and unable to come home. She saw me losing weight and crying from hunger. She knew my mother loved us, but she also knew love alone was not enough to keep us alive.
She made the decision without telling my mother, because she believed my mother would refuse, even if refusing meant continuing to struggle in a situation that was impossible to survive.
When my mother found out what had been done, it devastated her.
She blamed her own mother.
She felt betrayed, hurt, and powerless.
She tried to reach us, but the paperwork had already moved forward.
It took a long time for the two of them to talk again.
The pain was deep for both sides.
But over the years, they slowly rebuilt their relationship.
My mother eventually came to understand why my grandmother made that choice.
And my grandmother carried the guilt of it for the rest of her life.
They forgave each other because they loved each other, even after everything that happened.
That forgiveness became part of my family story too.
Life in the Orphanage
After the adoption paperwork was processed, my sister and I were taken to an orphanage. I was around four years old, old enough to understand that something had changed but not old enough to understand why.
The orphanage was crowded with children of all ages. Caregivers did their best with what they had, but resources were limited. Everything had a routine. Meals at certain times. Naps at certain times. Playtime on a schedule. It was structured but unfamiliar.
My sister was only eighteen months old. She was still very much a baby, and I felt responsible for her. I held her when she cried and fed her when I could. I tried to comfort her even when I did not feel comforted myself.
I missed my mother and grandmother, but I did not have the words to express it. I only knew that we were not at home and that our world had changed without warning. Children in places like that learn very quickly to adapt because they have no choice.
The orphanage was not cruel, but it was not home. It was a place where children waited for their lives to be decided for them.
And one day, ours was.
Being Chosen for Adoption
One morning, the caregivers washed us carefully and dressed us in clothes that looked new but did not fit properly. They pinned name tags to our shirts so that officials and escorts could tell us apart and keep our files organized. There was no explanation, no goodbye to the children we had slept beside or eaten with every day.
We were placed in a white van and driven through the streets of Seoul. I watched the city I had always known pass by the window. I did not understand that I was leaving it behind permanently.
When we arrived at the airport, the adoption escort guided us inside. It was loud, bright, and overwhelming. I remember gripping my sister’s hand, trying to keep us together.
On the plane, a flight attendant brought us trays of fruit salad. It was colorful and sweet and unlike anything I had tasted before. At the time, I did not know that this was my first taste of what life in another country would be like.
The long flight made me sick. When we landed in the United States, I threw up all over the woman who would soon become my adoptive mother. It was not the perfect first meeting, but it was real, and it became part of the story we still laugh about today.
Meeting My Adoptive Family
When we landed in the United States, my adoptive parents were waiting at the airport. My father stood out right away. He had bright orange hair and an orange mustache, something completely new to me as a little girl arriving from Korea. His appearance was unexpected, but he had a calm, gentle way about him that made him seem less intimidating.
My adoptive mother was Okinawan Japanese. She looked nervous but hopeful as she watched us walk toward her. Neither she nor my father spoke Korean, and I could not speak English or Japanese, so we all depended on the translator during those first moments together.
Even without a shared language, my new mother tried to show care in small ways. She fixed my jacket, kept me close as we moved through the airport, and handled the mess from the flight without any frustration. Those quiet actions became the first signs that she wanted to make us feel safe.
I did not understand everything that was happening, but that moment marked the beginning of life with the family who would raise me.
Adjusting to America
When my sister and I first arrived in the United States, we spent only a short time in Pennsylvania. It was just a temporary stop while my adoptive parents got everything settled. Within a few months, we moved to Ohio, where my adoptive father’s family lived. Ohio is where most of my childhood memories were made, and it felt like our real home.
The house was small but surrounded by a lot of land. There was a creek behind the property, open space to run around, and a big garden that my mother worked in every day. That garden became one of the first things that helped me feel grounded. She planted vegetables the way she had been taught in Okinawa, and she used cooking and gardening as ways to take care of us.
Learning English was a slow process. I watched children’s shows and copied the sounds, repeating words even when I didn’t understand them. Little by little, the language started to make sense. By the time I reached first grade, I could understand my teachers, and I began feeling less lost.
That same year, I became a United States citizen. I remember standing with my mother and sister in the courtroom, not fully understanding everything but knowing it was an important moment.
