When people ask about my past, I usually compress my entire time in South Korea into a single sentence and move on. I rarely reveal much about my personal life to anyone except my family, husband, and four or five close friends from college. That’s part of it, but it’s not the real reason I don’t revisit those memories from Korea.

Growing up in Korea was a struggle. I never truly fit in for a variety of reasons, but the main one was simply that I didn’t like the way things were. It never felt like a culture of craftsmanship, or philosophy, or even a society that valued less hierarchy. Everything always felt rushed, like living in a pressure cooker. Nothing seemed truly intentional or grounded in any unique philosophy. I always questioned that and tried to bend the rules or escape the framework that was designed to mold everyone into the same “output” especially at school. That brought friction, constant battles, and left me drained. I never really felt culturally Korean, either. It was like living in a Korean shell with a mix of other cultural personalities inside.

There were brief moments in college when things felt okay, but realistically, I couldn’t see myself staying there, especially now that I’m with my husband. That was the final break. When I left, I was angry. I haven’t been back since, and I’m no longer a citizen. Still, I can’t change the fact that I grew up there. No matter how misaligned I felt with the culture, or how critical I was of society, I was still shaped by it. Since moving away, I’ve kept my distance from Korea and even from Asian culture in general. But that doesn’t erase what’s inside. There’s this odd void… something I want to pretend doesn’t exist, but it’s always there, persistent and unfillable.

That’s why my trip to Japan hit so hard. It wasn’t just about reconnecting with the culture I’ve always loved and been inspired by. It was about facing, in the closest way possible, the culture and society I grew up in. Japan isn’t Korea, but it’s the nearest I’ll ever get. Roaming the streets there, that strange comfort started to fill the void. Not the same, but the closest. I’d avoided anything Asian for so long, but the floodgates opened and I let myself get close again. I probably won’t ever fully heal, or if I do, it’ll take a long time. But at least now I have something to move toward. Maybe that’s why I appreciate Japan so much, aside from all the inspiration and awakenings it’s always given me. Or maybe it’s the people, after all, who keep me from turning bitter. I thought that’s an avenue I should venture into.

… To be continued.

There isn’t a single explanation for what makes modern life feel soulless. But one thing I often notice is a chronic drought of inspiration. It’s hard to feel inspired in a world so full of division, hyper-efficiency, obsession with money, eroded community, and widening inequality. It becomes difficult to pause and reflect on the ideals that live within us. And when life is packed with noise and distraction, we lose the space to breathe, to talk, to simply be.

I was lucky to have a moment in college when everything felt like a question, and every question lit a spark. But after graduation, I had to come back down to build something “sustainable.” To find a job. To deliver value. Like everyone else, I ran that race. I made decent money. But something felt off. Was it the job? The system? The money? I’d always been drawn to technology for its power to connect people and turn creativity into something real. But somewhere along the way, the industry took a turn, and I found myself distanced from the very reasons I started.

My husband had his own questions about the race, too. More money, new jobs. It all felt like rearranging pieces within the same frame. I realized I didn’t need a new idea. I needed inspiration.

Originally, our Japan trip was just a family trip—the first one since I became an American citizen. Food, sightseeing, time together. But with that quiet realization in the background, I gave myself a subtle goal: to find a new source of inspiration. I had once dreamed of living in Japan during college, so I knew there was something there, waiting. It’s tempting to say things like “generational craftsmanship” or “Japanese hospitality” but those can become clichés. Even Japan isn't untouched by change. What matters isn’t just the tradition, but the spirit behind it.

So I arrived with no big plan. Just a commitment to stay open and observant. It’s easy to praise beauty and kindness in Japan as a tourist, but I came with eyes wide open. Cabbage shortages. Rice prices. Electricity so expensive that anime characters joke about using air conditioning. Outdated work cultures. Japan carries the same modern tensions just in its own way.

And yet, something began to stir.

It started as a flicker when I got off at Nippori Station after a 14-hour flight. Then came a tiny sushi place. Then another moment. And another. Each day brought a quiet sense of recognition.

It was the young entrepreneurs running the ryokan, the staff who took pride in their work (Takeda-kun!). The eccentric grandpa running a siphon coffee shop. The old house restored into a lunch spot. The humble breakfast places I loved. The Shinkansen cleaners. Each person brought something of themselves—a philosophy, a sincerity. The scale didn’t matter. Their intent did. At some point, I found myself wondering, how do these places even work economically? But that lens - money, productivity - missed the point. These weren’t just businesses. They were beliefs, painted in everyday life. And people noticed. Some supported it.

What were all those?

They are all part of the greater painting of life… of who you are. A belief in your own perspective.

Through the experiences and observations, I saw paths carved out to humbly echo a message into the world, and a quiet respect for sincerity and effort. And all of it led me to open myself up to the questions again:

What kind of person do I want to be?
Do I care about what ends up in the painting of my life?

…

Have I started forgetting who I once wanted to be?

Can I bring back the parts that have started fading?

Ideas can help you reach a goal, but inspiration is something else entirely. It’s not about answers; it’s about ideals that may never be fully reached, yet stay with you, quietly shaping who you are. That’s what I discovered: questions that aren’t meant to be answered, but lived with. They’ll stay with me, guiding the steps ahead. And the painting of who I am may never be a perfect piece, but it will always be a place I return to; for direction, for remembrance, for inspiration.

Because inspiration comes from within. And from those who bring color to your world: your partner, your family, your friends, and the society you're a part of. These are the sparks that connect us, that help us live not just productively, but meaningfully.

It may be human nature to complain, to feel trapped within the constructs of modern life. But believing that something beautiful persists, even in an ephemeral world, is what lights the way. That’s what I’ll carry forward.

