What prompted me to take this picture was the profound sense of transition and possibility it embodied. The open space, the historic architecture, and the solitary figure together told a story—not just of a place, but of a pivotal moment. It wasn't merely a campus scene; it was the visual echo of my own feelings: the anticipation, the independence, and the quiet wonder of starting a new chapter far from home. This image, for me, is the perfect postcard—it holds both the beauty of WashU and the personal memory of a journey just beginning.

The scene captures a serene corner of the garden, where a dark, still pond mirrors a traditional Chinese pavilion with its elegant tiled roof and intricate lattice windows. Lush trees frame the view softly, while a mother and her three kids sit peacefully on a bench under the pavilion, almost becoming part of the landscape itself. The overcast sky lent the moment a gentle, diffused light, muting the colors and deepening the sense of calm—a mood so characteristic of these timeless spaces.

What prompted me to take this picture was the quiet dialogue between stillness and life. I was drawn not only by the perfect reflection in the water but also by the a young mother and her three children resting there. In their intimate grouping—the mother seated calmly, with her children nestled closely around her—I saw more than visitors; I witnessed a moment of familial bond and quiet guardianship within a heritage that has offered peace for centuries. It reminded me that these gardens are not just relics of the past, but living spaces where generations connect, and where the sense of "home" is nurtured and passed down. That interplay of family love and enduring beauty is what I wanted to preserve: a quiet testament to why the Lingering Garden, and Suzhou itself, continues to captivate the heart.

I watched the mountains change colour and aesthetic throughout the night and the morning.

A fleeting moment, autumn holding its breath, flames of red and the gold breaking through it. After the blizzardy winter, this light felt like an arrival. WashU became home away from home (7000 miles away). Sitting beneath trees set ablaze with color, I realized that change can be intimidating but also radiant. Studying abroad asks us to shed comfort and grow toward the light, and in this moment, I was watching transformation itself. In me, at WashU.

Some heroes wore masks. Some heroes stood beside me. And she is one of them. The Fighter.

This was taken during the COVID-19 pandemic when I was a medical intern at my university hospital, and we were called back from post-exam vacation to serve. Everything was new and we were anxious. It was hard to breathe under the heavy masks we wore and each day started in the hospital with uncertainty.

In Korean culture, a 60th birthday is deeply meaningful as it symbolizes completion of full zodiac cycle. We traveled to celebrate my mother's 60th b-day, and visiting the Getty Center became one of the most memorable moments in our journey.

The trip also turned out to be our last family trip before my brother got married this year. The picture is not just a scenery but holds the warmth of shared experience.

Living abroad, I learned to build my independence. I cooked this to show her that I can do well on my own, even far from home. I wanted to make her feel at ease and to give her a shared table that reflects where I come from and where I study.

Homesickness often comes in subtle waves — getting bigger during major moments in our lives. I often miss family dinners. Cooking this dish reminded me that home is not a distant place.

For me, this moment represents more than pasta on a plate — it goes beyond the plate. It shows attachment and growth — between the past that shaped me and the future I am building. I carry my family's presence with me. A little piece of home always lives in the people we love.

engulfed within the forests I long to come home to. 

I stand here in recognition of how far I’ve come, 

and in acknowledgement of how far I still want to go.

Taiyuan is never just steel and skyline. It is water, distance, and quiet resilience. The bridge bends gently across the river, stitching past and present together.

In this view, the city feels both new and familiar -- like home that has grown up while I was away, taller and brighter, yet still carrying the same quiet rhythm in its water, the same outline in its mountains, the same place that recognizes me even after I’ve changed.

It didn’t feel dramatic or loud. It felt quiet. The Arch seemed to reach into the glowing sky, and for a few minutes, the familiar skyline felt almost unreal.