Currently listening to: The Way I Am (dirty version) – Eminem
‘Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn’t, then why would I say I am?
In the paper, the news every day I am
Radio won’t even play my jam
‘Cause I am, whatever you say I am
If I wasn’t, then why would I say I am?
In the paper, the news every day I am
I don’t know, it’s just the way I am
This song used to be my anthem—angry, raw, unfiltered. It mirrored exactly how I felt. I’d sit at the piano, fingers tracing the melody, letting the frustration pour out through the keys while the song played in the background.
Losing my grandparents shattered something in me. They were my anchors, my safe place. Every summer, we’d spend months in the motherland, wrapped in the warmth of their home. They spoiled my brother and I to the point where we contemplated on staying in Korea with them instead of returning to the U.S.
I was my grandmother’s little shadow, trailing her every move. She taught me how to cook even though they had a housekeeper and a butler, slipped money into my hands when no one was looking, and refined me with lessons on etiquette.
Behind closed doors, she’d whisper the latest neighborhood gossip, filling me in on all the scandalous details. She told me to stand tall, to be proud of my height, but all I wanted was to shrink, to fold into myself like a curled-up shrimp. My posture? A disaster, as you can see.
My grandfather was a striking man—tall, distinguished, effortlessly charming. Life had dealt him both love and loss. His first wife passed away at a young age, and not long after, he found companionship again with my grandmother. They too had an arranged marriage like my parents.
He loved to reminisce, filling my ears with stories from his past, each one told with a knowing smile. His land was like a small kingdom, he had animals of all kinds. Every time I visited, I got to claim them as my own, if only for a little while. He had a vineyard, multiple properties, and a life that, to me, seemed leisurely. I never saw him laboring or stressed—his days revolved around collecting rent and enjoying the fruits of his inheritance. He was a nepo baby, coasting through life on generational wealth.
The day my uncle told me we were heading to the mountains to pay our respects to the grandparents, I resisted. I didn’t want to go. I was still angry that they passed away. I didn’t prepare. I threw on a plain white tank top, loose drawstring pants, and slip-ons, tying my hair up in an ugly bun with no care for how I looked. My family was disgusted with my appearance. And then—he took this picture. I was annoyed because I was trying to have a moment. I looked bloated AF and felt like shit. But that was on me, I did it to myself. My only saving grace was that I wasn’t ugly crying.
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