Even with those milestones, adjusting to America took time. I came from one culture, was adopted into another, and now lived in a place that worked completely differently from everything I had known. It took years before I felt like I truly fit anywhere.
Growing Up Between Cultures
As I grew older, I started to understand how different my upbringing was compared to the kids around me. I was Korean by birth. I was raised by a Japanese mother. And I was living in an American community. Each culture had its own expectations, and I had to learn how to navigate all three at the same time.
My mother grew up in a strict, traditional household in Okinawa. She was the youngest of fifteen siblings, and she learned early in life that hard work and discipline were necessary just to get by. Because of her upbringing, she parented in the way she knew. She kept a very structured household. She believed in doing things the right way, not the easy way.
She showed love through routine and responsibility. She cooked homemade meals, cleaned constantly, tended the garden, and made sure we always had what we needed. She wasn’t someone who naturally expressed affection through words, but her actions were consistent. In her mind, that was how you cared for a family.
Living between cultures sometimes made life confusing. At home, I followed the rules and expectations my mother set. At school, I was surrounded by kids who lived completely different lives. I did not always fit perfectly into either world. It took time to understand that this was not a flaw. It was part of my story.
Over the years, I learned to appreciate all the cultures that shaped me. They gave me strength, resilience, appreciation for different ways of living, and a deeper sense of identity.
Siblings Through Adoption
Our family was made up of pieces that came together in an unusual way. My brother had been adopted before us. His biological parents were young and not able to raise him, so he joined the family first. When my sister and I arrived, the three of us became siblings through adoption rather than biology, but it still made us a family.
My sister and I had already formed a connection back in Korea. I had comforted her in the orphanage, fed her when I could, and held her when she cried. That early bond followed us into our new life. We shared the same beginning, and we went through the same major changes together, which created a natural link between us.
My brother had his own journey and his own challenges, and we all learned how to grow up together in a multicultural adoptive household. Our family looked different from the families around us, but we made it work in our own way. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it shaped each of us into who we are today.
Losing My Adoptive Mom
As I got older, I understood more about why my adoptive parents chose adoption. My mom had suffered multiple miscarriages, and adoption became the way she could finally have the family she wanted. She raised us with structure, routines, and a strong work ethic, but she also struggled with mental health challenges that were never talked about openly or understood in our home. As a child, I didn’t have the words for any of it. I just knew some days were unpredictable and confusing.
When I was around twelve, my parents divorced. It changed everything. My siblings and I stayed with our dad after the separation. He worked long hours, sometimes leaving before sunrise and coming home late at night, but even with that schedule, he tried his best to be steady and present for us.
Because he was gone so much for work, I naturally took on more responsibility as the oldest. I learned to cook. I helped keep things together at home. My brother was old enough to take care of himself, but my younger sister needed more help, so I stepped into that role without thinking twice. Those years shaped a lot of who I became.
My dad passed away on February 2, 2008. Losing him was a major emotional shift in my life. He had been the stable parent during my teenage years, the one who showed up every day even when he was tired. His death left me with a huge sense of loss, and it stirred up questions about who I was and where I truly came from. That was when I first began to feel the pull to reconnect with Korea, my birth country, and the parts of my identity that had always been kept in the background.
My adoptive mom passed away later, on January 19, 2019. Even though our relationship had been complicated, losing her brought up another wave of emotions. She had raised me from the moment I arrived in America. Her routines, her cooking, her way of doing things, and even her struggles had shaped my childhood. Her passing closed a chapter of my life, but the desire to reconnect with my roots had already started years earlier when my dad died.
Searching for My Biological Family
After my dad passed away on February 2, 2008, something inside me shifted. Losing him made me think more seriously about the part of my life I had never fully understood. I didn’t know what my life in Korea had been like. I didn’t know why my sister and I were adopted. I didn’t know if my biological parents were still together or if I had more siblings. These questions started to matter in a way they never had before.
So I began searching.
I emailed every adoption agency I could find, both in the United States and in Korea. I reached out to anyone who might have access to records or even the smallest piece of information. Most agencies never replied. Some said they couldn’t help. Others said they had no files.
