Baci Abroad Blog
Love at the intersection of terror and bliss
Wednesday, April 16th 2025 3:03pm
We have a 10 week old now. She is currently taking a nap in her crib. And where am I? At a coffee shop writing? On the couch typing away? Or curled up in bed for some blissful moments of reflective solitude? No, no, and no.
I am camped out on her floor, sprawled on a quilt handmade in Vietnam from Tía Ceci. This is the first day that Sofia has taken a nap not on me, but on her own. I can’t stand to be as far as the living room away from her. I think I am addicted to our baby, Babe.
She’s been sleeping for a bit, and now she is stirring. I can’t say that I am sad about it. How do you miss someone you are two feet away from? Addicted, I tell you. Positively addicted.
Tuesday, April 22nd 2025 2:29 pm
Here we are again, Sofia’s nap time. Today she is in her DockATot next to me on the couch. Last night she woke up at 3 am and after her feeding told me she was too lonely to sleep in her crib. We spent the rest of the night sleeping on the couch together.
Since I last wrote, another storybook Spring has bloomed in Seoul. The past couple of Fridays we have dedicated to family adventures to see flowers, first cherry blossoms and then azaleas.
My days home with Sofia are waning. One never knows, as a first time mother, how staying home with a baby will strike her. I have loved it. I feel like I really know our little nugget after nearly three months of feedings and tummy time, cookie making and book readings. It’s true, and no surprise, that Sofia Saenal is already bookish. We can read story after story during one of her wake windows and she stares at the pages with rapt attention.
Speaking of, I began reading Salt Houses by Hala Alyan before Sofia was born and I am only halfway through. I am going to try and finish a few pages before she awakes from her slumber.
January 19th, 2026 10:26 am
Did you see what happened to the date there? We’ve gone from having a 10 week old to an 11 and a half month old. Months have passed since I last signed in. There was a summer, a fall, a first Christmas. It is just now, on my 43rd birthday, that I have found time to open up this post that was meant to be finished and published in the midst of cherry blossoms and refreshing spring temps.
It’s okay, though, that I have stepped away from my writing for the past months. I have felt … I have been so fully immersed in motherhood. Not, generally, in a way where I feel that I have been swallowed. For me the experience has been rich and expansive. I suppose not so unlike in many ways living abroad for these past 13 years. Both experiences have taken me simultaneously so deeply outside and inside of myself.
While it is my birthday today, I am in bed on a (preventative) sick day, thinking about Sofia’s upcoming first birthday. In recent weeks, my womb has begun to ache. I return to her newborn pictures again and again. I send them to Dae-Han. “Are you sure you don’t want a second?” I write.
What I am most yearning for is to start all over again with Sofia. To turn back when she was in my belly. To feel her kicking, so much so that I wrote our midwife Julia to ask if such frequent movement is normal at the end of the third trimester. “Is she in distress,” I inquired? No, she was really just training for the Tour de France … or to be the Tour de Force that we know her to be now that she has spent nearly a year with us on this side of life.
I do not think Sofia needs much instruction on how to be a force of a female in this world — she understands boundaries (her own) better than I still do mine, she has such a high physical pain tolerance sometimes I have to wonder if her nerve endings are firing properly, and she knows how to get everyone in a room working for her. Honestly, we’ve started calling her The Mayor.
I daily learn from my daughter about the strength of the feminine. And this weekend I wanted to feel that force inside of myself.
So we took a 36-hour trip to Hong Kong so that I could run the Standard Chartered Half Marathon. This event was really the brain child of my bestie Ceci. Early this fall she wondered if it might be a way to put a weekend together on our calendars. I felt the allure of getting a little bit of sisterhood and a good physical challenge. I knew I wouldn’t be ready to be away from Sofia overnight yet, so Dae-Han, the best partner and dad, agreed to shlep our daughter across another border — her 5th country in less than a year — for a whirlwind weekend.
We were tucked into our hotel, the Dorsett Hong Kong, by 1 am on Friday night. I listened to Sofia sleeping. And started wondering all the things: Will she get sick from too little sleep this weekend? Will she have meltdowns from being overtired? Is this really fair to her? Is a half marathon a good enough reason to ask so much of my family?
Mom Guilt strikes back.
During the four months that I had been training for the half, I had not struggled with guilt. Running has been the one thing I have taken back for myself since Sofia was born. (This is by choice — Dae-Han and I would figure it out if I needed more me-time.) Some people understandably inquire if I run with Sofia. No is my emphatic reply. No, because I have needed these delicious miles to reconnect with my brain and my body. On my own. Just for me.
