Since I started blogging, one major change in me is that I’ve learned to call out rudeness directly.
In the past, this was extremely difficult. I wanted to be kind, graceful, and polite. I believed that was a true virtue — that such people held communities together and made society more beautiful. Even now, despite my wounds, I know I am surrounded by many good people. But because of the few rude ones, I had to learn how to defend myself.

These people deliberately cross boundaries first and never offer a sincere apology. I used to remain silent and not defend myself. But after I began blogging, everything changed. Now, I document things. It has become my most effective defense. Writing and recording have real power.

Life brings unbelievable situations at times, ones you can’t even talk about publicly. I’ve faced such moments before. When I worked at a hospital, someone intentionally tried to harm my reputation. But I documented everything — every detail — and sent that written record to my supervisor. The supervisor apologized to me sincerely and helped transfer me to a better department, one I had wanted to join. Had I not documented the situation, I would have been forced to leave in disgrace, exactly as they intended.

Throughout life, we meet many good people. But we also encounter exhausting ones — those filled with insecurity and resentment. Their world feels like a battlefield where every day someone must win and someone must lose. To win, they’ll use any means necessary. They constantly compare, belittle, and manipulate, even when you’re simply standing next to them.

When I was younger, I couldn’t recognize such people — nor did I think I needed to. But as time passed, I realized that each day of my life is precious. I no longer want to waste energy on people who create chaos. I refuse to play a supporting role in someone else’s toxic drama.

Once, at a Korean church, I even encountered a cult. They were friendly and charming at first, offering help and building trust. But once they believed they had gained emotional control, their masks slowly came off. They exploited others’ genuine faith and kindness for their own gain. And sadly, there were “flying monkeys” — followers who aided their manipulation, unaware of the harm they caused.

To escape, I eventually left that church entirely — and I remain deeply grateful for that decision. Those who stayed behind cared more about the institution’s image than the truth. They wanted to cover everything up, as I’ve often seen happen in life. I didn’t want my children growing up in that environment.
Once you step away, you see clearly how small and hollow such groups really are — how trapped they are in their own endless dramas, hurting others and pushing them away from faith. That’s why I believe at least one person must speak up. And then, document it.

I am an artist. I want to see only beautiful things, to paint only what is good. I don’t want to live fighting or defending myself. I love peace. But what is true peace? Perhaps my weakness lies in always noticing the fragile things that power destroys. I don’t claim to always be right. But I do believe that writing things down — recording them truthfully — matters.

Only God can perfectly judge right and wrong; humans cannot. Yet we can at least choose not to cross boundaries, not to harm others, and not to bully the weak.
That is why blogging and writing every day have become sacred acts for me.
Ever since I received my first little writing notebook from my sister as a child, I have never stopped writing. Some of those writings may have disappeared, but I know that words hold power. Those who understand this truth will never be defeated by the age of artificial intelligence. They will keep writing, no matter what others think.
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Because writing is breath. Writing is life. Writing is everything that remains alive.

People who try too hard to be kind often end up becoming invisible, quietly protecting everyone else’s comfort.
They give too much, read every mood too deeply, and worry about problems that haven’t even happened yet.
“Thank you” and “I’m sorry” stay on their lips, as if politeness alone could keep the world safe.
When someone is rude, they can’t respond right away—because their first thought is, What if I hurt their feelings?
When something goes wrong, they immediately think, Maybe it’s my fault.
Even in public settings, they hesitate to ask for what they need, afraid of being a burden.
And it’s exactly these gentle, thoughtful people that narcissists can sense from afar.
To them, kindness isn’t beauty—it’s opportunity.
They feed on guilt and empathy, quietly consuming those who hesitate to defend themselves.
But once you recognize the pattern, give it a name, and start documenting it, you are no longer the meal.
You become the observer, the writer—the one who sees clearly and cannot be erased.

I will never stop writing.

If I had understood earlier what I know now, I might have stood more confidently in front of people who said or did unreasonable things. The world mistakes silence for agreement. That is why absurd situations keep happening.

I still remember an incident years ago, when a woman from church invited me to her house. At first, it seemed like a warm gesture. She made delicious pork chops, and I was thankful. But before I even finished eating, she said,
“If you listen to me, your life in church will be easier. I can make people stay close to you—or turn them away. If you obey, things will go well for you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t believe my ears. Did she really think of herself as Jesus?
So I calmly replied,
“I’m old enough to have my own identity and beliefs. Why should I follow you? Are you expecting something more than the pork chop you just served?”

To this day, I am proud of that response. Because when we question arrogance—without anger or fear—it loses the power to wound us. Ironically, that same woman later revealed serious personal problems of her own. She couldn’t face herself, yet imagined she held authority over others.

