When I was younger, the things I disliked about myself the most was my ethnicity, my legs, and my constant thinking. It took me many years to realize that these differences were my strengths.

The first time someone asked me “what I was” (See Explaining Your Ethnic Situation), I was five or six and confidently stated, “White.” I thought that was the correct answer to any and all situations, or I didn’t know what they were talking about.

Up until then—growing up in the suburbs of Atlanta—I had a suspicion I was something other than white. We spoke in a different language at home; cooked with a lot of spices and ate fermented foods; and, most obviously, I looked different. Yes, these were differences, but could they possibly amount to something important like identity? It marked the introduction of an identity crisis.

Not much time passed after that initial encounter before I realized I was Korean. It was only hours later my brother informed me of the truth over a fit of laughter, realizing his little sister thought she was white. Being that young, I remember thinking, “So what does this mean?”

For the better part of the next decade, I was determined to find out what being Korean didn’t mean.

I could have non-Asian friends, I could choose Britney or Ludacris over Korean music, and I was free to layer myself in Hollister (Hello 2000’s).

I was as enthusiastic about being Korean as I was when my mom bought me a congratulatory cake for getting my period. It’s true… No ethnic background could have saved me from pressing myself into the mold I perceived as southern suburbia.

I have always had large, muscular legs—or what kids would call tree trunks—something I inherited from my dad. At age twelve, I started training harder for tennis and my legs grew wider and all the more muscular, making it impossible to find good jeans (still a problem).

Kids made it clear that I was different, gargantuan, and beastlike. And that was reason enough for me to be mad that they were stuck on my body—and I thought they were u-g-l-y, ugly.

There’s the age preschoolers hit when they become walking and wailing broken records stuck on “Why?” They ask, or rather, demand whys regardless of the explanation. Despite a little less wailing, I never quite grew out of that phase; I posed questions to myself and turned the answers over and over until I thought of more questions.

People like to say to me, “Don’t overthink it.” If there was a penny for every time someone offered me that piece of advice, the world would be drowned in a flood of pennies. I believe I do have a “rich inner life,” as the great Amy Schumer puts it.

I’ve fallen mercy to it in situations where being present and interaction with others is expected. Socializing, I think is what they call it. It often felt debilitating; I’d think out my responses, weighing them against the replies I’d thought I’d get.

I loathed these differences about myself; I wished instead to not think. I wished to be carefree and say whatever floated into my mind. It recently dawned on me there’s a term for that—drunkenness.

And so, my inner monologue was also one of self-criticism. Sure, children can be cruel, but none are worse than your own demons that feed on your insecurities.

The commonality among all of these qualities was that they each made me different; they made me feel different because I didn’t match up to the people around me. The essence of what I craved was acceptance. Our default setting is to slap judging labels on qualities that threaten our shot at it.

It’s only later, through broader experiences, that I realized differences aren’t dangerous, they’re what makes us who we are. In accepting them in myself, I could love them in others.

It took a long time to come to terms with my heritage, my body, and the way I’m wired. And it’s still taking time. But having experienced Korean culture firsthand during time spent with my relatives in Seoul; after winning matches thanks to the power and speed of my legs; and after meaningful conversations that arose from asking too many questions, the things I disliked about myself are now the ones I celebrate these days. 

I grew up in an age of Disney princesses and feminism; an age where Snow White waited for her prince while the Cheetah Girls decided they needed to rescue themselves.  I fantasized about being saved, yet I also wanted to be strong enough to save myself. 

It was not until I was diagnosed with depression and bulimia that I needed saving.  I searched for validation, acceptance, and support in friendships and relationships. More than anything, I craved love and reassurance that I deserved love.

I spent this last year confronting my need for validation and I began a journey of self-acceptance.

I understand now that in order to be truly happy, I must accept myself rather than wait for others to accept me. With this realization came the understanding that I am the only person who controls my recovery. Although a support system is helpful, I ultimately am the one saving myself.

Last year, I thought I was ready for a relationship.  I thought I needed another person to remind me that I was beautiful, intelligent, and that my past mistakes did not define me.  This unfortunately, founded my relationship on unhealthy expectations. No matter how much my boyfriend reminded me he loved me, I felt unlovable.  After months of fighting, we broke up. That was when I realized that the love I craved could not come from another person—it had to come from me. I am the person I spend the most time with; I am the one who is there when I wake up, go to school, eat, shower, laugh, cry, and sleep.