On our last full day in Kyoto, I had the whole day to myself. I wanted to go to Ohara, the town on the west side of Mt. Hiei, and had no other specific plans. Ever since arriving in Kyoto, I had caught glimpses here and there of real life and real people, but I still felt I hadn't had enough time to fully take it in. Ten days didn’t feel like much when you’re trying to understand and see Japan more deeply as you travel. I almost thought I wouldn't get a chance to go to Mt. Hiei or Ohara, but on that last morning, we decided to spend the day individually, and I chose to head there.

Ohara is at the last stop of Bus 17, tucked deep into the Mt. Hiei area. Some tourists go there for temples, along with the nearby town of Yase a few stops before, but overall it’s a quieter place. Since I didn’t rent a car, Ohara was the furthest I could go using public transportation. This region is known as a place where Japanese Buddhism found its meaning, or at least something close to that.

The bus ride was filled with locals, from elderly people to a young schoolgirl, and I found myself quietly taking in the peaceful old streets we passed through. Even now, I can't quite explain it, but it felt like I had come home—like I arrived at something I had been missing deep inside. After that sentimental ride, I got off. There was barely anything around but a small bus terminal, a narrow road, and just a few people. I slowly followed the path that led me along a stream and through trees toward two temples.

The first temple had a big open room overlooking a garden. I sat there with a bowl of matcha for—I don’t even know how long. I paused all the thoughts about life and reality and just received what was in front of me, fully and as it was. Then I walked to the next temple, where I was greeted by a large hall and a forest garden behind it. The quietly powerful presence of the Buddha statues blended with the greenery in a way that felt completely whole. I couldn’t think, I could only feel.

Some time later, I made my way back and stepped into a little soba shop. With a heartwarming bowl of soba noodles, I boarded the bus again. It must’ve been the same route, but this time I noticed the view on the right—Mt. Hiei in full sight.

It took a month from that day for me to begin discovering what it truly meant—after days and weeks of remembering that afternoon. (My original memo says, “Even now, it’s hard to put into words what that afternoon really was.”) It wasn’t just the mountain or the garden. It was a bus ride to a place where the clouds stepped aside to show me what I had been missing, and maybe what I had been searching for all along.

I had been a very goal-driven person for as long as I could remember. It often starts with a goal, but in the process of chasing it, the parts of you that made you who you are begin to fade.

“Who are you?”

Tasks, goals, achievements, and desire start to replace the way you define yourself. You either adapt to, accept, or fight against modern society, and end up reaching a point where you no longer recognize the purest version of yourself. What I had been missing wasn’t a sense of direction—it was the question itself: “who am I?”. What I had been looking for wasn’t an answer, but a version of myself that reflects all the ups and downs, shaped by the journey I had taken.

And then, it’s all up to how you take it. Everyone’s visit to this area would be different. Was it the temples, the little roads, the trees? It was the bus ride. It is the state of mind I was in that allowed me to see it.

While spending few more days in Tokyo, I had a few different experiences that somehow shared something in it. This is a compilation of those experiences and observations.

Stations

The subway car door opened at one station on our way to Shibuya. In those few seconds, I saw outside and there was a bush of green leaves flowing along with the breeze as the melody played for the impending departure. I snapped a photo, knowing somehow this scene would be one of my favorites.

The worn-out pillars and the soulless sound of urban life… but the lively green leaves dancing with the fresh breeze as if certain simple things always persist around. This is how I started feeling about the life and society here and now that feeling lives in this photo. And that moment would never be replicated.

Another breakfast place

On the last day in Nippori, I went to a different breakfast place before heading down to Kyoto. Lots of Japanese restaurants showcase their ingredient sourcing, but "Hagiso" did more. They prepared a folded paper that not only listed the ingredients and their origins but told a little story about each dish on the plate. The degree of sincere intention and effort was once again inspiring to me and I told them I loved the philosophy so much. They were surprised and also genuinely happy to hear that.

I brought this piece all the way back home and it’s now on my desk.

Shinkansen cleaners

Me and my parents were now headed to Kyoto and waiting for our Shinkansen train. (Ah, I miss you, Nozomi N700)

The train arrived, then they spent some time cleaning the cars. I could see the cleaners and they were thoroughly cleaning everywhere without throwing trash bags around or making any noise - all in uniform and gloves. As they were finishing up and leaving the train cars, they were smiling at and laughing with each other. I’m well aware of the brutal work culture in Japan as well as the pay scale. Even without touching on that subject, cleaners/janitors are generally paid less despite the importance of their labor. But what struck me was the way they treated their work. I had respect for them as I was watching them and it made me realize: respect and pride don’t just happen magically.

They’re built, quietly and sincerely, and found within yourself.

…

Waverly Street is a space and collective where I ponder the socioeconomic dynamics of modern society through the lens of multicultural contexts and philosophy. This is where I’ll publish the “letters.”

It begins with the experiences I’ve had. Growing up with multiple cultural influences and ideas, and carving out a unique path in life, I found myself surrounded by a unique mix of perspectives on people, society, nationality, culture, and life itself. It’s something nearly impossible to fully describe — but it brought me many questions about how our society is constructed, and about the intricate layers between those constructs and the different cultures woven under the greater umbrella of life.

In a world where cultures and societies constantly come together and drift apart, I saw even more reason to keep pondering and exploring. I wanted to discover the hidden avenues and quiet pockets of life within different cultures, and to find the intersections and dynamics that shape the society we all live in and share. This is the place, the space, the street where I share that journey and collection of work with a broader community. Hence the name: Waverly Street.

~

The first piece is in progress. We often describe groups of people with labels like “working class” or “upper middle class.” But do these terms create arbitrary boundaries that shape how we perceive jobs, lives, and value? Do they influence how we respect, appreciate, or feel proud of aspects of our own lives? I explore this question through a series of observations and by challenging my own perceptions.