I grew up amidst the chaos of New York City—blinding lights, blaring honks of taxis, blurry waves of people. Everyone I saw was ablaze with beautiful color, in streaks of rosy pink to lilac purple. I loved the brilliance of vibrant turquoise—its color seeping into my clothes and finding me on every surface. At school, I ran around in my sky blue uniform, navy skirt falling to my knees. Elsewhere, I was a soft pastel orange, fresh mint, dandelion yellow. In the day, I basked in the busy city; at night, my quiet neighborhood. No one cared about my funky, mix-matched T-shirt and shorts, only me. My own eyes were all that mattered to me. 

My world turned upside down when I moved back to Seoul. Everyone passed by in a dull monochrome haze, with glances that pierced my youthful soul. I didn’t want to wear my orange and white striped shirt or my bright pink shorts. I grew to only crave black—the sweetness of fitting in—conforming. A sliver of skin would catch stares on the subway, looks of contempt thrown at me like silent daggers. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I locked her up in a box that I created on my own, smothering my light and emitting nothing but darkness. 

The weight of the books in my backpack overwhelmed me as I stepped foot into my high school building. The masks I wore seemed to not only conceal my face but suppress me, physically, mentally. My days were spent rotting away at my desk, scribbling and typing mindlessly. All I cared about was finally reaching the end of the day, doing my best on tomorrow’s exam, getting this last page done. As the time I spent motionless snowballed, my body grew heavier. The moments I spent in front of the mirror became nothing more than brief seconds, gaze averted before I could lock eyes with myself. 

Hongdae opened up a new realm for me. When I stepped foot in those beautiful streets, I was greeted with all sorts of people, dressed head to toe in their own flavor of charm, and I was struck with awe. As I walked into one vintage store after another, I was mesmerized by the beauty of each garment: the arrays of clothes that hugged my body just right, comforting rather than berating. I sunk deep into this neighborhood that unraveled me, embraced me. It was as if the frame I was forced to fit into expanded and expanded until it was far too big to contain me. 

Eventually my closet regained its color, along with the light with which I used to view myself. What was once a space devoid of hue was now painted with droplets of baby blue and wine red, periwinkle tinkered on each shelf. As I pulled on my bootcut jeans and slipped on a pink rhinestone tank top, I stopped fretting over how anyone other than myself would regard me. The reflection I saw was specked with iridescence, and that was all that mattered. 

Now, in the foreign Californian heat, I ground myself—not in the land that I step in, but in the person that I am. No matter where I am or who I’m surrounded by, I can always find solace in myself, as I embrace myself dearly.