If I hate myself, no amount of love from anyone else can counteract the constant hatred.

I started out slow—wearing more makeup and clothing that made me comfortable, but eventually I socialized more, voiced my opinion, laughed out loud, and loved myself even when I made mistakes.  For the first time, I let people in and I let myself out.

For the first time, I am ready for another person to see me in my entirety.  I am ready to be loved by someone; only my self-worth is not dependent on their love.  I will love myself regardless of who loves me or hates me.

My husband and I both work full-time and also work on my blog, Wonder & Awe. We work on the blog whenever we have a free minute.  

I first saw Matt while he was leading worship at church, we made eye contact and it was love at first. We dated for six months, were engaged for five months and have been married for almost a year. When you know- you just know.

When it comes to Wonder & Awe, Matt is equally as involved as I am, and Wonder & Awe would truly be nothing without him. Matt is the half of the story that you do not see- the man behind the camera. He spent countless hours on a beautiful redesign of my website and helped me upgrade all my different web features. He researched the best camera lens to purchase for the types of shots we do and takes the most beautiful pictures. Our skill sets really complement one another, and it honestly is just way more fun working with him than it would be to do this on my own. We both love the creative process and enjoy creating beautiful new content for Wonder & Awe.  

I grew up always working at newspapers. Before deciding to go to law school, I had plans to work in broadcast journalism. Matt is a computer genius and runs his own company, Loop Community. We both are very busy.

I started Wonder & Awe because I needed a creative outlet. During the day I work fulltime as a lawyer and at night Matt and I work on Wonder & Awe. Balancing working fulltime and also trying to get a blog off and running is not easy but I love it so much I just cannot stop. I really have the best of both worlds.

However, there are many days when the whole process becomes way overwhelming. Between finding time to work out after a full day of work, grocery shop, make dinner for my husband and sneak in the occasional shower sometimes I start to crack under all the to-do-lists I create for myself.

I always wish I had more time to devote to building the blog. There is a huge business behind blogging and one that requires much more time than I currently have to devote to it. I wish I had time to network with all the different Chicago bloggers but in this season of my life I just can’t. Right now time is precious. I am so thankful that I get to work with my husband and spend time with him throughout the whole process.

To learn more about Wonder & Awe, please visit http://wonderandawe.com/!

The #halfthestory you do not see in front of the camera is the most important part of the story for me.

I can’t explain how I feel,

but these daydreams seem so real.

With a passing thought you’re in my head,

but it feels like we’re there instead.

I come out of my happy dream quickly,

and you’re still out of reach for me.

“Everything about us supports the Yankees, we bleed blue.”

These words echo through my childhood. We are Yankees fans, tried and true. Growing up the morale of my family was based on how the Yankees played; if we won, we celebrated, if we lost the whole family grieved. The Yankees were our only excuse for staying up late. Together on our couch, we faithfully watched every game until the last second.

I remember one specific May afternoon when I was six. My brothers and I were casually headed home from school when we were suddenly rushed into our old minivan. As we quickly shuffled to sit down, we learned that we were going on a surprise trip: a chance to watch the Yankees play live. Arriving at the stadium, I was soon overwhelmed with all my favorite things: the sea of devoted fans, the yell of young peanut sellers, the smell of burgers right off the grill.

As my family all sat around stuffing our faces with warm, familiar hot dogs and cheering for the same, faithful team I remember feeling like life was perfect; surrounded by the people I love most watching our team play to victory.

Life continued. We were hit by many bumps along the way: the death of my dad, an abrupt move to Georgia, and soon my brothers departing for college leaving me the only child at home. However, one thing remained permanent in my life, and it was the unfailing spirit and joy of the Yankees. I knew every year, as March rolled around, they would always be there; although trades were made and players were moved, they always came back.

I soon realized that like the Yankees, my family too would always be there to rely on, to bring me joy, and to be a constant in a life of continuous change. Moreover, every year this team would continue to bring the family together, no matter where we were in life.

