It’s freezing in #Seoul, but at least I can toast my bottom like a marshmallow on this bus stop bench.

These days, I see more and more unmanned vape shops appearing on the streets.

It’s disturbing how they’re making these products so easily accessible, clearly targeting younger generations under the guise of convenience.

One of my nephews, Siyoon, was working on his #학습지. He had to pick someone to explain our traditional ways of enduring the winter. He said there was no one to explain it to, so I told him to write as if he had to explain it to my husband, Jack.

Today, I had the opportunity to translate professor emerita Margo Okazawa-Rey‘s speech at the Candle Culture Tent at Soyosan. It was my first time interpreting in front of a large crowd, from English to Korean, and occasionally vice versa.

Later, I wandered through Insadong with a friend. The trees looked magical—those with leaves seemed frosted, like delicate cakes, while bare branches were coated with layers of snow as if painted by nature itself.

From a cozy café, I sipped warm tea, watching snowflakes drift softly from the grey sky. On the streets, people paused to take photos, their joy blending with the quiet charm of the snow.

Every rooftop is blanked in White - #Seoul’s first #snow in 2024

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been learning to let go. Morning journaling became my way to pour out everything weighing me down. It felt as though I was opening the windows in a stuffy room. Suddenly, I could breathe again. This simple practice changed how I saw the world around me.

Last Friday night, I joined a volunteer outreach program to Uijeongbu-si. The autumn chill had swept through the streets, leaving them eerily quiet. Fear accompanied me—a quiet, persistent fear of whatever risks might lie ahead.

When I was younger, my legs were a canvas of wounds. I'd pick at my skin, watching scabs bleed, creating marks that seemed to map my inner pain. Back then, I didn't know how to care for myself.