what do i even say here?

Who is that boy I see, staring straight back at me? Why is my reflection someone I don’t know?

me these days

You caught me at an awkward time. Slogging through an identity crisis, I’m reaching for the words to fill this “about me” page. For now, I can best describe myself as a recovering capitalist. But let’s start with how I got here.

Born to Korean immigrants, a smaller me was always scared—scared of my parents yelling at each other, scared of my mom’s face as she thumbed through the bills, scared of losing our home, which we eventually did.

This fear shaped everything about me. I was hellbent on making my childhood monsters bow at my feet. Fear made me disciplined. Fear made me confident (okay fine, cocky). Fear made me fearless.

Over the years, that innocent wish for financial stability sprouted wings. High on the American dream, I bought a package delivery company—determined to secure my family’s future and prove I was destined for greatness.

Seven days a week, for the next two years, I played whack-a-mole with busted trucks, batshit drivers, stolen packages, pissed off customers, shady mechanics—and, of course, more busted trucks. The whole time, I was losing money and my damn mind. My stomach clenched every time my phone rang—and it never stopped ringing. My hair quit and severed ties with my scalp.

Then I quit, and in the summer of 2024, I dumped my company in a fire sale.

Hello rock bottom.

Courage is knowing it might hurt and doing it anyway. Stupidity is the same. That’s why life is hard.

Jeremy Goldberg, guy who gets it

When I lost my business, I lost myself. I’d built my whole identity around being the guy who always found a way, the one who could claw through anything. So when I gave up, the truth landed hard—I wasn’t even close to being that guy. I was the guy with a big ego, who shrugged off the daily grind of running a small business. I was the guy who told the world he’d win before he even started. I was the guy who betrayed my family’s trust—and the sacrifices they made so I could make a name for myself.

That’s when things fell apart.

I became a stranger to myself—angry and defeated, hiding in the same corner of a bar with my face in my hands. Everything I once liked about myself was gone—and I was ashamed of who I’d become. I was scared again—scared the joy I carried was gone for good, scared of the distance growing in my marriage, scared my kids would grow up with an asshole dad.

The more I spiraled, the more my fears came true.
I screamed alone in the car, punching my own face because I hated it.
I cursed at strangers over nothing.
I cursed at my wife over nothing.
I drank. And drank. And drank.
I stared into space while my kids begged me to come back to them.

Conceal don’t feel

Queen Elsa of Arendelle, great singer but terrible advice giver

I kept insisting to everyone and to myself that I was fine, that I had it under control. No one gave me an Oscar for my tough guy act. Behind the scenes, I was scrambling to put myself back together before anyone noticed. I just wanted to be that guy again—the one soaring above the clouds, chasing the sun. Life was so much easier as that guy than this one.

Was I willing to lose my soul to save my face?

I came to accept that asking for help is strength, not weakness, and that pain needs oxygen to heal. I took a deep breath and let go of my pride, the last thing that still felt like me. In its place, I found something stronger—the power to tell my story. For the first time in my life, I truly opened up, and in my nakedness, friends and family covered my wounds with love.

That’s when I saw myself for who I was: a scared, sensitive kid who got himself into trouble and didn’t know what to do with the big feelings that came after. So he went numb—not because he was tough, but because he wasn’t. And seeing that boy again, after all these years, I offered what he didn’t know how to ask for—compassion.

Little by little, the color started coming back to my world. I came to appreciate the deep tissue massage that is vulnerability—pressing on the tender spots, however painful, to release tension. Telling my story inspired me to set free the ones we try to lock away—and the powerful emotions buried with them.

I knew I couldn’t be the only one carrying that weight—pride and shame shape the stories we tell, and the ones we don’t. We carry so much in silence. That silence isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. Asians are most recognized for our success. It’s time we’re recognized for our struggles too. That is the belief that became asians open.

The best way to find yourself, is to lose yourself in the service of others.

Gandhi, smart South Asian guy

So much of my identity is still a mystery (not in the cool, Batman way). But in the uncertainty of infinite possibilities, the possibility of reinventing myself hangs in the balance. Maybe I can give this humility thing a try. Maybe I can care less about myself and more about others. I can definitely get better at understanding and communicating my feelings. Cue cheers from my wife.

I have a lot of growing up to do. But I don’t have to be afraid of the person I’ve become. What matters more is who I choose to be tomorrow. I hope asians open is a step toward a better me—I hope it is for you too. And if you’re limping, let’s limp together.

Yong Jeon (전용희), guy who is figuring it out