We did it — we released our first song of the year, “This Body,” today. I am so exhausted, but I feel victorious. "This Body" is a song I wrote in 2020. I wrote it as a declaration of truth over my body, after a long season of feeling deeply at odds with her. As a woman and a human who has lived in my body for 35 years, I have had a very difficult relationship with her. I have hated her for being too fat, too short, too disproportional. I have hated her for being wrong. I have hated her for being ugly. I have hated her for not being in my complete control. I have hated her for not being perfect. I have hated her for changing. I have hated her for not changing. This song is a love letter to my beloved body. This body that has kept me alive for the last 35 years. This body that has carried me through every season of life. This body that has survived millions of moments of love, joy, monotony, trauma, vulnerability, wonder, devastation, exhilaration, and everything in between. Thank you to our Patreon Members for funding this project and supporting us through the hardest season of our lives. You can listen to "This Body" on bandcamp today: https://jieunandgreg.bandcamp.com.

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We did it — we successfully recorded our first song of the year. We had multiple wrenches thrown into the system, making the recording experience more suboptimal than we anticipated, but we maneuvered our way through the obstacles like champions. Today was the least anxious I've ever felt while recording a song, and that is a victory. We successfully recorded a song today, and that is a victory. The last time I sang, and the last time Greg and I played music together, was when 아빠 was dying. A lot of grief came up as I prepared for today, along with a bunch of other emotions. We had a lot of obstacles set against us, and yet, somehow, we did it. It was a Herculean feat, and we did it. I'm incredibly proud of us for accomplishing our very big goal today. I'm incredibly proud of us for all that we've survived. I'm incredibly proud of us for making our first pancake today. And I'm incredibly proud of us for using our suboptimal ingredients of the day and making the best damn pancakes possible. Go us. Here's to more pancakes.

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We're going to *attempt* to record a song tomorrow (Tuesday), and then we are going to *attempt* to release that song on Wednesday. I'm feeling a lot of anxiety, fear, and nerves, but also a little bit of hope, excitement, and joy. I've learned about this concept of a first pancake through Mary HK Choi. It comes from an idiom, "The first pancake is always spoiled," which means: don't judge yourself too harshly when you're trying something new. The first pancake's role is not to be perfect or the best. Its role is to be the first. Complete, imperfect, in whatever form it arrives. Expect it to be raw in certain spots, burnt in certain spots, and lopsided — that's exactly what a first pancake should look like.

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Today marks the four-month anniversary of 아빠's death. I went to the social security office today to get my name changed on my social security card. I went with Greg, and the man at the booth assumed I was there to get my green card and that I was not an American citizen. "Do you need a green card?" "Are you a U.S. citizen?" This racist incident made me feel small, shitty, and insignificant. All this man saw in me was an Asian woman who was married to a white man. He made me feel like my decision to reclaim my name did not matter. I wish I could have responded more assertively, or at all, but I was too stunned to speak. I was stuck in freeze mode. My body did not feel safe, so it went offline. I guess this was my body's way of protecting itself, the best it knew how in the moment, but I wish I could have responded differently. Why is the responsibility felt so strongly by the victim, to fight for themselves in the perfect way, in a situation where they are being trampled? This racist incident should have never happened to me. This racist incident that I endured today is not my fault. It is the man's fault. My grief is so heavy today. 아빠 will never be alive again. I wish I could escape this nightmarish reality — but I can't. My grief is with me forever. I will miss 아빠 forever. My life is catastrophically changed forever.

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I wish my Complex PTSD could feel safe. I wish she could feel safe enough to rest, to believe, to trust. I wish she could feel safe enough to hope, to love, to live. I wish she could feel safe enough to feel joy, to smile, to laugh. I wish she could understand that living a life of fear and control does not protect us from life's suffering. I wish she didn't feel like she had to stomp out every positive-feeling-flame. I wish that positive feelings didn't feel like a threat to her system. I wish she understood that the fall from joy to pain may be long, but a lifetime of perpetual pain and monotony is intolerable. I am holding space for Complex PTSD Jieun, True Jieun, and all 35 years of Jieuns that I carry in my body, every day.

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Today, I was triggered by two separate Korean Americans making self-hating, anti-Asian "jokes" on social media. It reminded me of my past, and how I used to do the exact same thing. It makes me sad to think about how much I used to hate myself, without even knowing it. It makes me sad to think about how many times I abandoned and betrayed myself and my own community, just so I could fit in with people who blatantly disrespected me. It makes me sad to think about how much I wanted the approval of a******s. I hate that, as a child, I had to come up with these shitty survival tools, like making fun of myself, to survive in racist ass Virginia. Watching The Farewell in theaters with a bunch of white people — in New York City — was a pivotal moment for me and my racial identity. I want to live in a world where we don't look for belonging in unsafe places. I want to live in a world where we don't hate ourselves and where we come from.

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I went to the Kings County Civil Court office and picked up my official name change documents today. I felt sad about officially losing Chi Un Ko. I felt sad about losing a middle name. I felt ambivalent about getting the name change documents because, as much as I've loved being Jieun, being Jieun has also been incredibly hard. I also didn't realize that I've been going by Jieun for more than two years. I didn't realize it had been that long. After 아빠 died, I considered making his name my middle name. Preserving our Korean names, going by our Korean names, and pronouncing our Korean names correctly instead of anglicizing them — these three things are incredibly important to me. But these choices don't come with risks, sacrifices, and shitty experiences.

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I'm going to the courthouse tomorrow to pick up my official name change documents, so I can have all of my forms of identification reflect my real name. I get called "Chi" at all of my doctor's appointments and I don't like still having to be Chi in certain spaces. But I'm sad about officially losing Chi — she carried me through so many years and so much life. When 아빠 was dying and I was sharing videos of him and my family in his dying days, my friend said to me, "I don't understand how this is helping!!!" What a wretched thing to say to someone, in their most fragile and vulnerable moments of life. She was emotionally dysregulated by my grief, and instead of processing it on her own, she projected her dysregulation onto me. I wish I had told her to shut the f**k up. I dreamt about 아빠 last night. These days have been extra griefy. Grief will never leave. I'm proud of myself for continuing to exist, through the most excruciating part of my life. 잘하고 있어 지은아.

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What if we praised ourselves for the smallest of things? What if we praised ourselves on our worst days? What if we praised ourselves for simply existing? I am practicing praising myself for the smallest of things, for surviving my worst days, and for simply existing — because these are all epic feats, in and of themselves. Join me?

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Today was a very difficult day. C-PTSD is my very unstable friend, that I never asked for, who won't leave me alone. Fearful Jieun was kicked into high gear today — she has to take up all the space, and her warped opinions have to be the ultimate truth. Why do I have such a loud, critical internal voice during the moments when I need tenderness, kindness, and compassion the most? Why couldn't my parents have been better models of self-compassion, so that I wouldn't have to teach it to myself in my 30s? Grace for all of us — for not knowing, for trying our best, for falling short. It can't all be our fault. May we be brave enough to accept that we can't be in control of everything. May we be brave enough to sit in the anxious discomfort that bad things happen, and oftentimes, we cannot stop these bad things from happening in our lives. May we be brave enough to dispel the lie that our perfection could ever bring about a life free of suffering. May we be brave enough to persist forward.

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