On a clear, sunny day like this, I often think of my mom.

Her name means “Seoul lady,” but she was not born in Seoul. Maybe back then, people saw Seoul as the place you reached once you had made something of yourself, and that is why she was given that name. I never actually asked her.

Looking at her old photos, she was effortlessly beautiful. No matter how many flowers bloom, nothing quite captures the radiance of youth and the brightness of a truly alive smile.

But life was not gentle with that young Seoul lady. She grew up carrying burdens no child should, always figuring out how to get through another day. She struggled but endured. In her twenties, she married an old friend. Together, they had two daughters.

Motherhood felt as if it had taken away the youth and vitality she once had. But she had to be strong, even stronger than before, because she was a mother now. And to this day, she still says her children are the best thing that ever happened to her.

That is why I cannot be defeated or broken. I am her pride. No matter how many times I lose my way, that truth will always guide me back to the light.

When I visit my parents in Korea, my mom insists on feeding me before I have even finished digesting breakfast. I tell her I am full but she pretends not to hear me, nudging another spoonful my way, stubborn in the way only mothers can be.

Cooking is how she shows her love. Maybe it is also her way of apologizing, of making up for the things she never says out loud. In that way, I am just like her, so I cannot deny that I am her daughter.

I am, and I will be. Always.

Remembering the soft, slightly sweet scent of her in 2024.