When I was born, my parents gave me two names, Mari, pronounced in the Swedish way, and Mi-Young, my Korean name. When my mother chose my name she chose the Korean 미 (Mi), meaning beautiful, and 영 (Young) meaning intelligence that comes from one’s spirit. Her hope for me was that I would embody a beautiful and wise essence.

Growing up, I went by 미영 whenever I was in a Korean-speaking context, and Mari when I was in a Swedish-speaking context. When our family immigrated to the United States, the words that I associated with home and belonging got butchered every time teachers would take attendance. Kids would make fun of my name and I never heard anyone saying neither Mari nor Mi-Young as they were intended.

By the time I entered third grade in Queens, I began “correcting” people and telling them my name was Mary. I asked all my teachers to note this change in their attendance sheets. As people found greater ease in saying my name, I slowly began to assimilate.

When we moved to Long Island, I started middle school. On my first day, my mother had packed me the most thoughtful and delicious homemade lunchbox. I still remember exactly what she prepared for me: six pan-fried Korean meat and vegetable 만두 (mandoo, my favorite), soy sauce mixed with rice vinegar (in a small separate Tupperware container with a pink lid), and a portion of steamed sticky rice.

When I sat down for my first lunch, I took out my set of containers and chopsticks. As I bit into my first dumpling, the kids at my table made fun of the smell. After creating a scene, they told me to leave their table. No one wanted me to sit with them.

I did not have any money with me and I cherished the food my mother had lovingly prepared for me. So I took my meal to a bathroom stall and ate by myself.

The next day I asked my parents for lunch money, which at the time was $1.75, and my mom asked why I needed it when she would gladly prepare a lunchbox for me again. I didn’t have it in me to explain, and my dad wouldn’t give me the money.

There was a drawer in the house with change. When no one was around, I took $2.00. It was the first time I ever stole. Not only had I gone against my essence by accepting a name that was never mine, I had stolen from my parents.

The next day I remember exactly what I bought: a Capri-Sun, a ham and cheese sandwich, and a bag of barbecue Lays potato chips. I got a seat at the table.

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Moving often as a young person with mixed identities made the idea of building community feel out of reach. Unintentionally, I began prioritizing others’ comfort as a way to receive acceptance.

By the time I was in high school, after enduring painful experiences of exclusion, I stood in the doorway of my mom’s art studio with news to share.

“어머니 (mother), I have realized something. Please do not be sad when I say this, I promise it no longer hurts me. I have come to understand that I am not meant to have friends. I might have many relationships and help many people, but I will not have any real mutual friendships, and that is ok.”

My mother put down her paintbrush and invited me in. She tried to understand what I was saying, but I couldn’t tell her about my experience of bullying. It was something I felt I had to go through by myself and I did not want to cause her any pain. So to be honest, I do not remember what her response was or what else happened that day. I just remember the strong resolve I felt in naming this new truth.

At the time, accepting this reality felt less risky and less painful than the path of accepting myself.

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As I once again opened up to the idea of community during my university days, I found myself continuing my old pattern of confusing others’ acceptance of me as belonging. One small act marked a shift, however.

With the permission to introduce myself afresh to new people, I chose to withstand their reactions and introduce myself as Mari. While I didn’t understand it at the time, this decision marked the first step of a journey back to myself.

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In 2019, after spending most of my life abroad, I moved back to Stockholm. The year before, my parents had called my husband and I as we were living in London, and asked if we were interested in buying and renovating their house – the place where my brother and I grew up. While we had never planned to move to Sweden, or buy a house, or renovate one, we said yes.

This house was special.

In the backyard stood a pink life-sized dollhouse that my paternal grandmother and her brother built from scratch as a gift for my fourth birthday, the same year my grandmother unexpectedly passed away. They had cut down trees in northern Sweden, prepared all the planks, hardware, windows, paint and roofing material, and even packed white crocheted curtains and turquoise wallpaper with bunnies and mushrooms on it. They drove it all down to Stockholm to handcraft a magical space for me to play.

