As I move through life, I occasionally encounter people who speak in strangely distorted ways. In that sense, I feel grateful for tools like ChatGPT—even when people criticize them for making writing sound similar or patterned. Without such mirrors, many would never realize how unclear or twisted their own words can be.

Because of this awareness, I tend to be extremely careful with my words. Sometimes too careful. I pause, think, hesitate—and often miss my chance to speak. Yet I am at peace with that. Even when we choose our words thoughtfully, misunderstandings and sarcasm are sometimes inevitable. That, I’ve learned, is simply beyond our control.

This is why writing can be such a gift. If communication fails even through writing, then perhaps it was never meant to work. At that point, letting go brings an unexpected peace. There is no need to wrestle in the mud with those who thrive on distortion. It is far wiser to step out of the swamp and stand on clean, solid ground. From a distance, the chaos becomes unmistakably clear.

Creating art requires an immense amount of energy. Perhaps because of that, I have learned to conserve mine. I avoid unnecessary conflict and emotional drama. I protect time in which I can simply be myself. Quiet, peaceful moments have become precious to me.

Ironically, even as I choose stillness, I hear about the endless dramas others create. I am no longer a supporting character—nor even an audience member. I simply hear that these things happened. With age comes a certain gift: the ability to recognize drama-makers quickly. That discernment is one of the few true benefits of growing older. It also comes from genuinely loving art and the future. I no longer wish to consume my life on needless turmoil.

Looking back, there were moments of deep injustice and heartbreak. Yet all of them now belong to the past, and for that, I am grateful. If I have paper in front of me, if I can draw and write, that is enough. That alone is reason for gratitude.

When I think about why I once stood inside so much drama, I feel only regret and quiet embarrassment. If someone constantly insults you, spreads rumors, or tries to provoke you, it is okay to imagine yourself as a gray stone—still, silent, unmoved. Responding only feeds the fire. Your energy is precious, and that is exactly what such people seek.

Whether your response is positive or negative does not matter. Any reaction becomes material for a new story they will rewrite to suit themselves. The outcome is always the same: you are cast in an unfavorable role. Attempts to explain yourself or to mend things often prove meaningless. If those efforts had worked, the drama would never have existed in the first place.

I have learned that when something feels wrong, it is often best to step back quietly and reclaim your own time. When you stop responding, the drama loses its power.
I wish I had understood this earlier. Perhaps I would have painted many more paintings by now.

Trusting yourself is essential—your intuition, your judgment, your actions. Do not absorb the guilt or distorted narratives others try to place upon you. Even when you feel wronged and long to explain, sometimes stopping is the strongest choice.
Interestingly, I’ve noticed that simply letting people know—briefly—that you are keeping records often causes them to disappear on their own. Even if encounters feel awkward at times, they pass. Today, there is no shortage of articles about narcissism, sociopathy, and how to deal with such patterns. Reading and learning helps. In the end, time and records resolve more than confrontation ever could.

Those who document hold quiet power. Write things down. Even the smallest details matter. I believe that this habit will one day protect you from stories that are impossible to untangle. Often, the mere knowledge that someone is documenting the truth prevents traps from being set at all.

Write honestly. Write faithfully. Writing and recording are skills that improve with practice. The more you write, the clearer your thoughts become. Over time, your speech grows calmer, more logical, less reactive. Eventually, you may find yourself transcending the entire situation.
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In truth, once you can write about something, it has already become objective. Naming an experience brings it into awareness—where it can be analyzed, organized, and ultimately overcome. That is why writing matters. It is not just expression. It is survival, clarity, and freedom.

​On this snowy day, I suddenly think of my aunt who passed away. My aunt always called me "princess," even when I was a grown woman. She was the only relative who called me by such a loving name and always spoke kind words to me; she was a warm-hearted person.

​She was in hospice care with terminal cancer, but she told me she felt so peaceful knowing she would soon be with God. She said she had no regrets about leaving this world and that she felt completely at peace. I think she's probably smiling in heaven right now.

​Thinking of my aunt makes me feel sad, but also warms my heart. I remember the comfort, encouragement, and loving words she gave me. I think that simply being able to say such beautiful things to someone makes a person's life truly beautiful. Experiencing my aunt's death made me think more about life and death. I also remember other people around me who have passed away.

