I have been absent on here for some weeks and I apologize. I realize this recognition comes with both guilt—I must hold myself accountable—and tenderness to myself as I undergo what I believe to be one of the most transformative periods of my adult life thus far.
The tulips on Park Avenue are not only completely gone but quite literally uprooted. It’s jarring to see the flower beds, once vibrant and full of life, barren and devoid of any color; nothing but mere soil canvases waiting for something completely new to be planted. I like this a lot.
In this time of my absence on Substack, I continue to work with my dream brands, like talking to Fendi about making kombucha and resigned my apartment lease for a third year, which, by the end of the third year, will mark the longest I’ve been in any home in my 12 years as a New Yorker. Recommitting to this space means hardcore nesting and adorning my home with some new pieces, including pink bedsheets I’m certain will greatly improve my life.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about self-care and how I am a master at it in some ways but fall massively short in other areas. I have a charming home that I take shelter in, I wear beautiful garments that make me feel good, I eat food that nourishes my body. All of this comes with great privilege, yes, but also with a meticulous understanding of what it means to self-soothe in healthy, joy-inducing ways. I love being a woman of taste to indulge in so much beauty as a way to cope with the harshness of the world! It is for the same reason we need art, fashion, comedy, and the like.
Another classic me move to self-soothe is to return home to Korea, a place that reminds me not only of my roots and my origin story (lol) but also of the importance of community, collectivism, and national identity. I also iterate that these mechanisms of self-care are positive and never harmful, though they probably require more time, money, and effort than a simple breathwork exercise.
But copious amounts of tending to one’s “self” does not equate to a holistic and lasting tending to oneself. Along the way, there are things that get neglected; in this case, I stopped writing again even though writing, in many ways, is another tool I can use to self-soothe. About two months ago, I started seeing a therapist for the first time in my life; specifically a psychoanalyst. And while this is nothing groundbreaking for the average self-aware American seeking to better themselves (please be gentle on me, I did not grow up here!), the work I am uncovering is a kind of reckoning I am proud of. It’s the kind of self-care I’ve neglected in my adult life. I’ve even opened up to my parents about this decision, something I never thought I’d have the courage to do because of Korea’s complete disregard for such services. I, too, once shared these judgements but have since made strides in overcoming any pompous sentiment in the name of enlightenment.
I am reminded of this excerpt by Carl Jung, whom I am (sometimes/often) thrilled to share a last name with:
The thing about getting older (with what “older” wisdom I have at 29) is that you begin to realize that being alive equates to suffering of all kinds. And it’s perfectly okay and definitely not as dramatic as that sentence makes it out to be. Beyond Jungian psychology, this is what modern-day behavioral therapists and Buddhists alike call radical acceptance: the ability to fully accept one’s reality no matter how painful or difficult it may be.
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