I was mail-ordered by a nice American family from South Korea when I was nearly 2 years old. I don't actually know how old I am because I wasn't born in a hospital and I'm not entirely sure how I ended up at the orphanage in Seoul. All I know is that I was born in Pusan. My family struggled sometimes growing up, but I don't think I even realized that until I was older. Most of my clothes were thrift store finds and vacations were spent running amuck in my neighborhood rather than traveling afar. I don't ever remember being hungry, but I do remember learning how my mother would throw together meals from the bits and ends in the fridge to make sure we didn't waste any food. We snuck snacks into the movie theater so we wouldn't have to pay the exorbitant prices. Family dinner happened every night and was cooked by my mother. Arby's would have a 5 for $5 deal on roast beef sandwiches and we would bring them home for our family of five instead of going out to eat. Kids in my neighborhood went to college nearby, married their high school sweethearts, and moved back close to home to be near their parents. Welcome to middle class midwest America. Bill Bryson would have loved to do a portrait of our family.
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| Ermerghaaaaa! So cute. I still look EXACTLY the same. |
Somewhere in all that normalcy, I felt out of place... maybe because I was a Korean adoptee in a white community, or maybe because I could sense there was more to life than what media told us we should care about. Much of my youth was spent exploring the fringes, reading philosophy, drawing, writing depressing poetry, playing chess in coffee shops, and smoking cigarettes. My mother taught ESL and was more worldly than most in our small Michigan community. All I knew was I needed to leave and see the world. So I studied Spanish in high school, got a degree international affairs in college, somehow found myself in law school, and spent most of my time trying to afford plane tickets to anywhere but here.
My late-20s were a blur of 80 hour work weeks and desperately trying to balance my stark office life by throwing myself over waterfalls in rafts, jumping out of airplanes, dancing salsa until the wee hours of the morning, biking until my legs gave up, and hiking into the middle of nowhere.
Fast forward to today. I'm in my mid-30s living in Bend, Oregon having left behind the corporate life to bike the world and otherwise find my place in the mountains and remote corners of the world. Interestingly, the simple yet rich life I live is possible on my non-profit salary because of skills I learned in my youth... no food left wasted, foraging local fruit and mushrooms, cooking all my meals from scratch, exploring the mountains in my backyard... I dance the fine line between satiating my "looks good on paper former lawyer" self, my "holy crap how am I not dead outdoors junkie" self, and my relatively new "fist-shaking social activist domestic violence advocate" self. I will be the first to admit that I lead a privileged life. Yes, I made decisions that allowed me to live life on my own terms, but I also was raised by a supportive family that instilled a quiet confidence in me that I could do whatever I set my mind to. I'm not sure they understand why I do what I do, but they trust that it's making me happy and that's all they care about.
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| So much better than working on weekends... |
It's been about three years since I came back from my bike tour across Mexico. I've settled into my new life in Bend working at my local domestic violence and sexual assault organization as the bilingual advocate. I don't talk much about my personal experience being a survivor of domestic violence, but lately, I've been realizing that I don't serve this world much if I stay silent. As a survivor, the most rewarding part of my work is empowering other survivors. As a recovering attorney, I relish the proactive self-care policy of my non-profit organization. I only work 35 hours a week and get more vacation than I know what to do with. Lately, I have been feeling burned out... not by the survivors I work with, but by the systems I have to fight every day and vicarious trauma is a real thing. I know that I need to press the reset button and have been struggling to figure out what that is, where to do, and when.
That's when my roommate and good friend Stuart forwarded me the link to the Baja Divide route. I had this on my radar because I really like to read about the adventures of Lael Wilcox, one of the badass amazing female cyclists out there. She is truly an inspiration to explore outside the lines. I didn't actually go to the website until one evening when I was feeling particularly gloomy about the state of human respect and dignity. Stuart was on a post-bike tour melancholic low. And then I saw it. The scholarship. A free bike, free gear, and $1000 to fund a woman to ride the Baja Divide. I ran to my room and pulled out my Baja maps and books and that giddy feeling in the pit of my stomach was born. "Stu!" I yelled. "Stuuuuuu." I showed him the website for the scholarship. "Dude," he said, "this is you." After pouring over the website with a few sips of whiskey, we shook on it. I would apply and if I got it, Stuart would come with me to bike the Baja Divide.
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| I left these for Stuart to peruse so he couldn't refuse... |
It has been far too long since I was this excited about something. Maybe I had this to a small degree when I was preparing for the Idaho Hot Springs route. Who knows. The stars feel like they are aligning. My boss, who is a like a den mother to our staff, saw the scholarship and said "of course, this is you." She also already approved two months off for me to do this... just in case. That's how much confidence she has. So here's to making this happen!
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