​We called him Mr. Bob. He was the American landlord I met on my first day in Germany. The apartment I happened to rent belonged to an American, and the wall clock in it was made in Korea. He had served as an engineer in the Korean War. Just because we were Korean, he showed us warmth and kindness. But he passed away on a day like this, when it was snowing. I can't forget the inscription on his tombstone: "Thank you."

​It seemed like a summary of his entire life. Even now, when I think of him, I feel grateful. On Thanksgiving Day, he and his beautiful German wife, who was originally from Poland, invited us, strangers, to their beautiful home. And they lit a fire in the fireplace, showing us such warmth. I can't forget the warmth of that fireplace that I saw that day. Now this picture is a memory of the past, and Mr. Bob, who was tending the fire, has passed away, but that warmth will remain with everyone who experienced his kindness and consideration. Just like the warmth that remains in the hearts of me and my family.

I prefer doing things steadily. Rather than producing something spectacular in a short time, I like moving at my own pace, looking around, and quietly taking one step forward after another. In that sense, blogging suits me perfectly. A blog requires no exaggeration, decoration, or flashy techniques. It does not demand impact or novelty, nor does it require shocking people or offering enormous help. Blogging feels like a small confession. And that is why I love it.

Before I began blogging, my life felt like walking through fog. I was painting and working, but it all felt like a hollow echo. Only through blogging did I rediscover the meaning of writing as an artist. Writing is the act of holding time still for a moment. Time is like air, or like light—felt for a second, seen for a moment, then gone. Our years pass in exactly that way. Some lives pass in brilliance, though not always and not forever. Others may feel like walking through darkness. Some people walk hand-in-hand with someone they cherish, becoming explorers of meaning together. Others walk a special path that everyone watches. But ultimately, all of us move through time equally. Our endings are the same.

In the midst of these varied moments and experiences, we slowly fade—like flowers that once bloomed brightly but inevitably fall. Yet writing becomes a small signal that I existed in this world. Perhaps this is why I suddenly understood the ancient people who painted the Altamira cave walls. Why did they press their hands onto stone and draw the bison and horses they saw that day? Maybe they too simply did not want to disappear. Maybe they too wanted to share the sunset with someone, despite the hardships of life.

Through blogging, I learned the importance of time and the value of small things. I once believed that bigger and more impressive things were always better. So I boasted, felt envy, and wanted to shine. But after realizing the beauty of the ordinary, I became a quieter person. I began to enjoy my own life more deeply. After learning the significance of small earnings, I stopped chasing big wins in the stock market. After witnessing how tiny bits of information can help people, I’ve tried to record even the smallest insights here.

If I can open my eyes in the morning, feel the weather of the day, and warm my surroundings even a little, I consider that a successful life. If I can treat the students around me with sincerity, care about their futures, and try to help them—not as a famous educator, but as the teacher they see every week—I consider that a successful life.

Writing keeps my eyes on the humble things. Writing is not a feast to be devoured greedily, but a simple piece of bread to be chewed slowly and appreciated. Through writing, I think, feel, learn, and change. Without this inner movement, we crave stronger and stronger stimulation, and it becomes easy to slip into a life driven by pleasure. Writing creates a simple, disciplined, meaningful life. Blogging offers a space for that kind of life.

More than anything, I am grateful that I can now express what I feel and think so naturally. If we feel something in our hearts but cannot record it, express it, or develop it, then we are living a life no different from animals. Sometimes I think that a life without expression is like a gorilla pounding its chest, trying desperately to communicate something. As humans, it is natural to express, think, and create.

In this age of artificial intelligence, I feel this even more strongly. Society seems eager to dismiss human creativity, valuing only what is perfect or fashionable. But we all know that the shiny things we see are not the whole story. Simple, repetitive tasks may gradually be taken over by AI, but humans will turn toward more advanced, thoughtful, and creative work. Imagining how the future will change is enjoyable—and expressing those thoughts in writing is equally enjoyable.

Running my art classes, I’ve witnessed extraordinary transformations. At first, I felt joy when students won awards. I counted them secretly, feeling proud because every single student of mine had won something. I used to tell myself, “Anna, your classes will only get better.” But writing allowed me to re-examine this mindset. It did not align with the philosophy I truly value, and my students themselves taught me this truth.

The transformation was simple but profound: they became self-directed learners.
Most new students ask, “Teacher, what should I do?” And I answer, “Look at this sample. Start with this part.” They brighten and begin working. Then they call me again: “Teacher, I finished. What’s next?” And I give them the next step. On and on it goes.

