July 21, 2025

My first dream was to be a writer.

I spent my childhood scribbling words on notebooks and drawing imaginary characters. I was more interested in creating stories than talking, studying, and other forms of living. People often forgot about me. At home, my nickname became “ghost” because I would silently work on my makeshift fiction in the midst of family chatter. At school, I also happily disappeared into my own world, daydreaming stories instead of focusing on lunchroom conversations. My grades weren't the best, and I was probably one of the least popular kids in school. But I didn’t care. I had worlds of my own.

That dream lasted until I was ten. That was when it was decided for me to leave my hometown of Seoul, Korea. I was to fly across the Pacific Ocean and move to a small town in Washington state. The United States of America. What a name. My parents told me that I had to move there for a “better life”. To fulfill their American dreams, the struggle of my immigration began. That’s when I had to wake up from my own dream.

When I arrived in the States, I felt like my childhood was robbed. I was so focused on fitting in and decoding this alien language called “English”, I had no energy for much else. It was not an easy time. As the only foreigner in my class, I was no longer the happy ghost who blended into the background; I was a sad and conspicuous outcast. Worse, I wrote less and less. Words in English didn’t flow the same way it had in Korean. Naturally, my Korean began to fade as my chances to practice it diminished. Alas, my main joy in life–writing stories–slowly slipped out of reach.

For the next decade of my life, I struggled with all subjects that involved writing. I still remember the F I got in my middle school U.S. History course. On top of the paper was a scary red scrawl: “See me after class”. (That note is forever burned into my brain.) I acquired just enough English to get by in my humanities classes and turned to art, math, and science–anything that didn’t require me to write. And for another ten years after that, I lived my life as an artist, musician, and programmer. I shied away from words.

Now, as I near thirty, I finally feel somewhat comfortable writing in English–almost as comfortable as I was in Korean when I was ten. Even though I have holes in my vocabulary and often feel stumped when faced with English idioms that I had missed the chance to learn as a kid, I can definitely get by. My sentences may lack sophistication, but they still manage to make sense (most of the time). And I think this deserves celebration, as it was not easy to catch up and be able to write in a new language.

Still, I can’t help but ask myself “What if”s. What if I didn’t leave Korea? What if I stayed, and I became a writer? What if I was able to gracefully swim in the ocean of my native words, translating the richest stories from my mind to pages? What if I was able to touch many souls through words? Of course, the questions are followed by a series of doubts. It’s too late to start writing now. I’m already too old. I missed my chance. Most times, faced with such doubts, I am left discouraged. I resort to putting hope in reincarnation. Well, maybe next life.

But other times, I find myself on the side of strength and clarity. An illumination hits my mind like warm sunlight, and it becomes clear that those doubts in my head are lies. Yes, at such moments I can see that I was missing the point of writing. Writing is not about mastery and impressing others with masterful techniques. It’s about being honest–even if it means I reveal my rough edges and awkward grammar. Of course, I wish to write with elegance, but that is secondary to being able to closely listen to my thoughts and give them appropriate colors and shapes. The process itself is playful, like building little houses with sand. And as long as I have something worth sharing, and I’m having fun, who cares if I write in broken English that feels messy from time to time?

It took me twenty years to come to this point, to step past the embarrassment and get writing. So get ready, it’s time to dream again…