Whether it is my brothers making one last visit to the old stadium or gathering for spring training, the team brings us together.

Even if we do not have the opportunity to see them in person, we are all watching. Every year when I enjoy each game, I know that wherever my family is they are doing the same. We are continually texting each other, yelling at refs, cheering for plays, and grieving over losses. Together. I believe in the Yankees. I believe in the excitement and unity it brings to my family.

Although my dad has now passed, the Yankees still bring us together. It was the Yankees that kept us going when we wanted to give up and the Yankees that brought happiness to our lives when all seemed distraught. And – it is the Yankees today that continue to round the family and remind us of the importance of love and each other.

I hated writing.  If you told me growing up that I’d be doing it for fun after college, I absolutely would have rolled my eyes!  Writing was a chore. 

But…in my third-year-writing class, I completed a 20-page research paper on looping and tracking in education (one of my nerdy passions), and I realized how much fun I had while researching and writing it!

I thought, “If I had this much fun writing in academia, there’s gotta be something for me in writing on an emotional and spiritual level,” whether it was public or private.

In elementary school, I had a diary that chronicled boys I liked and the dramas of gel pens; but since coming to college, journaling became a huge part of bible study, rants and raves, and personal exploration.

The joy I discovered in finding myself through writing became something difficult to put into words.  The deepest, introverted pieces of me can cause me to get way too caught up in my head, so writing became a safe place to reflect and respond to my self discoveries and struggles. Post diary days, I moved more toward quiet and sweet meditations from Rumi and reflections on Maya Angelou’s poetry and stories.  (*Highest recommendations for “Home” by M.A. and “The Essential Rumi” by Coleman Marks if you have yet to explore them!)

After being diagnosed with depression in November of 2014, my identity officially crumbled.  It felt like it had been falling apart, piece by piece for many months by then, but I was exhausting myself by forcing them to fall gracefully so I could pick them up by myself without anyone noticing.

I had been shoving them into my over-filled backpack of emotions and shame and guilt and sadness for so long that finally.  In the small, dimly lit room, I sat with my counselor as she said the word out loud, associating it with me.

Depression. And my backpack burst.

The seams ripped, making it impossible to zip it back up, and all my emotions and fears of being unworthy and unlovable were laid out in from of me. Damnit.  It hurt.  I had to deal with it now.  I had to deal with the pain my family caused me.  I had to deal with the fact that finding my identity in my job and academics wasn’t available to me anymore.  And worst of all, I had to deal with the parts of me that I didn’t like and redirect my attention on the things that were actually wonderful about me, things that made me ‘me.’ And I knew I had to love all of that; but I had to re-learn how to love all of that.

Writing has been a way for me to stay sane in my brain while also getting out all of my thoughts and without having others’ thoughts to worry about.  I no longer let others dictate what I think about myself and the decisions I make.  I can use the tools I have received from blogs and counseling and mentors and even helping others through their own pain…I use these tools to remind myself that there is hope on the other side.  That my struggle right now is the hardest one I will ever face.  And the next will be too. Writing is now a companion, allowing me to love myself again.  I can read something I wrote and look at it like I’m helping a friend.

I can come to my own conclusions with fresh eyes, a fresh spirit, and a fresh page. P.S. Hope is always singing, “Hello from the other siiiiiiide!”

The tradition of weekly Wednesday night dinners in Athens evolved from my family. It all started in Calvary, Georgia. For as long as I can remember,  Family Night has been a weekly tradition of putting all work aside, relaxing, cooking amazing food, and gathering family together around the table.

My older cousins Bradley Jones, Chaz, and Emily Oliver originally got Family Night started in Athens when they first came to the University of Georgia. They began hosting weekly dinners and inviting their closest friends.

Eventually, the group grew to include boyfriends, girlfriends, roommates, neighbors, and friends of friends. It was also a great way of meeting new people because everyone was so welcoming. When I came up to Athens to attend UGA, I also joined and gained a whole new group of lifelong friends.

Although most of us weren’t related, we still considered ourselves a family. Food can do that to people.

Eventually, it became a much larger group of friends that came from the University of Georgia, North Georgia College, Athens Technical College, and even graduates that were still living around the Athens area.