Eventually I wondered if my structure was preventing their independence. So I tried freestyle sessions. “Today is your free day. Use anything here and create whatever you imagine.” The students then asked, “What should we imagine?” That was when I realized today’s children need a style of teaching that feels more like play—more natural, more intuitive, like the way I sense the seasons and write.
So I changed the structure little by little. And I repeated it endlessly.
The results were astonishing. Unless they were brand-new students, they no longer asked, “What should I do next?” Instead, like yesterday’s class, they designed their own projects, searched for materials, and asked for help only when needed. Sometimes they even suggested ideas: “Teacher, if you teach me more about this part, I can make what I really want.”
This, to me, is the closest manifestation of the educational philosophy I learned in graduate school and the approach I strive to practice. Seeing how my daily life and writing intersect with teaching has made me even more devoted to writing.
If students can think for themselves, lead their own work, trust their abilities, embrace mistakes, and create something every day, then the future will be bright. If I can cultivate even a small space where this kind of learning happens, more young people will grow up with creative lives. And eventually, the world will have many more lifelong artists.
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Even now, my new students still ask me what they should do next. And although the beginning is always like this, I already know how they will change as time passes. So I happily guide them to the next step, and I always tell them, “Try it on your own. Trust yourself.” These small repetitions will one day transform them. They will surprise me with ideas I never expected.
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I will wait for that change—patiently and for as long as it takes—hoping each student increases even a small percentage of self-directed learning. This is the same approach I have used with my own children.

After witnessing how rich a day—and even a whole life—can become when I focus not on grand achievements but on simplicity, on the process itself, and on the joy of making, I began to think more deeply about what joyful art truly is. These reflections and explorations will continue to unfold through my writing. And I am deeply grateful to have a blog where I can share this journey.

As the year comes to a close, many of us naturally return to the same question:
Is blogging still worth it?
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Anyone who has ever hesitated—unsure whether to keep going or walk away—has probably visited my blog at least once. I know this because I have been there myself. I have doubted, stopped, restarted, and questioned my path more times than I can count. And yet, year after year, I return to the same conviction:
Blogging matters. You must not quit.
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Today, I want to share the things I regret most from my long journey of maintaining a blog—regrets that may help someone standing exactly where I once stood.

1. Writing Too Much “Informational” Content in the Early Years

​When I first began blogging in the early 2000s, the internet was overflowing with tutorial-style posts. So naturally, I did the same. I wrote countless entries explaining Photoshop techniques, Illustrator functions, and digital tools. At the time, those posts attracted plenty of comments and questions—they were useful, practical, and necessary.
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But looking back now, I realize that too many of my early posts were purely informational, lacking my voice, my story, or my perspective. They were helpful, yes, but not memorable. And in today’s landscape, where AI can produce a million tutorials in seconds, such content rarely stands out.
Still, there is one thing I do not regret:
I explained things visually and in detail in ways that ChatGPT still cannot.
People continue to visit my site for in-depth solutions to specific errors I encountered on platforms like Weebly or other design tools. Those posts remain some of my most popular because they offer something personal—something earned from real experience.

2. Over-Complicating My Categories

​Another regret is how excessively I divided my blog categories.
If I could go back, I would simply keep three main branches:

• Art
• Education
• Publishing

Subcategories such as “Mom’s Playground Book Club” or “SchoolNova” would have been enough.
But once categories are created, they are almost impossible to restructure without breaking your entire archive. So now I live with the overly fragmented structure I built as a beginner.
The truth is, most new bloggers fall into this trap. It’s hard to know your core themes until you’ve written a great deal. Advising beginners to “choose big, essential categories” is almost unrealistic, because you only discover your voice after hundreds of posts. Still, it’s a lesson worth sharing.

3. Trying Too Hard to Be Perfect in the Beginning

​I also regret how hard I pushed myself at the start.
I tried to write perfect posts—beautiful, polished, professional.
And in doing so, I burned out more times than I’d like to admit.
Back then, I didn’t fully understand Google’s AdSense policies either, which led to accidental invalid clicks and months of advertising suspension. Those months felt devastating because I had tied my self-worth to “results.”
What I learned is simple but essential:
Your initial motivation must be joy—not pressure, not performance, not numbers.
Blogging should never feel like a corporate job where you must “produce results.”
If you chase perfection, you will burn out.
If you chase obligation, you will quit.
But if you chase joy, you will last.
And lasting—not perfection—is what ultimately wins.