But I did not feel frustrated. I didn’t expect anything to happen. I had already prepared myself for the possibility that I might never get any answers at all.
Then, after about a year, everything changed.
Out of nowhere, I received an email from Eastern Social Welfare Society (ESWS) in Korea. They told me they had my biological mother in their system. Not a guess. Not a possibility. They had her name listed.
They asked if I wanted them to send the police to her home to see if she would be open to reunion.
I said yes.
The police went directly to my mother’s house.
They informed her about the search and explained why they were there.
The very next day, my mother and my aunt went to the ESWS agency together.
When ESWS told me this, it felt unreal.
After years of not knowing anything about my past, suddenly everything happened all at once.
My biological mother was alive.
She had been found.
And she wanted to see me.
That moment changed the direction of everything that came next.
Reuniting in America
Once ESWS confirmed that they had located my biological mother and that she wanted to reunite, the next step was figuring out how we would meet. At the time, my husband and I had just had a baby, and traveling to Korea with a newborn would have been extremely difficult. On top of that, it would have been very expensive for my entire family and my sister and her family to fly across the world.
So instead of all of us traveling to Korea, we decided the best option was to fly my biological mother and her husband to America. It was something we were grateful to be able to do, and it allowed the reunion to happen in a place where my family felt safe and settled.
Her neighbor happened to be an English teacher, which changed everything. With her neighbor’s help and translation apps, we were finally able to communicate directly without relying on the adoption agency. It gave us our first real sense of connection, even before meeting in person.
When my biological mother and her husband arrived in America, the emotions were overwhelming. We were complete strangers and family at the same time. There were a lot of tears, long pauses, and moments where none of us knew exactly what to say. The language barrier was real, but we communicated however we could. Sometimes through words. Sometimes through gestures. Sometimes through simple understanding.
My mother was embarrassed and anxious. She worried that I might hate her. She worried that I would blame her for everything that happened when I was a child. And for the first time, she shared how much pain she had carried. She told me that after losing us, she had tried to take her own life. The guilt and grief were overwhelming, and she believed she had failed us. She never thought she would have a chance to speak to us again.
Hearing that was heartbreaking, but it helped me understand her reality in a deeper way. She was not someone who walked away from her children without feeling anything. She had been living with a wound for decades. She showed incredible courage by choosing to reunite after all those years.
She had kept her past a secret her entire adult life. Even her current husband, the man she eventually married, never knew she had two daughters before meeting him. She had carried that secret alone because the pain was too heavy to speak about. Yet he treated her with kindness and understanding. Even after learning the truth, he stood right by her side.
The reunion was emotional, complicated, and full of moments we will never forget. It was the beginning of rebuilding something that had been broken for more than thirty years.
The DNA Test
Before my biological mother returned to Korea, my sister asked if we could take a DNA test together. It wasn’t unexpected. She had been carrying a painful question for years. A woman had told her, when she was already an adult, that we weren’t real sisters and that she was half Chinese. It happened only a few years before I started searching for our family, and it shook her. She wasn’t sure if she had been lied to, and she needed closure before she could move forward.
So the three of us, my mom, my sister, and I, took a DNA test before my mom left. We did it to settle the doubt that had been planted in her mind and to give her the answers she deserved.
After my mom returned to Korea, some time passed before the results came in. Then something unexpected happened.
My sister called me, crying so hard she could barely get the words out. When she finally managed to speak, she told me that the results showed that the three of us were truly blood related. Every bit of doubt that had followed her for years disappeared in that moment.
We were sisters by blood.
Not just by adoption.
Not just by being raised together.
We were truly connected.
Hearing that felt like another twist in a life that has been one big roller coaster. I never imagined any of this happening in my lifetime. To find my biological mother, to reunite with her, and then to learn that my sister and I were truly blood sisters felt like blessing after blessing.
But even with all those answers, there is still one part of my story that weighs on me. My biological father. I know what I know from my mom, but there is a part of me that wants to meet him and his family, even if the truth is complicated or painful.
There is another part of me that is afraid.
Afraid of what I might learn.
Afraid of reopening old wounds.
Afraid of finding something I am not ready for.