Most of us have known each other for years, but meeting new people wasn’t uncommon and they usually returned and were welcomed back with open arms. On average, we had about 15-20 members attending Family Night every week.

We would take turns hosting and cooking dinners. It wasn’t a pizza take out kind of thing. We’re talking about home-cooked meals y’all. It was definitely a challenge cooking for such a large group of people, but time spent with “family” was well worth it and so was the food!

When these sorts of events happened, we went all out. All the family members prepared and brought their best home cooked meal for the feast. We even got really competitive on who could cook the best meals and celebrated special occasions such as Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around Christmas, we would dress up in our tackiest attire and take a picture to send to our own families to put on the refrigerator.

Family night was a great way to drop everything and come together to keep in touch with friends and family when times got busy. It was the one-day of the week where we could just relax and catch up. If we didn’t have this once a week, I probably wouldn’t have even seen my family or closest friends as much as I did and that’s something I truly treasure.

If someone couldn’t attend, we made sure they were sent a take-home plate. Because let’s face it, everyone has to eat during a stressful test or project and there’s no better meal than a home-cooked one prepared with love from their “family.”

“Is it okay if I bring my dog?” The answer was always yes! After all, dogs are family too. They were brought over to enjoy company from the humans as well as other furry friends. Our pets weren’t left out of the scrumptious meals either. They were also served part of our feast or as my granddad, Big Daddy, used to say, “the crumbs under the table.”

Because most of us were college kids, we typically didn’t eat the best food. Eating out was our go-to because it was a quick and easy fix.

Family night was a way to have a good home-cooked meal at least once a week and reunite with our friends. It is one of my best college memories.

Now that I’ve graduated, I plan to continue to carry on this tradition in Atlanta and wherever life takes me. Cooking is more than just about eating: it is something that ties people together.

It doesn’t get much better than gathering with friends and family, meeting new people, cooking great meals, making new memories, and passing on our beloved family tradition! Cheers!

The other night I was sitting around a table playing cards with some friends, while another group of friends gathered around the television engulfed in the finale of the famous show, “The Bachelorette”. Why was I not one of the girls with my eyes glued to that screen for two hours?

That love is not the love of our dreams.

That love is forced for 12 weeks until a female narrows down a group of 25 men to a single one, who she is apparently lucky to call her future husband. Now, I’m not bashing on this show, I find it quite amusing and I definitely get a kick out of it. That said, that show does not portray the love we want or need.

• Love is something every girl dreams about.
• Love is something that makes a girl so vulnerable on the inside that words cannot come close to describing the feeling it brings with it.
• Love is strong, so powerful that it can shape our daily lives.
• We constantly place our self-worth on that feeling of love.

Do people love me?

Society has placed it in our minds that we are on a constant search for the one that will give us this “feeling.” But is this “feeling” really so great? It causes so much heartache, so much jealousy, so much sadness, and yet it is all we are searching for as human beings.

Does my significant other love me? Do my friends love me? So much is dependent on love. I see elderly couples walking down the street hand-in-hand clearly in love, and I wonder … how can it be that easy?

The love I have experienced has been nothing short of a roller coaster ride filled with never ending twists and turns. Love can never be simple. I think of that couple, I think of the amount of hardship and problems their love most likely endured, and how in the end they are together, hand-in-hand, loving each other.

Then I think of my best friend, 20 years of age, experiencing a love that at the same time is breaking her heart. How can love bring so much happiness, but at the same time be so menacing to someone’s mind and soul? It makes absolutely no sense.

We dream of this love that is so easy, so simple, so perfect; a love that we honestly will most likely never experience. Why keep searching for it, you ask? Love is what keeps us going. It will find someone multiple times in their lifetime taking on different forms, but affecting them all the same. Love is the boundless feeling that overtakes every mind, body, and soul on this planet and there is absolutely no stopping it. The only thing you can do is embrace it and pray that it happens to be the love that you ultimately desire.

I am a mental health advocate. A stigma fighter. I am the mental health community administrator for the Wish Dish Platform. President of the Loyola University MD chapter of Active Minds. Yet, I struggle with my own mental health. It’s not that I expect others to believe that I don’t struggle with my anxiety and depression from time to time, but I certainly don’t think people know how incredibly much I have been struggling since the loss of my uncle.