Just beyond this dollhouse was a lake with a forest on the opposite side. This was the lake where I learned how to swim with wild fish and mallards, where my dad and I would ice skate in the winter. This was the forest where we would build hideouts made of sticks and branches among wild blueberry bushes in the summer. In this fullness of nature, I never questioned my belonging.

Accepting my parents’ offer to return to my roots came with profound work that was mine to do. Work that I had never imagined would come my way. Work that has changed me forever.

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When my husband and I arrived at the house it was mostly empty. Inside were over fifteen antique pieces of Korean furniture and large earthenware 김치 (kimchi) pots from the 조선 (Joseon) period, nothing else. My mother had brought these pieces to Sweden decades ago to keep her culture alive in her new surroundings, and now this was their home.

In the front yard stood the apple tree my dad planted during my childhood. It bore few fruits, only at the ends of certain branches.

The house had good bones, but the floors were splintering in the areas of most use, the paint in the ceiling was chipping, and the house wasn’t breathing well. We could feel the insufficient ventilation in our bodies as we moved through the space.

Little did I know that the physical work of renovating my childhood home would spur the all-encompassing work of rebuilding my whole essence.

As we began ripping out flooring, we discovered water damage in some of the joists. In parallel, painful questions arose in our family system, revealing unresolved hurt far beyond the surface. And at my new job, I slowly began to see the fundamental cracks in the program that was now mine to build – with little time and even fewer resources – to ensure those in my care would walk away with what they were promised. All while navigating the COVID-19 pandemic with the rest of the world.

It was completely and utterly overwhelming. But this simultaneous and visceral breakdown of structures I had taken for granted slowly made it possible for the light to come in. Just as wild blueberries thrive in areas where trees have been cut down and recently reseeded, the clearing gave way to what mattered most for my growth.

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After years of committing to my essential work, in all areas of my life, I had reactivated my agency. As we prioritized a strong foundation for our house and chose materials that would last, I began to understand the relationship between my own wellbeing and my capacity to serve sustainably. As we pruned our apple tree, I learned to let go of the branches that were no longer serving their purpose and dared to cut the relatively successful fruit-bearing branches with the trust that, in the next season, they would fulfill more of their potential. As our family chose to take on real adaptive work, we gradually learned how to heal together.

As this healing took root, the focus of my work slowly shifted. I regained a true sense of belonging within myself and learned how to participate in life on a deeper level. And rather than seeking community for the sake of it, I learned to notice it as the profound outcome of showing up to the work that is mine to do, in deep relationship with others.

By doing the work I felt activated to do, I realized that its fullest potential inevitably includes, serves and depends on others. With this shift came another: rather than detaching myself for fear of exclusion or over estimating others’ significance due to a lack of self esteem, I discovered shared becoming: a mutual lived experience of how hard and beautiful it is to show up to the real work of our lives. How profound the potential is for healing, learning and change when we dare to include ourselves in it.

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This year, I suddenly experienced my unspoken dreams coming true.

Our beloved apple tree has apples on every branch, from trunk to shoot. There are apples all the way up to the clouds and down to the earth. Our usual plan for the apple harvest has had to accommodate the abundance.

Our family spent time together in Korea for the first time in decades, knowing better how to support each other and cherish the love we share. We practiced acknowledging the pains of our past and meeting the present moment with gratitude.

Our house became our home.

This year, through sharing it all in ways I had never done before, I experienced a new profound sense of community with people I have known for a long time and people I have just met, reshaping my understanding of community altogether.

As I experience this flow of my deepest hopes coming true – not from forcing them into being, but from showing up as myself – I feel the awe of emergence: The idea that there is a purpose beyond me that wants to come true with and through me. The idea that a deeper shared purpose is living, waiting to come true through us collectively.

As I suspend what I think I know and deepen my attention, I allow the rise of a new intention to move within me. And as I discover how to activate my agency in relationship with others, I find myself coming true.