When faced with rude or unreasonable behavior, it’s important to respond—not emotionally, but clearly. That’s how we keep such moments from turning into lasting pain.

Two years ago, I experienced another painful moment—when a child and her parent spoke rudely to my own child. I remember crying then. Perhaps I still hoped for empathy from them. Their behavior was so irrational that I felt dizzy. That mother once told me that the path of an artist wasn’t worth pursuing. At the time, I thought I had misheard her. But it was, in fact, a deeply disrespectful comment—one that denied another person’s life and calling.
If a conversation begins without respect, there is no reason to continue it.
That was my mistake then. And every mistake carries its price.
When a relationship is not meant to continue, it is better to end it early and protect your energy.
Yet through it all, I kept writing.
Without writing, I might not have known whether to continue or to let go.
Writing helped me see my emotions clearly—what I felt, what I believed, and what I learned. Some writings became moments of reflection; others became promises to myself.
Someday, when I read these words again, I will once more believe in the power of writing.
Writing turns confusion into clarity, pain into understanding, and memory into meaning.
That is why I will never stop.

Last night, I suddenly felt unwell and had to rush to the emergency room. For the past week, my condition had been noticeably poor. I kept pushing myself until I barely managed to teach my class at SchoolNova. Thankfully, the bright faces of my students gave me strength when I needed it most.

After returning home, I taught another private lesson. Teaching my students gives me a strong sense of responsibility, and I didn’t want to cancel. But right after finishing the lesson, I suddenly felt severe pain in my lower abdomen. Something was clearly wrong. I quickly went to a nearby urgent care clinic. There, a nurse practitioner examined me and said I needed to go to the emergency room immediately. She explained that a CT scan was necessary to find the cause.
I was sent to the nearest hospital ER. Unlike emergency rooms in Korea, it looked more like a small school divided into many sections—almost like a shared office space filled with tiny rooms. In one of those rooms, I lay down and waited for tests. I knew from experience that once you enter the ER, you can’t leave until all results are confirmed to be normal.

Lying there, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I’d soon return to my normal, lively routines—or whether I’d have to spend more time in hospitals. Yet as I waited, I began to feel strangely calm. It was as if my busy life had been forced to pause, finally giving me permission to rest. Memories of everything that had exhausted me recently started to come back.
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Looking at the painting hanging on the hospital wall, I found myself thinking about what art means in a place where life and death so closely coexist. I once worked in a hospital back in Korea, so the environment wasn’t unfamiliar to me. My nurse, assigned to me since I was not a critical patient, seemed calm and kind despite her tired eyes. The medical staff looked exhausted, but they treated everyone with warmth and care.

As I lay on the hospital bed, countless thoughts passed through my mind. I thought about my beginning in America — how I wanted to get along with other immigrants who, like me, were far from home and lonely. I remembered moments when I was hurt, the exhaustion of daily life, and the constant tension that had quietly worn down both my body and my spirit. Yet when I thought about how, in the midst of all that, I still managed to paint and exhibit my work, I realized once again that this, too, has been a great blessing in my life.

I asked myself why I had tried so hard to do everything perfectly. I recalled how deeply I had been wounded by people who took advantage of kindness — those who seemed determined to exploit gentle, well-meaning souls. Why did they do that? I only wanted to share warmth and connection. After such encounters, I often felt it would be impossible to meet good people again. But perhaps that hopelessness is exactly what such people want us to feel. So instead, I choose to rise again — from betrayal, from disappointment — and to keep meeting kind, genuine people.

Through these ups and downs, I’ve come to see that my family, my dear friends, and my art are precious gifts. Painting is not just my passion; it is my calling. I promised myself to let go of all the painful memories and move forward. Thankfully, the test results showed that it was only an inflammation. I was prescribed antibiotics and was able to leave the hospital after four hours.

Now, I want to live with more ease — to breathe, to laugh, and to truly enjoy each day. This morning, I received a message from my watercolor group saying that the pendants we had been painting together were finally finished. Every Christmas season, our group holds a two-month exhibition, and I must soon prepare my own work for it. One of the pieces I’ll contribute is a hand-painted pendant in watercolor. These moments — painting together, laughing together, creating something beautiful — feel so precious and full of gratitude.

Writing every day is not an easy task. There are times when I don’t have the time to write, and times when I simply don’t have the energy. Sometimes I even feel a deep sense of emptiness, so strong that I don’t want to write anymore — a kind of burnout. Many people give up their blogs during the first six months, when there’s little to no reaction from readers. Even after that, keeping it up consistently for more than three years is rare.

A blog is not a fancy marketplace. If you want fast results or a quick path to success, then Instagram, Shorts, YouTube, or podcasts might be better options. If you are naturally charismatic and can attract an audience after just a few appearances, those platforms can be great. There are many paths in this world. But work that depends on popularity and speed comes with tremendous pressure, stress, and risk. That’s why so many people rush in and then drop out before even reaching the halfway point. Why does this happen? It’s a matter of perseverance.