I bought a DNA kit three years ago. It has been sitting there ever since. I look at it sometimes and think about all the answers it could bring. But I also think about everything it could change.
One day I will be ready.
I just don’t know when.
Returning to Korea for the First Time
After reuniting with my biological mother in America, the next big step was traveling to Korea. For most of my life, Korea was a place I only knew through adoption papers, a few old photos, and bits of information from the agency. I had very few memories from early childhood. In reality, I had no real memories of my life there at all. So the idea of returning was overwhelming. It felt like traveling back to a place that belonged to me, yet was completely unknown.
Planning the trip felt surreal. It wasn’t a vacation or a simple visit. It was a journey back to the beginning of my story. My husband and I prepared everything, but as the date came closer, the weight of what this trip meant became heavier. I was going back to the country where I was born, where my life first started, and where everything changed for my family.
When we arrived in Korea, the experience was unlike anything I had ever felt. Everything around me was unfamiliar, yet it stirred something inside me. The language, the food, the city lights, the way people moved. I had grown up American, but somewhere deep inside, there was a quiet sense of connection. Like my body recognized something even if my mind didn’t.
Seeing my biological mother again in Korea was different from seeing her in America. This was her home. Her life. Her everyday world. Meeting her there made everything feel deeper. I could finally see the environment that shaped her. Her surroundings. The culture she lived in. The routines she followed. It helped me understand her in ways I couldn’t when she visited America.
She introduced me to relatives I had never met. People who knew about me only through her. There were a lot of emotions. Moments of confusion. Moments of comfort. A lot of tears. And times where I didn’t know how to react because everything felt new and familiar at the same time.
Being in Korea made my adoption feel real in a way it never had before. My biological family. My history. My roots. For the first time, I could physically stand in the place that shaped the beginning of my life.
Leaving Korea after that first trip was emotional. The experience gave me something I didn’t know I needed. A connection to a place that felt both foreign and unexpectedly familiar. A deeper understanding of the woman who brought me into this world. And a stronger understanding of myself.
That trip changed me. It brought answers, but it also brought new questions. It brought healing, but also reminded me how complicated identity can be. Korea became a part of me that I could finally feel, not just imagine.
And it was only the beginning of building a relationship with my biological family.
A Journey of Two Mothers
My trip to Korea was already emotional, but there was another purpose to this journey that made it even heavier. I had planned to spend one week in Korea with my biological family and then travel to Tokyo. I was bringing my Japanese mother’s ashes with me so I could release her in Japan. It was something I had carried in my heart for a long time, and I wanted to do it the right way.
But the trip did not go smoothly from the beginning.
On our way to Korea, during our connecting flight, our plane malfunctioned in Minnesota. Instead of continuing our journey, we ended up stuck there for a couple of days with no luggage. It was me, my husband, and our two younger girls. Then a huge snowstorm hit, making everything even more difficult. We were told our luggage would be forwarded to Korea, so we waited, hoping for the best.
When we finally arrived in Korea, we were exhausted but ready to focus on the important things. Except our luggage never showed up. No one knew where it was. No one had answers. And in that luggage were not just clothes or toiletries. My Japanese mother’s ashes were inside. The entire purpose of going to Japan depended on something that seemed to be lost.
But I refused to let it ruin our trip. We rented an Airbnb, and the owners were kind enough to wash the clothes we had been wearing. We had one outfit each for an entire week. It was inconvenient, sure, but I didn’t care. I was in Korea. I was with my biological family. The emotions were real, and the clothes didn’t matter.
What mattered was my mother’s ashes.
The week in Korea went by, and we still had not received our luggage. Then it was time to leave for Japan. I accepted that maybe the ashes were gone and tried to focus on the reason we were there. I wanted to release her somewhere meaningful, somewhere beautiful, somewhere connected to her roots.
Then something unexpected happened.
As we were heading to the airport to fly to Japan, our luggage finally arrived. Out of nowhere. After days of having no idea where it was. After worrying that the ashes might be lost forever. There it was, waiting for us. Another blessing. Another reminder that things have a way of working out even when it feels impossible.
In Tokyo, we went to the Rainbow Bridge near the Statue of Liberty replica. I held my Japanese mother’s ashes and released her there. The moment was peaceful. Emotional. Healing. I felt like I had done right by her.
