In the winter of 2019, I quit my job, subleased my apartment, emptied my bank account, and bought a one-way ticket to South Korea. Feeling stuck and unsatiated (after a breakup, a bedbug infestation, and my grandfather’s death), I had been quietly planning the move for months. I went on late-night Skype interviews, earned my ESL teaching certification, learned Hangul (kind of), sent off my documents (so many documents), and signed a one-year contract to teach English in Korea’s second-largest city.
One week after I arrived, I returned home.
That 30-hour journey (Cheongju bus terminal -> ICN -> SFO -> PHL) was the longest of my life.
I’ve written a (quite good!) personal essay about why I went, why I left, and what happened when I came home, which no literary journal has deemed worthy of acceptance. (If an editor is reading this, I’d be happy to send it your way.) But for now, all that I’ll say is that when I landed in Seoul, my body was telling me to leave, leave, leave.
In retrospect, I don’t regret going, and I don’t regret leaving. But coming back was torture. I moved into my parents’ house. I wandered the streets of the neighborhood where I grew up, alone, in freezing February. I couldn’t sleep. My God. I. Could. Not. Sleep. My sense of reality shifted. I existed somewhere between consciousness and dreamland.
I started working at Trader Joe’s, which saved me from completely crumbling, but having to look at my former colleagues’ shocked faces while I rang up their groceries was enough to send me into constant spirals of self-pity.
I felt like such a fucking loser. That’s what I remember most.
It wasn’t about the job — I liked working at the store, joking with my tattoo-clad crew members and flirting with regular customers. I liked getting visibly stronger and having a sense of purpose, as I hoisted 50-pound boxes of produce above my head and learned how to unload the cardboard baler. It was about the fact that I had failed — that I had tried to change my life and ended up right back where I’d started.
One night, after my work shift ended, I went out in the city to eat burgers with a friend. Sitting there, watching other twentysomethings in office clothes run from high rises to happy hours in packs, I turned to her and said something insane: “I don’t feel like I should be here.”
She raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Here… like… Shake Shack?”
“Yeah. No. Here like… out. In the city. I don’t even have a real job. Or an apartment. Or a life.”
She said something along the lines of: “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re allowed to let yourself have fun.”
It wasn’t guilt I was feeling. It was shame. I didn’t necessarily think I should deprive myself of joy in order to save money or time that would have been better spent on job applications. Mostly, I felt like I literally wasn’t worthy of joy — that the second I bought that plane ticket home, I had somehow surrendered my identity as a sane, functioning member of society. I was someone — or something — else. I no longer had a place among the other Adults who could make good decisions and fall asleep easily at night. I thought: I should be hiding.
***
I’m thinking about all of this now, in the final days of 2022. So much of that time in my life is behind me. Things turned out fine, as things usually do. I found a new job (though maybe I would have liked to stay at TJ’s a bit longer). I moved into a new apartment. I have new friends who have no idea why I know the Korean alphabet.
Life is cyclical, though. The universe tends to slam me with the same lessons over and over again to see if I’ve actually learned anything.
This year, after two years of pandemic hibernation, when I was feeling sort of bored with life but mostly Just Fine, I leapt into some big things. One of those things ended abruptly. Suddenly, I was transported back to the Arrivals gate in Philadelphia International Airport on February 23, 2019, rolling two, 50-pound suitcases toward my disappointed parents, whispering, “you had to go, you had to go” to myself over and over again, wondering what the fuck I was going to do with my life.
But if 2019 taught me how to recover from trauma, 2022 let me put it into practice.
This time, I didn’t hide. I left a shitty situation with my head held high. I felt many feelings: grief, anger, indignation, fear. But I refused to let myself feel shame.
During a recent job interview, an unimpressive, middle-aged man asked me to go through my resume and “explain why you left every position.” I answered pleasantly, truthfully, and succinctly. He kept harping on details: Why was there a gap between winter and spring of 2019? Where had I gone? Why did I come back? Why didn’t I go back to my previous employer? Why was I job searching? Was this position beneath me?
He wanted to reduce me down to a timeline — to make me fess up to a series of bad decisions. But a person’s character is not a summation of bullet points on a resume. I know that now.
This year, I found out that I know who I am. I may not know exactly what I want or where I’m going, but I know what my values are. I know who my friends are. I know what I will and won’t stand for. I know sometimes I’m slow — with assignments, with commutes, with getting ready in the morning — but I’ll always end up where I need to be. I know I’m sensitive, fall in love too easily, and that watching any movie about a lonely kid will break my heart. I know I can be impatient and judgmental, but I’m kind to strangers and willing to listen to anyone who is suffering. I know I am often pulled toward drama and chaos, but it keeps life interesting. I know my words can be harsh and direct, but I will never bullshit you. I know that I will always cry on Christmas and have too much nostalgia for the past, but I’m more hopeful for the future than you might think.
This year, I’m proud of my choices. I have, for better or for worse, followed my heart. I’m proud of this newsletter. I’m grateful for anyone who has read any of these words, or sent me a kind message, or decided to subscribe after meeting me in a bar. Thank you so much. I’m wishing you all a happy new year filled with joy and surprises, and I’m reminding you: Don’t ever, ever let anyone tell you who you are.
You’re a really terrific writer. It’s refreshing to hear someone be so honest and raw. I’m sorry to hear of what you endured but it’s good you hear yourself and your needs and that sometimes we have to make difficult choices that don’t fit the script. You will find your way.
I loved reading this! You’re one of the best writers I’ve ever worked with! Good for you for following your heart and being true to yourself! You inspire me.