The Power of Writing: How Documentation Became My Shield

The Power of Writing: How Documentation Became My Shield

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.

The Courage to Speak, and the Power of Writing

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.