4. Write Like a Journal, Not a Textbook

​One of the greatest discoveries I’ve made is that blogs grow strongest when we write like ourselves.
When you write as if you are talking to a friend—warmly, honestly, without worrying whether each sentence is perfect—that is when blogging becomes sustainable.
Many of my most valuable posts today are not “highly polished essays” but simple journal entries documenting my life as an artist.
For example:
If someone wants to know what it’s like to prepare for an outdoor art show, my blog already has everything--
how I chose my tent, how I packed my car, how I handled weather problems, what sold and what didn’t, how exhausted or excited I felt.
These are small details, but for a beginner artist preparing for their very first show, such information is gold.
I remember searching endlessly online for this exact knowledge, only to find almost nothing. Even when I asked local artists or institutions, the answers were incomplete or vague.
That is why I write with such commitment now:
I know exactly how it feels to be lost, alone, and desperate for guidance.
If someone succeeds more beautifully than I did because of something I shared, that alone makes every hour of writing worth it.

5. Don’t Obsess Over Revenue

​Though my blog has grown enough to earn from AdSense, I constantly remind myself—and my readers—not to become obsessed with revenue. The moment your writing becomes profit-driven, your joy drains away. Your motivation shifts. Your voice disappears.
Whenever I write, I ask myself one simple question:
“Did I have fun today while writing?”
Did it feel like a friendly conversation with a visitor who pulled up a chair in my quiet, solitary studio?
If the answer is yes, then the day’s blog post is a success—regardless of views, clicks, or dollars.
Over the years, I’ve learned that blogging is not only a record of my growth, but also a powerful tool for branding myself as an artist. It has connected me with students, families, collectors, and communities in ways I never expected.
And so, as I say every year:
Try pressing the ‘like’ button on your own blog.
Celebrate your presence, your effort, your story.
It matters more than you think.
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I hope today’s reflections encourage you, guide you, or simply make you feel understood.
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If you are hesitating—wondering whether to continue or quit—then please hear me clearly:
Don’t stop.
Don’t give up.
Your voice has a place, and your story will help someone.
And one day, you will look back at your imperfect, messy, honest blog and realize it has become one of the greatest assets of your life.

Why Write When You Could Paint? A Question Every Artist Eventually Asks

​And finally, I want to address a question that many artists—or anyone who blogs—will eventually wonder:
“I understand the value of consistency, but is it really worth writing for years? Wouldn’t that time be better spent painting one more canvas?”
I ask this because I have asked myself the same question many, many times.
When ChatGPT arrived, the way I wrote blog posts changed drastically. Tasks that once consumed hours—researching references, gathering information, translating ideas into English—suddenly became lighter. Before, a single post could take two hours or more, especially if I tried to express complicated thoughts in English. During graduate school, my research and writing skills improved, and everything became a little easier. Then AI arrived and allowed me to write three posts a day if I wanted to.
But here is something important:
I don’t rely entirely on AI.
I never have. AI text often feels flat, lifeless, and uninhabited. It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t carry the warmth or the emotional texture of real experience. So I still write by hand, polishing each thought until it feels like my own voice.
So why do I continue writing—sometimes frantically—when I could simply paint?
Because painting alone is not enough.
Yes, if I had spent all those years exclusively painting, perhaps I would be technically stronger than I am today. Perhaps my brushwork would be more refined.
But the truth is difficult and honest: the world is overflowing with people who paint beautifully.
Every exhibition reminds me of this. I walk through galleries and outdoor shows and immediately see how many artists possess extraordinary skill—skill that humbles me and makes me bow my head.
So what distinguishes one artist from another?
What allows an artist to build a brand, a presence, a voice?
It’s the story.
It’s the statement behind the work.
If a painting cannot speak for itself, if it carries no meaning, then potential collectors hesitate. But when a piece has a story—when a viewer can feel the artist’s intention, history, or emotional landscape—then the work becomes irresistible. It becomes special.
This is why I write.
When I create a painting, I often spend the entire day writing about it.
If someone searches the title of a piece they purchased from me, they will discover a story—a doorway into the world that painting came from. For an artist to have such a place, a permanent archive of their thoughts and process, is a remarkable thing.
So I endure the inconvenience. I write the stories. I record the questions, the doubts, the discoveries.
Because this process is meaningful, and because it is genuinely fun.
And over time—slowly, quietly—good things have happened.
One of the biggest advantages now is that I no longer have to beg anyone for opportunities.
I no longer need to say, “Please feature my work on your site.”
In the past, I entered open calls, paid fees, submitted to platforms that demanded even more money once accepted. That world still exists, and many artists remain trapped in it.
But when you grow your own brand, when you build your own platform, you become free.
You can display your work without permission.
You can speak in your own voice.
You can reach people directly.
And one day—this part still surprises me—organizations begin to ask you to introduce them. I receive such requests occasionally, and every time, I remember how far I’ve come.
This is why I tell people:
Write a little every day. Even a small post counts.
In a previous entry, I wrote about Dashrath Manjhi—the Indian man whose life inspired the film Mountain Man. After losing his wife, he made a decision that everyone considered insane: he vowed to carve a road through the massive mountain that separated his village from medical care.
With nothing but a hammer and a chisel, he struck the rock day after day. Breaking even a single boulder with such tools is nearly impossible. Imagine how many people laughed at him. How many mocked him. How many dismissed him as foolish.
And yet he continued.
For twenty-two years.
Without stopping.
Until a road finally opened through the mountain.
It is the perfect reminder:
Do not underestimate the small, simple things you do every day.
They carve paths where none existed before.
They build mountains—or remove them.
They transform an ordinary life into an extraordinary one.
So yes, paint your paintings.
But also write your words.
Because someday, your stories will be the road that leads others to your art—and perhaps, the road that leads you to the life you have been quietly building all along.

