I could never change my family.

I was 5 when my mom walked out on my sister and me.

We were dropped off in New Jersey to live with my Korean father. We were rushed into his house and then my mom turned around and she left.

No one told me that she was gone. No one told me if she was even coming back. I had no idea what was happening.

I knew that this was my father. He had black hair, glasses, and he laid his hands on us from Day 1.

We quickly learned how to clean thoroughly and please my father. If he called for us, we showed up, standing straight and hands at our sides. If he wanted help in the garage, we were out there lifting boxes.

I was afraid of my father.

All the time.

He had no mercy when he hit. There was no holding back to how many times or how much force he used.

Worst of all — he would hit without warning.

I’d stand next to him in the kitchen putting away the dry dishes. He’d see something that was not properly washed or something that ticked him off and he would take his fist or a nearby hard object and he’d swing at my head.

Sometimes, I’d hear the sound of his slippers as he charged down the hallway and I knew he was coming for us. His anger was audible before he made contact. There was never enough time to ask what or to plead stop or to beg what I did wrong — he’d just hit. Hard.

And I cried.

I cried all the time.

Naturally, I cried for my mom. I wanted her to come and save me.

A couple times a year, she’d call and because the phones in the house at the time had cords, I could only talk to her in my father’s office. He would hear everything I’d say so I kept conversation short and tried to not cry.

The next time I saw my mom was over 10 years later.

I was graduating high school and I guess she decided to come see me. She looked so different than what I remembered. She rarely sent pictures of herself and we did not video chat back then. I was shocked.

My mom and I were sitting in the kitchen when my father walked in. This was the first time I ever saw them in the same room in my life.

He didn’t say anything but I suppose by him just being around her— she reacted and I immediately noticed. She crossed her arms, she made herself small, and avoided all eye contact.

So I realized 2 things—

1. He must have laid his hands on her, too.
2. Then, she knew exactly what he was like and she fucking left us with him anyway.

The realizations poured over me slowly and I processed it all in the days after my mom flew back.

I had spent so much time crying, wishing, and praying for my mom to come back and to save me. But this whole time, she knew what we could have been going through and never decided to come back for us.

It was clear that she did not care but when I was a child, I wanted to believe she did.

So part of the truth is that my mother abandoned me and my father abused the shit out of me. Then during high school, my older sister ran away from home.

The hardest part of the truth was that my family was so broken and I was never going to fix it.

It’d be impossible. For some years, I didn’t want anything to do with my mom and I knew I was never going to change my father.

So what did I do when my then-current home life felt so incredibly fucked?

I pushed forward on my future.

I would not be able to fix what was already behind me but I knew I could control what was in front me. So I ran after it.

I double-downed on my school studies, my personal development, running, and building a better life for my future self. I did all this because I refused to let my upbringing define my life.

You can come from a dark, fucked up childhood and grow into a bright, loving person. It takes a lot of work and strength and it’s not easy.

But it is so worth it.

Growing up, I had every reason to think that the world was a shitty place and God was not there.

But I held onto the belief that my life was going to be MORE than this, more than growing up in this stupid fucking house. I held onto this belief very tightly.

And I believe that people who experience emotionally challenging times in their formative years— we are made up of something different.

We develop a unique muscle, like a special reserve that we know we have and that we can tap into when we push through difficulties.

When I’m running and it gets hard and I want to stop, I remember when my father struck me and I stood there and I fucking took it. So I channel that and push through pain.

Again, I refused to let my upbringing define my life. Instead I let it shape me into the strong woman I grew up to be.

And truth is, I am still working through it.

Still growing.

Thanks for reading, means a lot.