It was not hard to rationalize the twice a week runs, but I was struggling with “Am I just too extra"?” that first night in Hong Kong.
The sisterhood and my husband showed up to show me that Sofia could be just fine — even thrive in some moments — in the midst of more airplane rides, late nights, and meals out.
“She is so proud of her Mama and will look back at this moment through photos and be so inspired by you! She has everything she needs — this is your time to shine!” my friend Lauren wrote me.
“You should be doing this for you because she won’t remember zonking out, but it will help her form core memories of you being active and healthy and being the next role model for her,” my friend (and unpaid running coach) Bec said.
My Hong Kong Baddies Katie, Cec, Britt, and Allison cuddled, laughed with, and delighted in Sofia for 36 hours.
Dae-Han carried a stroller up and down dozens of stairs as we traversed the city on Saturday.
It is the village, friends. It’s always the village. Parenting cannot be done in a silo. Motherhood should never be a solo endeavor.
And so it was that I was able to lean into the moments on Saturday with a little less doubt that I was being too selfish. We ate lunch at Mak’s Noodles, I enjoyed yummy pasta dinner and a birthday toast from the Baddies, and my Garmin gave me a sleep score of 90 as Sofia slept like a piglet nestled in mud.
I awoke at 5:45 am on Sunday feeling fresh. Excited. Adrenalined.
The Hong Kong Baddies chat was already alive with photos from Ceci and Katie who were starting their 10k much earlier than Britt and I were starting the half.
At 6:45 am, Britt and I met in the lobby of our hotel and rode together to the half marathon start.
At 8:10 am we were off and running a course from Kowloon to Mong Kok, through Central and Wanchai ending in Victoria Park. The course ran up highways and through mile long tunnels. The energy was … chef’s kiss.
In my training I had not run more than 11 miles at once, averaging 9:30 minutes per mile. Initially, I had wanted to run a sub-two hour half marathon, but this meant running 9:10 minutes per mile. The week before the race, I began to moderate my expectations. I am competitive — all those years of track — but I wanted to honor my body above all. Let’s go for finishing strong, I decided. Whatever the time was, it was.
As Dae-Han and I laid in bed Saturday night, he asked how I felt about the race. “I think you should go for it. I think you can run sub two.”
I could draw this out, pace it like I did the 13.1 miles — steady, strong. But, nah, let’s cut to the chase. Let’s sprint this story:
When the gun went off, I was feeling the rush. I held back a bit. And then I decided to go for it.
Did I run sub two?
Well…
Almost.
I ran the Standard Chartered Half Marathon in two hours, six seconds. Friends, it feels worth mentioning that this included a pit stop bathroom break at 5k.
I am not hung up on those seven seconds. I ran a great race. I ran better than I thought I could right now. The last 400 I was running at 7-minute mile pace. I felt like a Tour de Force when I crossed that finish line.
As I finish this post, Sofia is asleep in her crib and Dae-Han and I are sipping wine in our bed while I pluck away at the keyboard. I am toasting to the next gen Tour de Forces. May they know their own strength. May they use it for good. May she use it to unite people through love.
End note: When I started this post in April of 2025, I was in perhaps the most vulnerable stage of motherhood. The world suddenly seemed scary in a way that it hadn’t before … or even scarier than my Anxiety had allowed it to be before Sofia. I nightly had dreams of losing her. When we went out for a walk, worries popped into my head that would have to defy the laws of physics to come to fruition.
But turn on the news, if you dare. The reality is this world is not safe for so many children.
Being a mother has made me even more tender than my Highly Sensitive Self was before. The worries may not be as acute as they were in those first weeks, but they come to me every day, as I think they must to every mother, every where.
I do not imagine I will ever be without more worries now that I am a mother. As Hannah says, “Two things can be true at once.” With the terror that I can feel with worries, bliss too fills my body as I cuddle, learn about, learn with, and love this perfect babe.
Dar a luz, a birth story
Sometimes we say, “I wear my heart on my sleeve.” Now, my heart lives outside me and this can be…terrifying. All I can think about is keeping her safe. She is mighty and strong. Yet, she also feels so vulnerable. So many things take your breath away as a mama.
I wrote the reflection above as Dae-Han drove us home from Houm, our birth center in Seocho, Korea. Sofia was four days old. We had spent her first days of life surrounded by an amazing care team of doulas, midwives, nurses, and Dr. Chung. While the day was bright as we drove, and I felt some excitement at being together with Sofia in our home, the underlying emotion I was managing was fear. We had left the cocoon, but I was uncertain about the strength of my wings.