Later, when I told my sister where I released our mother, she shared her own story. She and her son released their portion of our mom’s ashes in Mexico. And when they released her, they looked up and saw a rainbow. They had no idea where I had released mine. And I had no idea what they had seen until that moment.
Two different countries.
Two different releases.
Two rainbows.
When she told me that, I got chills. It felt like a sign. A connection. A moment where everything came together in a way none of us could have planned.
This chapter of my life was about both of my mothers.
The one who gave birth to me.
And the one who raised me.
It was emotional.
It was chaotic.
It was healing.
And it was full of moments that I will never forget.
Staying Connected From Far Away
After my trip to Korea, staying connected with my biological mother became part of my life, but not in a constant or daily way. We do not talk every day. Our communication is simple and occasional, and it happens through a Korean messaging app. We still rely on translation, and most of what we send each other are emojis. Hearts, smiley faces, little flowers. These small symbols say the things we often can’t put into words. Our conversations may not be long, but they still mean something.
Over time, she has shared pieces of her life when she felt ready. I learned that her husband became very sick and eventually had to get a lung transplant. After the surgery, he could not leave the house for about a year. It was a long, difficult recovery for them both. Even though her messages were short, I could sense the stress she was carrying.
She has also opened up about her past. She once owned a butcher shop in Seoul and lived in the apartment above it. She also ran a bed and breakfast on the beach at one point in her life. Later, she and her husband sold those places and moved to the countryside, where they bought a chicken and beer restaurant. It became their new life together.
I know they talked about selling the restaurant because of my stepfather’s health, but I never ask about it. I do not want them to think I am questioning their finances or judging their situation. Some topics feel too sensitive, and I want her to feel safe and comfortable when she messages me.
Even though we do not talk often, she still reaches out when she can. Sometimes she sends a heart. Sometimes a short greeting. Sometimes an emoji that simply means she is thinking of me. And I send the same back. It may look small from the outside, but for us, these small moments are enough to remind each other that we care.
Our relationship is quiet and gentle. It is built through screens, emojis, translation apps, and moments that show love without many words. Even though we are far apart, this is how we stay connected. It is the relationship we can manage right now, and it means more to me than I ever expected.
How My Children Reacted to Meeting My Biological Family
When my children finally met my biological family, it was a moment I never imagined would happen. They approached everything with the innocence and openness that children naturally have. They didn’t see the complicated history, the years of separation, or the emotional weight behind the reunion. They simply accepted the situation for what it was.
Traveling to Korea later gave them an even clearer view. They experienced the culture, the food, and the surroundings that were a part of my story long before they were born. They met relatives they never knew existed and took everything in with curiosity and ease.
One thing that became clear through all of this is how much our family has grown. Because of the reunion, we now have five generations connected in ways none of us ever expected. My children became part of something bigger than they ever knew, and my biological family gained a connection they never imagined they would live to see.
Watching that bridge form between generations reminded me that reunion shapes more than just the person searching. It creates new bonds, new stories, and new pieces of identity for the children who come after us.
Even with all of its complications, this part of the journey has been meaningful for all of us.
Today
Today my life looks completely different from the life I came from, and I am grateful for every part of it. I am married to my best friend. We got married in Hawaii on Magic Island on 12.12.12 at 12:12 pm. It was one of the happiest days of my life, and the numbers made it feel even more special, like it was meant to be.
Before we met, he already had two boys and I had one girl. They are adults now. After we got married, we added two girls to our family together. That brought all of us even closer, and our home has always been full of personality, noise, and love.
My husband and I actually met through his brother and my sister. Yes, they were once married. Which means my sister and I ended up having the same last name three different times in our lives. First our Korean last name. Then our adopted American last name. And then the last names from our marriages to the brothers. Not many people can say they have lived something like that.
My husband owns a construction company, and I own an ultrasound facility and spa for pregnant women. I built it with the idea of helping mothers feel supported and cared for. As you know, I recently started doing content creation, and I absolutely love it. It feels natural to me, and it has opened new doors and allowed me to express myself in ways I never expected. My oldest daughter runs my facility now while I focus mainly on content and being creative.
