2026: Returning Home After Goodbye

2026: Returning Home After Goodbye

The year 2026 has begun.
It is the first year I greet after completing my mother’s funeral, after returning to New York from Korea, after closing a chapter that defined much of my emotional life.
Life continues for those who remain.
That is one of the quiet truths of loss: the world does not pause, even when something fundamental has ended.
Somewhere, I believe my mother continues to exist—in a place beyond geography, beyond illness, beyond explanation. In my heart, she feels less like someone who has vanished and more like someone who has gone on a long journey. She is no longer present in the way she once was, but she has not disappeared. She remains, gently, at a distance.
Her final appearance was peaceful. That image has become a source of comfort for me. For a long time, my days were filled with worry—about her illness, her recovery, the uncertainty of outcomes. From far away, I lived in constant tension, watching helplessly as time passed. And then, suddenly, that long period of anxious waiting came to an end. The fear dissolved, not because everything was resolved, but because there was nothing left to anticipate.
From where I lived, the only tangible role I could play was sending hospital bills and covering necessary expenses. It may seem small, but even that felt meaningful. I am grateful that I was able to carry that responsibility. In moments of helplessness, even limited acts of care can anchor us, giving form to love when presence is impossible.
As I returned to New York, a thought stayed with me: the lives of those who leave their homelands and make homes elsewhere. Immigrants, expatriates, wanderers—people who build lives far from where they were born. I realized that many of us live similar emotional lives, even if our stories differ.
When the people who gave birth to us and raised us leave this world, the place we once called “home” changes irrevocably. It becomes no longer a destination, but a memory. A place filled with echoes rather than futures. What was once home becomes a landscape of recollection.
And so, quietly, something shifts.
My home is here now.
Here—where my family lives, where my work continues, where my dreams take shape, where my paintings are created. Home is no longer tied to origin, but to presence. Not to the past, but to the life that continues.
For now, I will rest.
I will allow myself a season of stillness. I will think about my next body of work, return to my responsibilities, and immerse myself again in the rhythms of daily life. Grief does not require constant attention; sometimes it asks only for honesty and space.
For some, 2026 will be a year overflowing with hope—new plans, bold challenges, ambitious beginnings. For others, like me, it will be a year of quiet recovery, of gathering oneself after loss. Neither path is more meaningful than the other.
Whatever shape this year takes, I hope that 2026 moves forward like a running horse—strong, determined, and unafraid of distance. A year that does not stop at sorrow, does not surrender to despair, but continues onward, standing up again even after falling.
May this year carry us forward.
Not untouched, but resilient.