Houm away from Home
If you have followed our fertility journey, you have read about how raw and hard some of the moments have been — unsuccessful IVF, two miscarriages. Grief that knocked the wind out of me some days. In the midst of this journey, I found Houm, a birth center that many mamas from campus recommended.
The origin story of Houm is beautiful. Dr. Peter Chung, the founder, was once a doctor at a large hospital in Seoul — Samsung? … I do not remember for sure. He performed many, many C-sections in this role. One day, a woman from Europe asked if he would assist her home birth, as there were no natural birthing options in Korea at that time. Dr. Chung agreed. In the process of being present at her birthing, he learned what labor really was for a woman.
Dr. Chung and me in my birthing suite on our first visit back to Houm after Sofia’s birth. Dr. Chung also goes by “George Clooney.”
As time passed, more women approached Dr. Chung, suggesting that he open a birth center that offered women the option of births without intervention, unless the safety of mom or baby dictated that intervention was necessary (or the mama requested it). Dr. Chung listened, and what was first named Mediflower, now Houm, was born.
Houm’s approach is holistic. When I returned from summer, at the end of my first trimester, Houm set us up with a care team. A midwife set up a chat for us, available at all times, that included herself, another midwife, and a doula.
As the weeks passed, we got to know our midwife Julia and our doula Karen. Another midwife Dayana assisted us by running a birthing class. As Sofia’s due date, February 9th, neared, I felt connected to these women. At Houm, you feel embraced by warmth walking into each appointment. The care is personal and intimate.
Interrupted sleep
At 4 am on Wednesday, February 5th, I got up to go to the bathroom. “When was the last time I slept through the night?” I wondered. “Many moons ago”, I responded to myself.
I crawled back into bed when my water broke … or started breaking? Rather than one moment, the process lasted hours. Uncertain if indeed this was the start of Sofia’s journey into the world, I texted Linds and Jenn. Dae-Han slept soundly next to me.
Contrary to the world of movies and TV shows, only 5% of women’s water breaks before going into labor. After receiving responses from Linds and Jenn, I texted our Houm care team chat to let Midwife Julia know. She told me I could rest more if I liked, and take our time getting into the clinic when we were ready.
Now on the couch, instead of sleep, I found myself texting the women in my family. My baby daddy kept snoozing, unawares that he was going to enter fatherhood in less than 24 hours. I didn’t want to wake Dae-Han just yet because I knew it would be a long day for all of us. By 6 am, though, I crawled into bed. “Babe,” I whispered. “What! Huh! What?” he startled. “My water broke a couple of hours ago. I messaged Julia and she said we could slowly get ready and come in.” “Okay … okay,” said my sweet husband as his brain grasped what was happening.
Our go-bags had been packed for many weeks, mine already in our car. By 7 am we were en route to Houm, feeling calm as I was not experiencing regular contractions yet.
Around 6:30 am before leaving for Houm. It all looks so easy before the contractions begin.
As Dae-Han drove, I watched the Han river out the passenger window. I thought about the conversation I had had with Tracy leading up to this day. “Connected, but not attached,” I thought. “I would like to bring this baby into the world without any interventions, but whatever has to happen, that’s okay”, I noted to myself.
Why try a natural birth when science can offer women options with much less pain? My thoughts on this pertain only to myself. I am not here to say what is right for any other birthing person.
Earlier in my pregnancy, I had read Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth. The “mother of authentic midwifery” does have a clear opinion on what is best for birthing, and her thoughts rang true for the experience I wanted. If I was able to labor without an epidural, I would be able to move my body freely, helping Sofia move into different stations, likely speeding up labor. If I could stand the pain, epidural-free labors are less likely to end up with a c-section. If I labored without intervention, maybe I could have something of a spiritual experience like my friend Celeste had had. (I knew that I would never be free of my inhibitions to have the orgasmic births Ina May wrote about. Power to those women.) Additionally, I wanted to see how deep I could go inside of myself. Perhaps to show myself in a new way how strong I am.
So, I had these intentions … these thoughts previous to labor. The real deal was … as you can imagine, well, beyond my imagining.
Labor: it takes a village
When we had settled into our birthing suite at home, thereafter named “The Four Seasons” by Cass, I was still not in active labor. I spent time calling family and chit-chatting. On a call with Jenn, my college bestie who had had an OBGYN practice for many years, I asked her, “So you had to give birth without epidurals, but if you had had a choice, would you have had the epidural?” I expected Jenn to speak to how empowering it was to give birth naturally. She did not. “Yes, I would have had the epidural.” “Hmmm, curious, not the answer I expected,” I thought to myself. Then she added, “You have to focus on just taking each contraction as it comes. You cannot get ahead of the contraction you are experiencing.”
