This will all still be here.

Letters from Korea: June 2026

2026 년 6월 8일
June 8, 2026

Dear friends,

Greetings from space! I’m writing this letter to you from 12,000 meters up in the air on my 14-hour flight from Korea to occupied Turtle Island.¹ I’m in the clouds. Today is Monday, June 8.

Since our trip to Korea last year, Greg and I have been referring to going between Korea and America as “going through the portal.” I feel like being on an airplane in the sky feels like being suspended between space and time.

I was hoping to write you one last letter from Korea this month, but the first week of June was chaos as I prepared to reenter the portal to leave Korea and return to occupied Turtle Island.

Our flight took off from 인천공항, Terminal 1, at 10:00 am. We will be landing at Dulles International Airport at 10:42 am on the same day. We’re flying back in time. We’re currently in our eighth hour of flight, with six hours left to go.

According to Air Premia’s flight map, we are currently flying over 태평양, the Pacific Ocean, and we will soon be flying over Kwakwaka'wakw land.²

In a few hours, day will become night again, today will become yesterday, and “there” will become “here.” Our family will be split differently. Haejoon and Greg will be in Korea. 엄마, Gamja, and I will be in occupied Turtle Island. We will be two and three, instead of three and two.

I feel like a bridge.

It’s a magical thing to be flying into the past. It’s a magical thing to be able to finally see 엄마 again after three and a half months of separation. It’s a magical thing to be able to make our way across the world in just fourteen hours.

It’s going to be a really difficult couple of months living away from Greg and Haejoon, but I find relief in the certainty that I will be coming back.

Flying by myself, I’m reminded of what life was like long before I had a child. As nice as it is to not have someone screaming for my attention, crying for food, and throwing airplane pillows at me, I miss Haejoon. I would not be able to write this letter if he were here with me, but I also would prefer to not write this letter if that meant I could hold him, hear him laugh, and see his smiling little face. There’s a baby on the plane and hearing her cries makes me miss my baby.

I packed Haejoon’s little gray sweatsuit with white foxes on it to bring back something of his that I could hold in my hands while we’re apart. I changed 아빠’s phone background to a picture of Greg, Haejoon, and me at 포항 KTX Terminal, and I changed the main screen background to a view of the buildings and the mountains from my street in 포항 — a view I’ve seen every day for the last three and a half months.

When I told 엄마 that Haejoon had no idea that I was leaving and he was crying, only because Greg was holding him and not letting him run around the airport, she said, “다행이네… 이해를 할 수 있어서 울고 있었으면 발이 떨어지겠니? What a relief… if he understood you were leaving and he was crying, would your feet have been able to fall?”

I miss 해준. I miss Greg. I miss my family. I miss 포항. I miss Korea.

Two months.
Two months.

Whenever I leave Korea, I am a weeping, bawling mess.

I never have enough time.
I’m never ready to leave.
I never know when exactly I’ll be coming back.
I know it will be years.
Probably five.
I inevitably return to occupied Turtle Island carrying this tidal grief in my chest.
I can try to bury it, but it never goes away.