Whatever you do, what truly matters is to keep doing it — no matter what anyone says. Yet that’s easier said than done. So I decided to find joy in the process itself, and I still do. I probably always will. Over time, I stopped caring about AdSense income, compliments, or external recognition. I know I’ll keep writing and painting even without them. That’s something I understand deeply about myself.

When I first opened my blog, I wanted to achieve something with it. I envied the success stories of “power bloggers” and wanted to become one myself. But the truth is, I created my blog to have a living business card — a place to showcase my work and achievements in real time. Facebook and Instagram didn’t feel like mine; they were more like shared offices. The blog, however, was entirely my own space — a place where everything I did could accumulate in one spot. It gave me a sense of stability, of something alive — like the koi fish I often paint.
When my AdSense account was finally approved, I was thrilled. Seeing ads appear next to my writing and checking the dashboard felt exciting — almost like watching the stock market. Writing suddenly had a new kind of momentum. But blogging, I realized, is a fierce battle with oneself. I had to build my own engine, attach it to my body, and keep running. When it broke, I had to repair it myself. People asked why I bothered, why I chose such a difficult path. Sometimes I asked myself the same question.

I looked at people who don’t have blogs — those who don’t struggle with daily routines or constant deadlines. While I sit at my desk late at night or early in the morning fighting to write, they might be relaxing with a cup of coffee. I used to envy that kind of peace. I wondered, Why am I doing this to myself? But then I would remember all the things my blog has given me.
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It truly has become my living portfolio. Through it, I’ve found opportunities and confidence. I blended my identity through blogging, earned good grades in graduate school, and connected with people all over the world. I learned to deal with online scammers, manage and refine my content, improve my writing, and even publish children’s books. The blog helped me organize my thoughts and express them clearly. Most of all, I no longer need to beg for visibility or promotion on other platforms — I know that when I post something here, the world can see it.
That knowledge makes me stronger. This sense of connection to the world — perhaps that’s why I started graduate school and opened my blog in the first place. Over time, it became a channel through which I could share every struggle, joy, pain, and passion I’ve experienced as both a person and an artist. And that channel has helped others, too. When I receive a message or comment from someone saying my writing inspired or comforted them, I feel genuinely happy.
I, too, have often been guided by the words of other bloggers during difficult times. The world works in cycles like that. And so, my blog has become my life — my breath. I write every day as naturally as I breathe, and when I hit “publish,” I feel a deep sense of joy.

Today, I hung the artwork “Our Treehouse”, the first project from the Moms’ Playground Book Club, for our November exhibition at the Emma Clark Library. The new curator, Ms. Rebecca, kindly guided me through the installation process to make sure everything went smoothly. “You’ve done this before, right?” she asked with a warm smile.

Indeed, this is my third display at the Emma Clark Library. The first time, I exhibited my paintings soon after moving to Stony Brook, as a way to introduce my work to the local community. At that time, the library didn’t yet have a café or the stylish spaces it has now. I hung my paintings among the bookshelves, which felt humble but meaningful—I’ve always loved libraries, so it was a wonderful experience.

Later, my son and his friend also had the chance to exhibit their work in the Teens Display Corner. I’ve always felt that people who frequent libraries are thoughtful, imaginative, and value education—so it brings me great joy to share my art with such an audience.
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My second exhibition at the library was to introduce the illustrations from my first independently published book on Amazon, Hello, My Robin.

I received a good response from the curator for this first exhibition.

And the second project, Our Tree House, was finally unveiled to the world. The curator showed me a poster she had created. It was placed at the entrance to the café.

I placed the book—already published on Amazon—at the center of the display. My hope is that anyone visiting the library, perhaps stopping by the café for a cup of coffee, might pause for a moment to open the book, turn its pages, and compare the printed illustrations with the original paintings on the wall.

There is something deeply satisfying about seeing a story travel from a sketchbook to a finished book, and finally to a public space where people can experience it freely. I imagine a quiet afternoon scene: someone sipping coffee, glancing up at the artwork, then leaning closer to read a few lines from the book. Maybe they notice a subtle difference in color between print and paint—the texture of watercolor that can’t quite be replicated in ink—or maybe they simply feel the warmth of a handmade story.
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That kind of small, intimate encounter is what I dream of. I want viewers to feel that art and storytelling are not distant or exclusive things, but part of everyday life—something you can discover between shelves of books, over coffee, or in a moment of quiet curiosity. To me, that is the real beauty of exhibiting at a library like Emma Clark: it allows art to breathe in the same space where ideas, imagination, and community naturally meet.

