A Pause Between Pain and Gratitude

A Pause Between Pain and Gratitude

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.