​In an age when artificial intelligence accelerates every part of our lives, I find myself moving in the opposite direction. While the world leans toward automation, I am creating an analog calendar—painted by hand, page by page. This November, I published a watercolor book with a friend, and we exhibited it at our local library. It feels as if we are rowing upstream in a digital river, yet we continue moving forward with conviction.

Looking back, I realize there are many things I no longer needed to learn for the AI era—Photoshop being one of them. Today, even that software incorporates AI tools capable of producing images through a short prompt. These tools are impressive, but not yet perfect, and I still find myself returning to older methods. Still, I cannot help but feel that the digital art industry is in for massive upheaval. One way or another, we all need to adapt.

My child loves digital art. They draw animations daily and dream of working in the digital arts. Not long ago, they wanted to become a veterinarian. Their dreams shift frequently, but I choose not to interfere or offer opinions. People should do what they love most. That belief has never changed. And the speed of change today is so overwhelming that even adults—especially parents—cannot pretend to know what the future holds. That is why I remain silent and simply watch.

In hindsight, prestigious universities or formal credentials feel less essential in today’s world. Knowledge built on rote memorization is losing relevance. What matters now is the ability to create, to apply, and to propose solutions that make life easier or more joyful. I suspect this may become the era of people with entrepreneurial instincts.

Painting has taught me something similar. To work deeply, I must tune into my own frequency rather than the world’s. I cannot know whether my work will be welcomed, understood, or celebrated. If people do look at my paintings and respond, that becomes the path toward recognition—the mysterious ascent of becoming a well-known artist. Many around me work tirelessly, trying not to miss even the smallest sign of success, hoping it might become their own.

I finished graduate school during the transitional moment when AI tools like ChatGPT became publicly accessible. My professors encouraged their use, urging us to learn how these tools worked. But because our program was centered on reflection and personal insight, AI could not help beyond smoothing out phrasing. Perhaps out of pride, I didn’t use the tools. Ironically, my raw, unpolished reports received high marks.

In the midst of the AI wave, I chose an analog, story-driven program in graduate school. I questioned that decision many times, unsure whether it was the right direction. But after graduating, I can confidently say it was. I learned how to survive in a rapidly changing world through multiple creative channels—blogging, publishing, teaching, and exhibiting. I built various pipelines. And most importantly, the process trained me to think and speak through my work.

As AI becomes more dominant, humans will rely increasingly on machines. That is why the ability to think independently, to imagine, and to build something new will become even more valuable. I believe artwork should move in that direction too. Each year I set up a large question—a thematic frame—and explore it through smaller subtopics in my paintings.
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The world is shifting quickly, and the waves ahead are enormous. As an analog artist, this reality feels both thrilling and tense. But I want to keep challenging myself. Life itself is a series of challenges. And within those challenges, I continue finding new ways to stay afloat, to create, and to tell my story.