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. Disoriented by an identity crisis, I’m struggling to find 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 mom’s face as she thumbed through the bills, scared of my parents yelling at each other, 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 focused. Fear made me confident (okay fine, cocky). Fear made me fearless.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my way. My innocent wish for financial security was corrupted by Icarian pride. Mistaking a dusty business degree for qualifications, I bought a package delivery company—determined to secure my family’s future and validate my greatness.

Seven days a week for the next two years, I played whack-a-mole with broken trucks, drivers going too fast, drivers going too slow, fender benders, package theft, pissed off customers, and more broken trucks—all while hemorrhaging money and sanity. My stomach clenched every time my phone rang, and it never stopped ringing. My hair soon had enough and severed ties with my scalp. Then I had enough, 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 my meaning and purpose—the pillars of my identity. Trapped in a riptide of emotions I couldn’t understand, I became a stranger to myself—angry, broken, and drowning in alcohol and isolation. Everything I once liked about me was gone, lost to a darkness that had awakened and taken control.

On the surface, I put on this stupid tough guy act that no one gave me an Oscar for. One layer down, I was scared again—scared of who I was becoming, scared my kids would grow up with an asshole father, scared of the distance growing in my marriage, scared that the joy I once carried everywhere was gone forever. Was I willing to lose my soul to save my face?

By necessity, I accepted that asking for help is an act of strength, not of weakness, and that pain needs oxygen to heal. I held my nose and swallowed the steaming turd pie that is my pride. For the first time in my life, I truly opened up, and in my nakedness, friends and family covered my wounds with love.

The color started returning to my world. I came to appreciate the deep tissue massage that is vulnerability—pressing on the tender spots, however painful, to release tension. After somewhat gathering myself with the help of good people, I decided that nothing is more meaningful or purposeful than creating a platform that elevates our stories and the powerful emotions within them. No one should have to face their demons alone. This is the thesis that became asians open.

Conceal don’t feel

Queen Elsa of Arendelle, great singer but terrible advice giver

The emphasis on Asians is important. Raised in a proud culture that solve problems with hustle and achievement, I felt an overwhelming need to lock my pain inside a prison of shame, as if on some level I deserved to feel this way. In the butt crack of despair, it was agonizing to admit failure to myself, let alone talk about it openly.

If only I had realized my entrepreneurial dreams, I could have written a book called Yong Jeon: America’s Next Top Model Minority. My mom would have bragged to all her friends about me. My dad might have given me a grunt of approval.

But the bitter reality was that my fairy tale ending is the kind Disney doesn’t write—the kind that sucks to tell. And yet in telling it, people reached out to embrace me and helped me understand that my brokenness makes me human, not sub-human. Then I saw myself for who I was: a scared, sensitive kid who went completely numb—not because he was tough, but because he wasn’t. And I finally allowed myself to feel what I so desperately needed—compassion.

This journey compelled me to normalize, or at least attempt to, telling the stories that are hardest for Asians to share—because stories have the power to evoke compassion in people. Asians are most recognized for our success. It’s time we are recognized for our struggles too.

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 don’t have to be afraid of the person I’ve become. Who I am today matters less than 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