I am also a Glam-ma. My daughter made me one, and my oldest son has one on the way. Depending on when you read this, he may already be here.
I am very blessed with my in laws. They treat me like their own and have always made me feel welcomed and loved. That kind of acceptance means so much to me.
My husband is one of the biggest blessings in my life. He supports me, believes in me, and provides for our family with so much dedication. He has been steady and loving through every part of our journey together.
After everything I have lived through, all the ups and downs, all the pain and healing, I look at my life today and I know I am truly blessed.
A Message to Anyone Searching for Their Family
If you are someone who is searching for your biological family, wondering about your past, or carrying questions that have been inside you for years, I want you to know something. You are not alone. You are not wrong for wanting answers. And you are not selfish for wanting to understand where you come from.
Searching is not easy. It brings excitement and fear at the same time. You prepare yourself for everything and still nothing can fully prepare you for what you might find. You might learn things that bring healing. You might learn things that bring pain. You might face silence. You might face answers. And you might experience both.
What I learned is that searching is not about trying to replace anyone. It is not about choosing one family over another. It is about understanding your own story. It is about filling in pieces that have been missing for too long. It is about giving your heart a chance to breathe.
If you decide to search, go into it with an open mind. Be prepared for twists, surprises, and emotions you never expected. Some days will feel heavy. Some days will feel beautiful. And some moments will change you forever.
Do not rush yourself. Take breaks if needed. Give yourself time to process. You are allowed to feel everything. You are allowed to protect your heart. And you are allowed to celebrate your victories, no matter how small.
Not every story will look like mine. Some reunions happen quickly. Some take years. Some never happen. And each outcome is real. Each outcome is valid. Each outcome has its own form of strength.
What matters most is that you honor your truth. Your story is important. Your feelings are important. And your journey, no matter how it unfolds, is yours.
If you find your family, let the connection grow naturally. If the relationship is gentle, let it be gentle. If it is complicated, give it space. If it is emotional, allow yourself to feel it. There is no right or wrong way to reunite.
And if you do not find the answers you hoped for, that does not make your story any less meaningful. You are still whole. You are still worthy. And you still belong.
Your past does not define your entire life, but it is a part of who you are. And you deserve to understand it in whatever way feels right for you.
Wherever you are in your journey, I hope you find peace, strength, and the courage to follow your heart.
You Never Know What Anyone Has or Is Going Through
One thing my journey has taught me more than anything is that you truly never know what someone has lived through or what they are carrying inside. People walk around every day with smiles, routines, and responsibilities, but behind all of that is a story you may know nothing about.
My own life is proof of that.
Most people who meet me today see the woman I am now. A wife, a mother, a Glam-ma, a business owner, a creator, someone who is building a beautiful life. They see the blessings, the joy, the confidence, and the love that surrounds me. What they do not see unless I share it is the story behind all of that.
They do not see the poverty my family lived through in Korea.
They do not see the heartbreak my biological mother carried.
They do not see the adoption, the confusion, the loss, or the unanswered questions.
They do not see the challenges that shaped me.
They do not see the strength it took to search for the truth.
They do not see the courage it took to reunite.
They do not see the fear that still exists when it comes to the parts of my story that remain unfinished.
They do not see that I lost two people who truly cared for me.
And at the same time, I do not know the stories behind the people I meet either.
Everyone carries something.
Everyone has lived through moments that changed them.
Everyone has battles that are invisible from the outside.
This is why understanding and compassion matter so much.
A kind word.
A gentle response.
A moment of patience.
These small things can mean everything to someone whose heart feels heavy.
Life has taught me that assumptions are dangerous. You never know why someone reacts the way they do. You never know what kind of loss they have survived. You never know what kind of hurt they grew up with, or what kind of strength it took for them to keep going.
If you knew people’s stories, you might view them completely differently.
My own story has made me softer. It has made me slower to judge and quicker to understand. It has made me realize that people are much more than what they show on
the surface. And sometimes the strongest people are the ones who have survived the most.
So if there is one message I hope people take from my journey, it is this:
Be kind.
Be gentle.
Be patient.
You never know what anyone has faced, what they are facing now, or what they are trying their hardest to overcome. And sometimes, kindness becomes the moment that helps someone get through one more day.