Resolution

There was a particular summer I became a writer.

I was on a plane to Jeju Island for a school trip. I had wanted to sit by the window, but my seat was in the middle aisle — the worst one in the 3-4-3 configuration. But no matter: suddenly, an ocean of words came rushing out of me. Sentences flowed as if someone had turned on a faucet.

The only paper I had was the back of my boarding pass, clipped to my school name tag. So I grabbed it, flipped it over, and began to write. I don’t remember what I wrote about — only that I filled the long strip of thin paper with fine, careful letters and felt proud of the result. I felt refreshed, authentic, and strong.

Several more summers went by in the same fashion: in the middle of nowhere, words would pour out of my soul. I wrote them down, then read them again and again. Those small writings became the seeds of a national speech contest, a college application, and later, a portion of my published writing.

Sometimes, when I felt sad, I felt the words rising inside me. Like a child asking for attention, they pressed against my throat until I wrote them down. Back then, I didn’t know it was Han speaking. I only knew it felt like home. A home I craved, and wanted to run away from.

Last night, in bed, I thought perhaps nothing has changed: despite all that education and experience, it felt as though life never changed, that I’m still circling the same old ground. That sense of sameness fed me up.

Nine hours later, I was up again. After hanging the laundry, I quickly came out to a cafe. It’s a new day, I told myself. And I will write again. Even though it seems like it’s an endless spiral, I’ll keep walking; even though this is all I have, I’ll honor the life I have. And to the internal lie that keeps telling me to quit on hoping, I’ll say, “Not yet.”

It was a small, good thing I could do for myself.