The Parts of Me Nobody Sees
When I think back to my childhood, I remember a time when I was loud, mischievous, and full of energy. I wasn’t the quiet or reserved person I later became. One memory that still lingers is from 2004, when my eldest younger sibling was born. I was playing with other children, including a distant cousin. I don’t remember exactly what led to it, but I threw something at my cousin. He started crying, and I remember feeling a mix of shock and confusion—part of me wanted to apologize, but another part of me froze, unsure what I had done wrong or how to make it right. Looking back now, I see it as a small moment of mischief, but it also left a strange awareness: that my actions could hurt others and that I might be judged for it.
In first grade, I was still energetic and engaged with my surroundings. I played with my siblings, cousins, and friends, diving into Nintendo, PlayStation, Lego building, or running races. I felt a simple joy during these moments. But slowly, things began to change. I noticed myself speaking less, observing more, and quietly stepping back from active play. Sometimes I would still act lively, but it was brief. Mostly, I stayed silent. The world around me was suddenly a place where I had to be careful, and I didn’t fully understand why I had shifted.
School Years and Bullying
School, especially from first grade through middle school, was often a place of discomfort and unease. I was teased and bullied, sometimes by older children and sometimes by peers. They gave me nicknames like “the owl” or “Lee Chong-min.” I remember the feeling of walking down the hallway, dreading the shove from someone passing by, or the whispers that followed me in class.
I remember sitting in class on Saturdays during religious lectures, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The leader were speaking, but the students who bullied me often disrupted the session instead of paying attention. Some would whisper, nudge me, or make faces, drawing unwanted attention to me. I felt a deep sense of frustration, embarrassment, and helplessness—I wanted to listen, to focus, but I was constantly distracted and made to feel like a target instead of a participant.
One incident stands out vividly: a group of girls, led by one in particular, pulled my hair during class. I remember the sharp sting, the sudden pain, and the tears that threatened to spill. The worst part was the teacher’s reaction—or lack thereof. He treated it as nothing serious, a “normal child’s behavior.” At that moment, I felt invisible, frustrated, and powerless. I wanted someone to see that it hurt, that I didn’t deserve it, but no one did.
These experiences made school a place I sometimes dreaded. I skipped classes occasionally, not because I didn’t care about learning, but to avoid the humiliation and discomfort. I never told my mother; even if I had, I felt like she might not understand or might scold me for causing trouble. Sometimes classmates would approach me to copy essays or ask for help, which confused me—they needed me, yet at other times they would accuse me of cheating when the situation was reversed. I often felt trapped in a world I didn’t fully understand, with conflicting expectations from peers and teachers.
Academically, I had strengths and weaknesses that didn’t always align with how I was treated. Teachers often praised my English or computer skills but criticized me for being weak in math, science, history, and art. I remember sitting in the classroom while others went outside to play or eat snacks. I would remain inside, reading encyclopedias or books about culture. It wasn’t that I felt smarter than others; it was just safer to stay in a quiet space where I could exist without drawing attention or being mocked. The cafeteria, the playground, the hallways—all of them felt unpredictable, even threatening. I still remember the embarrassment when my math teacher gave me money, and I felt compelled to refuse, wanting to bury myself rather than be seen.
Family Relationships
Family life was complicated as well. Most of my extended family didn’t really know me, and I didn’t know them. At gatherings, I often stayed on the edge, quiet and watchful, observing interactions but rarely participating. I avoided connecting with them on social media, maintaining contact only with siblings or people I occasionally encountered. Once, I passed by my aunt’s house and saw a classmate often there every morning. I was surprised to realize she was a relative. When I reached out to her online, she responded tersely, saying she didn’t care. I remember feeling a sharp sting of isolation and frustration—why was it so easy for others to be connected while I remained on the outside?
My relationship with my father has never been close, nor with my older brother. There’s a sense of distance, a lack of understanding that we’ve never bridged. I don’t want to go into details, but this gap has always felt like a quiet weight. The one person I have felt consistently close to is my mother. At home, I often took on chores: laundry, washing dishes, cleaning rooms and the yard, cooking, and other tasks. Doing these things felt like the only part of life I could manage on my own terms. I wasn’t praised for them, nor did I seek recognition—I just did them, because it made the environment predictable and somewhat safe.
Social Behavior and Online Life
One of the most striking contrasts in my life is how differently I behave offline and online. In person, I speak very little. I avoid small talk and only express myself fully with my mother, two younger brothers, one older sister, and a few close friends. Everyone else gets a cautious, measured version of me. I feel like I have to conserve my voice, carefully choosing when and to whom to speak.
Online, I behave almost like a different person. I speak freely, informally, and with expressive language, using emojis and tones I rarely allow myself in person. Sometimes it feels like I am forcing myself to fit in, trying to match the energy and friendliness of online spaces. Other times, it feels natural because I trust the people I am speaking with—they feel warm, understanding, and safe. Yet even in those moments, I feel a strange vulnerability. Expressing myself so openly online is both freeing and awkward. I can feel exposed, almost as if I’ve shown a side of myself that is normally hidden.
Reflections on Emotions
Looking back on all of this, I notice a pattern: my life has been shaped by learning when it’s safe to speak and when it’s better to stay quiet. Silence often felt safer than risk, whether in school, family, or social situations. I learned to observe, to protect myself, to measure my exposure to others. This was not about being shy or weak—it was about navigating spaces that often felt unsafe.
These patterns created tension within me. I want connection, but I also fear exposure. I feel it in my careful speech offline, in my expressive online persona, in my silent presence at family gatherings, and in my quiet work at home. These contradictions sometimes feel uncomfortable even to me. The person who hides in the corner while observing others can feel very different from the person typing emojis and talking openly online.
Conclusion
Writing this down helps me see the contours of my experiences: the isolation, the discomfort, the moments of fear and embarrassment, and the small choices I made to survive each day. These experiences didn’t shape me into someone perfect or confident, but they did shape me into someone who notices, observes, and reflects.
Even if my patterns feel awkward or mismatched at times, acknowledging them is a way of understanding myself. It allows me to see that my silence, my observation, my cautious expression, and even my online openness are all connected to the environments I grew up in. Recognizing this helps me navigate life with a sense of awareness, understanding why I act the way I do, and giving me a chance to explore how I might move forward without feeling constantly exposed or disconnected.
