The Truth
As I reflect on my 2025 (like most people currently are), I find the strongest urge to share my story.
If you are from WA, UConn, a childhood Cape friend, worked with me in various food industry jobs, someone I nannied for, or simply someone who let me cook in their kitchen — I appreciate all of you and want to preface this post with a trigger warning for suicide, addiction, and mental health in general. We all struggle, in so many different ways. I hope in sharing my story that we can all feel more connected (maybe traumatized, but also at peace).
I gave a speech at Worcester Academy while running for the Board of Monitors during my junior year. That was the first time I had a panic attack. However, this is not my earliest memory that involves mental health. My first memory regarding GAD and MDD is of me lying in bed around the age of 6, while my mum and brother tried to offer anything to get me out of bed (food, nails done, a movie, or a shopping spree were some of the options). I spent a lot of my childhood in talk therapy but began addressing my mental health as an adult after being in an abusive relationship my sophomore and junior years of college.
While at a Catholic elementary school, I began stealing toys and snacks from my peers. I remember seeing a psychologist, but the only thing I remember is him asking me if, “I would rather be a frog or a dog.” Who the hell would pick being a frog over a dog? My child self could not fathom why a God would exist and why they would take my biological parents away from me.
In high school, I began stealing money from my parents’ wallets or off our kitchen counter to buy various items to fill an emotional void. I did what I had observed my whole life through social media and learned experiences. I bought clothes, makeup, Juul pods, and food I wasn’t “supposed to eat.” I thought that stealing and buying items would make me feel “okay.” I resented my parents for adopting me because I did not understand that the discomfort came from within me and my inability to accept and love myself.
In college, I began putting Amazon orders on my parents’ credit cards. They are fortunate enough to use a credit card without worrying if there is enough credit limit or if it would be within 30 to 40% of their revolving credit utilization. This is a great privilege that I did not recognize until I went to college.
I started taking Zoloft and hydroxyzine (prescribed by my pediatrician) during the summer of 2020 in a post-COVID-19 world while I was working in food service on Cape Cod following my first year at UConn. I basically grew up with a helicopter mum (in the best and worst ways) and went “crazy” in college. AKA I got a fake ID and bought alcohol and smoked weed for the first time.
I switched from Zoloft to Prozac, back to Zoloft, and then to Celexa. The black box warnings are true. I became passively suicidal for the first time in my life and took the fall semester of my junior year off. I went to a Partial Hospitalization Program at McLean Hospital virtually for two weeks. I got a job at Lululemon and went back to school the following semester, all while taking community college classes so I could still graduate “in time.” I switched my major from nursing to psychology simply so I could spend the least amount of my parents’ money on a BA.
I was fortunate enough to graduate college with no student loans (thank you, Dad). After graduating in 2024 with a BA in Psychology and a passion for childhood development, I moved out of my childhood home and started living on my own (with Claire) for the first time. I moved out of my house way too quickly — I should have made better choices. I did not realize that I was still a child. I was trying to act like what I thought an adult “should be,” and I failed miserably (I stole from my parents again, on a catastrophic level).
I began working at McLean Hospital in December of 2024 as a Mental Health Specialist in hopes of pursuing a Master’s in Mental Health Counseling. I have struggled with my addiction to nicotine (since high school) and weed (since college). I have probably struggled with anxiety and depression from the age of 5 but never knew how to express my emotions. So I said, “yes,” “no,” “I don’t know,” “this is weird,” and “I don’t care.” Prior to this job, I was scooping ice cream (which I got fired from because I would no-call, no-show, or just call out) and nannying to make ends meet.
The job at McLean felt way too connected. (Also… let’s continue to normalize therapists who suffer from mental illness. My therapist at that time had her own therapist and was navigating her own diagnoses.) At this point in time, I still had not given myself the opportunity to slow down and process everything that has happened since I was born (and even before that, if you know what epigenetics is). I worked on SB1, which is a geriatric unit for those who suffer from any mental illness, most without major neurocognitive disorders (dementia or Alzheimer’s). My nurse manager dated my sister way back when I was a child, and the psychiatrist was the father of someone I went to high school with. I was the person who sat in their car, hit their vape/dab pen, and cried. I once asked my coworkers how they take care of themselves, and the general response was, “you become numb to it.”
Mind you, I only worked this job for a few months. It felt like years. I wiped asses, showered people, wheelchair-raced them through tunnels on their way to various treatments, painted nails, witnessed a suicide attempt, and listened to a lot of life stories, all while managing my own mental health issues through my primary care doctor and virtual talk therapy. It was so rewarding and fulfilling, but I brought the job home with me every single day.
I was working 60+ hour weeks, applying to graduate school because I thought that was expected of me. For as long as I can remember, my family (my “adopted” family) has told me that all they want is for me to be happy, healthy, and safe. However, I constantly had to ask, “are you proud of me?” and, “do you regret adopting me?” That’s what they told me every year when I asked what they wanted for their birthday or Christmas (I probably got them socks or a book with the money I stole from them). This year, I wrapped a potato to give to one of my nieces, which is something my sister did for me when I was young.
Essentially, I spent my childhood trying to assimilate to my Italian-Irish family (one who tried to introduce Korean culture to me the moment I was carried off the plane). BTW, if you didn’t already know, I was adopted from South Korea. I spent the first month of my life in the hospital after being born prematurely in a maternity clinic. I suffered from sepsis in my hip, a possible heart murmur (later discovered as SVT), and was underweight. My biological mother was young and smoked cigarettes while she was pregnant with me, and my biological father was too young and broke to take care of a newborn. They did, as I’ve been reassured many times, what was best for me.