I don’t know what the typical relationship of a girl and her uncle usually is, but I can tell you that my relationship with my uncle was anything but typical. I grew up in a very large, close, Italian family. The holidays were always my favorite because I got to spend the day with my 50+ family members on my dad’s side of the family. I was lucky enough to grow up in a family where I knew that I could call any of my relatives at any time, and they would be by my side in minutes.

I also had the privilege to live next door to my Uncle Mike and Aunt Lona since I was 8 years old. I would walk next door when I was bored, or when I needed someone to talk to. I spent more time with my aunt and uncle than most kids spend with their parents. I grew up with not only one set of parents, but two.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Lona have been two of my biggest role models since before I could remember. My dad’s parents and siblings immigrated here from Italy when they were young. My grandfather spent five years working in America and building a life for his wife and four kids back in Italy. My aunts and uncles had been through a lot in their young lives. They lost one of their siblings to cancer on the journey to America. Once they got to America, they had to build a life for themselves, learn English, go to school, and work to help support their family. Yet, none of this hinders my dad or his siblings in any way.

If anything, it made them work harder, love more deeply, and appreciate what they had.

My Uncle Mike took these ideals to heart when he met the love of his life in ninth grade. At age 14, my Uncle Mike met his wife, and my Aunt Lona. They were perfect for each other. They always knew what the other needed, kept each other in line, and helped each other and rhea ones around them grow. I aspire to find a love as deep and as right as theirs was. I looked up to them both in every possible way. They weren’t simply my aunt and uncle; they were my godparents, my next-door neighbors, my role models, and my second parents. It was hard when they moved to South Carolina when I was a senior in high school. They were the first in the family to move outside of Maryland, and I took it pretty hard. But, I did have a sweet new vacation spot.

I thought that them moving to South Carolina meant that they would miss out on a lot if important moments in the lives of my sisters and I, but I was wrong. They flew up for every family party, prom, graduation, and most birthdays. They visited often, and we would always pick up right where we left off.

I had never met two individuals more loving and understanding than my aunt and uncle.

That is what made it even more difficult when my Uncle Mike suddenly passed away over a month ago. What made it even worse, was that it was extremely unexpected. Coming home for that weekend and seeing everyone in my driveway, I instantly knew something was wrong, but I never thought to expect what I heard next. I sat on my deck surrounded by family, and felt nothing. I cried as my aunt and uncle, first and second cousins, and other showed up at my house to share in the grief that we all felt. But I couldn’t feel it. Not until days later, or even when I saw my uncle laying in his casket.

I have been through a lot in my young life. I have watched my mom go through breast cancer and brain surgery, saw the emptiness in my sister when she lost her first baby, lost a close friend to suicide, and have been without grandparents since high school. Yet, this loss cut deep. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I either couldn’t feel anything at all, or felt so much that I thought I would explode. As this was all happening, two of my best friends were having the time of their lives abroad. It felt like my world stopped, and everyone else was doing great. I was drowning.

I was comforting everyone else and staying strong. But I also fell behind in school, drank to numb the pain, isolated myself from others, and was altogether miserable. My depression was at an all-time high, as was my anxiety. I had lost one of the best individuals in my life, and I couldn’t stand to be a part of my own reality.

I knew he wouldn’t want me to be this way, not again. I finally began to talk about it. About how much it hurt, sometimes so much that I couldn’t move.

I talked about the good times I had with him, the lessons he had taught me, and how I would give anything to hear him say “hello dear” one more time as he hopped out of his chair to greet me. I was ungrateful. I knew how much he meant to me, but I had always thought he would be there, like he always had been. The last time I saw him, I rushed my time with him to go be with someone who didn’t truly love me. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I was expecting him to be at my house waiting for me that day when I arrived home. He would tell me about the beers he drank the night before, the conversations he had with some of the people he loved the most in this world. What I got instead was the look of grief and terror on my dad’s face, and the knowledge that my life would never again be the same. But though it still to this day hurts more than I thought anything ever could, I prevail. I live my life in honor of my uncle. I do what I can to make myself and the world around me a better and more loving place, because after all, that’s what he was most proud of me for doing.