The moment I finish hanging all the paintings and step back to take a photograph is, for me, the happiest moment of all. After weeks or even months of planning, sketching, and painting, seeing everything finally come together on the wall feels like watching my thoughts and emotions take on a visible, breathing form. The paintings seem to speak to one another softly, as if they have finally found their place.

Each time I hang an exhibition, I remember the journey behind every piece—the excitement of the first sketch, the quiet patience of waiting for watercolor to dry, the trembling satisfaction of the final brushstroke. All those moments, filled with care and uncertainty, now live together in one shared space of light and silence.
When I pick up my camera and begin to photograph, I’m not just documenting the artwork—I’m capturing a part of my own life. The way the light falls, the texture of the wall, the air of the room, even the feeling of that particular day—they all become part of the image. In those photos, my paintings seem to whisper, “You did well.”
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An exhibition, to me, is more than just showing art. It’s a way of offering the story of my effort and devotion to the world. And when I finally press the shutter for the last photo, I feel a deep sense of peace. The paintings are no longer just mine—they now belong to everyone who will stand before them. That’s why, at the end of every setup, I quietly say to myself, “It’s okay now. Go and meet the world.”

Before the paintings are hung, the space feels like a barren desert; afterward, it’s as if flowers have bloomed there. Art brings life where there was emptiness. Every painting carries energy—something invisible yet undeniably present. And to me, the role of art is precisely this: to make the invisible visible. I believe deeply in the power of art.

There are times when life feels unbearably hard. A few years ago, and even more recently, I experienced betrayal from people I trusted. I also faced the pain of my mother’s illness and the quiet weight that came with it. No matter how kindly or sincerely I approached some people, there were those who only sought to use that kindness for their own gain. And when conflict arose, instead of trying to understand, some reacted with fear or cruelty, as if being exposed for who they truly were.

Living with warmth and gentleness in such a world often feels like an impossible task. I sometimes ask myself, Will I become like them?—someone who measures everything with a mental calculator, who judges, competes, and steps on others just to move ahead? But deep down, I know I cannot. No matter how wounded I become, that’s not who I am.
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Art has always taken the wounded child within me by the hand and led her to a safe place. It heals me in ways that words cannot. And through that healing, it fills me again with warmth, urging me to paint once more. The paintings born from that process—those painted after the storms—carry a different kind of light. They are not just images, but traces of survival, hope, and quiet strength.

Halloween in the United States is one of the most anticipated holidays for children. Every year on October 31, kids dress up in creative costumes—ghosts, superheroes, witches, animals—and go from house to house shouting, “Trick or treat!” In return, they receive candies from neighbors who decorate their homes with pumpkins, cobwebs, and spooky lights.

This year, Halloween arrived with a chill. The wind was fierce, and fallen leaves swirled in the air like little tornadoes. Halloween costumes are usually quite thin, so the children shivered as they braved the cold, walking door to door for candy. Yet seeing their bright smiles, I realized that harsh weather doesn’t matter at all when you’re young and full of excitement.

Many families take Halloween decorating very seriously. In our neighborhood, three neighbors go all out every year, turning their houses into a kind of local attraction. Kids from other blocks even come to our area for trick-or-treating because of them. The street becomes lively and full of laughter.

As an artist, you might expect me to create something elaborate, but ironically, I kept my decorations simple—a few mini pumpkins, some chrysanthemums, and an acrylic pumpkin I painted myself. In truth, houses with modest decorations are often skipped by children, and some people even turn off their lights to avoid visitors. But strangely, kids still come to my door.

I hand them chocolates and say, “Happy Halloween!” Each child’s personality shows in how they take the candy. Some politely take one piece and say, “Thank you! Happy Halloween!” Others grab a handful and sometimes drop them while running away. One child even said “Nihao” to me as he scooped up his candy. That’s fine—it’s just a child, after all. I’ve experienced far worse things in life, and moments like this don’t bother me anymore. Still, I can’t help but notice the difference that home education makes.

One boy loudly said, “Oh, I hate this one! I don’t like this chocolate!”—without realizing I could understand him perfectly well. Encounters like that can be disheartening, but then another child with clear, kind eyes comes along, saying “Thank you” with genuine warmth, and suddenly the world feels bright again. 

As I grow older, I begin to understand why grandmothers hand out the best chocolates with such joy. They are sharing light. Perhaps next year, I’ll raise the quality of my candy too. This year, inflation made even Halloween more expensive—I spent nearly $150 on chocolates that used to cost about $50. Still, seeing how many families put effort and heart into preparing for this day makes me feel grateful.
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When I look at houses beautifully decorated like works of art, I can’t help but smile. Halloween, in its colorful chaos, reveals something truly warm about community—the joy of giving, sharing, and lighting up the night together.