
The Strange Loneliness of Reinvention
Why becoming someone new sometimes feels less like freedom and more like being unseen. Notes from the in-between.
After years in public leadership and advocacy, I'm learning how to tell stories more personally, more honestly, and more slowly.
After a long run in public service, I stepped back to study, write, and pay closer attention. I'm at USC Annenberg now, learning how to tell stories with more care and fewer acronyms.
This page is a quiet record of what I'm reading, watching, and thinking about these days. A place to gather thoughts, images, and pieces of a second act that feels slower, more personal, and more honest.
I was born in Korea and moved to the United States as a child. Much of my life has been spent between cultures, languages, and identities. Public service and advocacy. Elected office. Communication, business, creative work. The long-form work of building several lives in a row.
I lived through 9/11 in New York. I served as an elected trustee. I learned what public scrutiny does to language, and what it costs to keep speaking anyway.
Now I'm completing graduate studies at USC Annenberg, learning to write about what I've actually lived. Memory, identity, cultural inheritance, survival, and the strangeness of reinvention.
I spent years in public service, international collaboration, advocacy, and creative work. Some of it was loud. Most of it was quiet.
A brief archive of the chapters that shaped the person writing this now.
Youngest woman and first Korean American to serve. The Los Angeles Community College District oversees nine colleges across seventeen cities.
Served two terms in the role. Worked alongside educators, administrators, and community leaders to expand access through public education.
Contributed to a $1.4 billion global settlement during a previous chapter of my career.
Published a motivational biography. Became involved with VERSI, an art museum project. Served in advisory roles with the Korea Communications Commission and the Korea Trade-Investment Promotion Agency (KOTRA).
Supporting the Assyrian Aid Society of America and efforts assisting Ukrainian refugees. Quiet, intermittent, important.
Mostly Los Angeles. Often Seoul. Always slowly.

Why becoming someone new sometimes feels less like freedom and more like being unseen. Notes from the in-between.

Years of statements, testimony, and prepared remarks. What I learned was where the language ended, and where I began.

On accents, lunchboxes, and the long quiet work of explaining yourself to people who never quite ask.
"Reinvention is quieter than people make it sound."
— from a recent journal entry
A running list of things I keep returning to. Mostly food, light, and paper.
Re-read this in two sittings on a Sunday. The way she writes about mothers without flinching is the bar.
Empty. Quiet. Just shop cats and the espresso machines warming up. The best version of any city.
The Korean word for the affection that builds in spite of you. Between neighbors, between strangers on the same bus route. I think about it a lot.
Where I work out what I can't yet write.
Where I read, take notes, and remember to slow down.
The pile rotates. The pile grows. I am working on this.
Once a month. A few books, a recipe, one essay I'm working on, and a photo of my dog. Quiet things, mostly.