Every family has their issues. Every family fights. But as I begin the holiday season without the greatest man I had ever known, I ask that you forget the past. Forget all the bad times, and work for the good ones. I ask that you hug everyone in your life, tell them just how much they mean to you, and appreciate every second you have by their side. I loved my uncle with all my heart and spent most of my life with him, but still wish I could have just five more minutes with him. One more hug. So, this holiday season, love your friends and your family with all you have. Because unfortunately, you truly never know when it could be the last chance you’ll ever get.

In the midst of breakups, non-stop drama from everyday life, the dreaded sophomore slump, and the quickly approaching future, it can be super hard to be optimistic. It’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel when you feel like the walls are closing in – it seems like there’s no way to control and silence negative thoughts coming from almost every single outlet. It may seem like you’re alone and nobody cares, but believe me, someone does.

I never believed in the concept of sophomore slump until I experienced it.

I used to believe that I was the creator of my destiny, and the way that I handled obstacles defined who I was. After recovering from the stress of finals, I came to the realization that I didn’t know who I was or who I wanted to be. I had hit the sophomore slump.

GRE books, online tests, and study tips suddenly filled my desk. Conversations about graduate school and the future only perpetuated the overwhelming feelings of anxiety and fear. After coming to the realization that change is inevitable, and that you can’t control everything, I decided to find myself again.

Finding yourself can’t be defined – it’s different for everyone. There’s a few steps that I took and have been taking to become happy again. Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been easy – and sometimes the bad days win, but, in the end, it is all about discovering who I was meant to be.

Step 1: Self-Destruction

R.M. Drake once said, “Sometimes to self-discover, you must self-destruct.” I believe that getting out of a slump requires starting with a blank slate – getting down to the basics.

This step is mostly characterized by crying, angry rants, and lots and lots of ice cream. There is no way I would be able to get to where I am today without all of the support I received from my loving friends.

Step 2: Beginning Recovery

After you’ve given yourself the time to wallow in sorrow, it’s time to get up and start being a functioning human again. Time to go about your routine and interact with people, although you may still be feeling pain. This is probably the hardest step, but it gets the ball rolling.

The key here is distraction, but also understanding that it’s okay not to be okay. Rather than repressing emotions that didn’t seem desirable, I chose to embrace them, understand that they were present, and eventually I learned to cope with the feelings that came along with them.

Step 3: Embrace Your Flaws

Clearly nobody is perfect, but something that a lot of people (myself included) struggle with is owning up to imperfections. This does not imply that every little idiosyncrasy needs to be fixed immediately, but that those that can be controlled should be worked on.

Something that I’ve learned, especially in the past year, is that certain people may bring out sides of you that you weren’t even aware of. If someone brings out qualities that aren’t desirable and don’t show your true colors – cut them out of your life. Nobody needs toxic people that encourage the worst version of yourself.

Step 4: Find What Makes You Happy

This step seems pretty simple – do the things you love. But the beauty of attempting to start from a blank slate is that you might find a few new passions. In the midst of confusion and anger that fraction life crises bring, I decided to travel and visit friends. Driving and escaping every day routines gave me a much needed break from reality, but also people that could listen to me without bias.

Step 5: Cut out Toxins

While finding newfound beauty and reminiscing in old treasures, it’s also important to avoid toxic people, situations, or places. The most prevalent challenge in this step is realizing that not everything is black or white – not everything or everyone is absolutely good or bad. The key to finding yourself and ending the crisis is reevaluating relationships and seeing how the person, place, or situation helps you grow. There are a few reasons to cut people off: (1) people who do not benefit you in any way, (2) people who don’t give you what you need and deserve, and (3) people who don’t want you anymore.

Step 6: Learning to Love Yourself Again

This goes hand in hand with the first step. In order to become a better person and move forward in a life crisis, you have to love yourself and be confident. Learning to be independent is the first step of many to achieving confidence. This also takes a lot of time – for me, this has been a life-long struggle for me personally. Find what makes you get up in the morning and start appreciating the little things.

While I’m still on the journey to truly being happy and getting out of my sophomore slump, I’ve made huge progress. Nobody is saying that this happens instantly, or that you’re supposed to have everything figured out. I’m on the road to happiness, and I couldn’t be more excited for my beautiful future.