I spent four months with a foster family who had a daughter in her teens or twenties. I later met this family (I think in 2013, I trauma-blocked the entire thing). On July 7, 2002, I flew from Seoul to Boston to meet my parents. I enjoy flipping through pictures of my extended family meeting me for the first time. My brother once asked if I would fit back into the mailbox (I was a chunky, Michelin-looking 5-month-old who later had the classic bangs and bowl cut), and now we all giggle about that comment. There is even documentation of my diaper-changing schedule, and it’s very clear that I was an anxious human to begin with.
Anyways, on January 15, 2025, my body entered psychosis due to stress, anxiety, insomnia (5 days of no sleep), and the fact that I cold-turkeyed weed and nicotine. My boyfriend at the time took me to the ER, and I spent five days under inpatient care at Newton Wellesley Hospital while resigning from my job as an MHS and a nanny with no notice. I was in the thick of a mental health crisis.
I spent the first half of this year in mental health care. Following my first inpatient stay, I went to residential care in Virginia for about 45 days at Newport Healthcare. I lived in a mansion with seven other young women who have general mental health disorders. This was because Intensive Outpatient Programs and Partial Hospitalization Programs were not enough. Especially virtually, I had never felt so disconnected from myself and the world. I needed professional mental health help, a higher level of care, and reminders to eat, sleep, exercise, and take my medication. Through this experience, I learned how to simply take care of myself again following burnout. I returned from Virginia in March after reapplying and being accepted to work again as an MHS. However, I was discharged to an IOP, where I was advised by my peers and medical professionals that this was not a good career choice right now. What I needed was a “get-better” job. So, as advised by my boyfriend at the time, I showed up to the best Korean restaurant in Boston with a resume and a hope for a job that helped me get out of bed in the morning.
In April of this year, I attempted suicide during a severe mental health crisis following a breakup and required emergency medical and psychiatric care (so diva of me, but such is life!). I was involuntarily admitted on a Friday. There is a 72-hour hold for patients who are a danger to themselves, so I spent the weekend and filed on Monday to be released. I FaceTimed my friends and various motherly figures (you know who you are) asking for advice and reassurance because I was so insecure and anxiously attached. My parents came to visit me, and this was my first time seeing them since I moved out.
I spent 45 days at Sierra Tucson, where I received TMS and went through various medication changes, trying a mood stabilizer for the first time. I did EMDR and unlocked memories I had blocked as a child. Through EMDR, I learned that the death of a close friend in 2013 is the root cause of my couch-surfing habits. I avoided my house by all means because I was so uncomfortable in my own body. I spent countless summers sleeping at my friends’ houses to avoid facing trauma regarding being adopted.
I now laugh when I tell people I tried to 86 myself because my life is so full of love and happiness that I would be incredibly pissed off if I died randomly (queue a newfound fear of death). I am not officially diagnosed with a personality disorder, OCD, or bipolar. I continue to regulate medications (Prozac and Seroquel to sleep, Ativan as needed) closely because I am navigating a possible bipolar diagnosis. However, due to my drug abuse and lack of genetic history, I continue to show up to therapy and take my medications as prescribed. I now take many natural supplements to support my body and brain health.
I have been continuing to work while attending an IOP. In the past six months, I have shared so many meals, belly-laughed deeply, learned a lot about health insurance and what being an adult actually is, and most importantly: eaten a lot of good food. I am fortunate and now recognize that I will never understand what it is like to be in the shoes of someone who did not grow up privileged. I stole underwear and socks while working at Lululemon but continue to give homeless folks a warm meal or simply ask them to share their life story over a cig. I stop people on the streets of Boston and ask them where they come from, how they got to where they are now, and offer to buy them coffee because my parents send me money for food and help me pay part of my rent, despite the fact that I live paycheck to paycheck and have SNAP benefits.
I have discovered such a deep passion for food. I grew up in a family where food is medicine (but also in a family that struggled with generational trauma regarding eating disorders). I dated the son of two Polish immigrants and spent the summer following graduation living in their house. Through that experience, I learned that it is okay to come from different places and one of the many joys in life is sharing a meal. I also learned that I am 100% a nature person, and that is where I find the most peace and the ability to actually relax without constant rumination. I have healed my relationship with food and eat when my stomach grumbles or when my coworkers and friends take me out to dinner or let me cook for/with them. I also eat for free at work because family meal and fueling our bodies before being in the weeds is incredibly important to me.
I still struggle to regulate my sleep schedule, as it is currently 2:14 a.m. EST. I took my sleeping medication at 10:30 p.m. and smoked a bowl of indica weed I get from the dispensary down the street. I still vape, but have resorted back to a 3% instead of a 5% so I can wean my body off of the constant stimulation I have been giving it. Instead of saying “new year, new me,” I will continue to shed my skin and become the strongest version of myself.
I hope, in sharing this, and if you have read this far, that you reach out to someone you haven’t talked to in a while, take an everything shower for yourself, dissociate to whatever music you listen to, go into nature solo, or buy a homeless person a warm meal. Take care of yourself. We are all human.
Looking back on this year, I hope to hold two truths: that the world is a cruel, unfortunate, and scary place, but it is also a privilege to express gratitude and love on a daily basis. That is what makes my world turn, besides the sun setting/rising every day, gravity, as John Mayer would say, and what I think is my induction into the cult of Boston.
With love always and continued photo dumps (back to contemplating van life).