By 11 am I was beginning to have regular contractions. I found that I could bare them quite well by breathing deeply into them. By 1 pm our doula Karen had arrived. By 3 pm, it was getting real.
The day before we had been at Houm for my 39 week check up. There was no sign of labor, and the ultrasound showed that Sofia, while head down, was not yet engaged. Her face was still turned facing forward rather than facing my tailbone. Karen and Midwife Dayana had assuaged any worries noting that a baby can turn during labor.
I don’t know what time it was, but many hours had passed since labor began, my dilation was only very slowly coming along, and our baby girl was still high in my abdomen. At this time, Karen asked if I would be willing to get into a position that was going to be uncomfortable but would help Sofia descend.
When Karen and I spoke the next day, she noted that this position, called Walcher’s (click that link and send me a note about how impressed you are with me) is something that doulas and midwives hope to avoid asking laboring mothers to do. With my back rounded over a peanut ball and my feet dangling over the edge of the bed, Julia dug her fingers into my abdomen in the middle of a strong contraction.
Folks, I feel like I can say I am made of something damn sturdy to have endured this move. It took something so fierce in me, but it worked. Soon after, Sofia was on her way down the birth canal, which is no straightforward path as previously assumed.
My birthing playlist on Spotify is called Sofia Surfs Out. It conjures a very cute image. Reality: There was no smooth surfing or sailing or shooting down that canal. It was all grit and a deeply primal instinct that Sofia and I had to tap into for her to be born into this world.
As I was enduring hours of intensifying contractions, shifting into new positions, sometimes in a large birthing tub, sometimes on the bed or a birthing stool, Dae-Han was supporting each part of my labor. Julia and Karen instructed him where to be in proximity to me. I love this about my labor, that my husband was actively engaged.
In between contractions, Dae-Han whispers words of support.
Yet, the labor was harrowing, so much pain, not knowing when it would end, feeling it never would. I remember wondering why I had ever made this choice, to go about the labor without an epidural. I remember thinking, “I would never recommend this to another woman.” I remember doubting that I would last long enough to push Sofia out into the world. I remember calling my parents to tell them Sofia had been born at 9:24 pm and when my mom answered, I simply cried: “It was so hard, Mom.”
For me, labor was not the spiritual experience I thought I could tap into. Many moms will talk about the moment that the baby is first laid on your chest, how they cry or feel all the feels. In truth, I remember the physicality of that moment. I love to think back on it. But in that moment, my body was still in fight mode. While (white) women giving birth in the West, or in Korea (in my case), are unlikely to die during childbirth in 2025, labor still seems a life or death experience. It took hours to switch from a fight for survival to feel my heart connection again.
Tender first moments with Sofia:
In photo 2 you will see that Sofia is still attached to her placenta. Houm practices delayed cord clamping as the placenta can continue to offer nutrients to baby even outside of a woman’s body.
In photo 4 you will meet Julia (with glasses) and Karen.
Teach me how to Mama
Dae-Han, Sofia, and I are fortunate to have had access to Houm. I am privileged that my insurance paid for this Four Seasons of birth centers as well. Because of our care team at Houm, I spent the first days of motherhood in bliss — I was not anxious, as I can sometimes be. I felt centered, calm, and, well, zenified. In addition to having an entire suite at Houm, and three delicious meals a day, here are the lessons they taught us about taking care of Baby Sofia:
How to change a diaper when working around an umbilical cord
How to sponge bath a baby
What to do if baby is choking
How to breastfeed
This deserves an additional note. While breastfeeding is “natural” I would argue it is not intuitive. So many challenges can pop up: latching, bruised nipples, positioning the baby, keeping up your milk supply. Every single time it was time to feed Sofia at Houm, a nurse or midwife was there to assist me.
How to do a breast massage
It turns out a 90-minute breast massage from a lactation specialist can feel as good as a deep tissue massage after a big run. Massage helps stimulate milk production as well as keep ducts from getting clogged.
How to put the baby in a carseat
How to hold the bottle. This one surprised me. I’ve fed many a baby before, but perhaps maybe never a tiny newborn? There is an angle and a whole positioning with the bottle that I did not know before.
One of many lactation consultations.
I suppose these lessons are not really about how to be a mama — that’s the heart part — but they were invaluable in helping Dae-Han and I gain confidence in our first days as parents.
Most of Sofia’s care team. Our Houm family.
Homecoming: Back at the Baci Song abode
After four nights at Houm, we departed. Dae-Han was ready to settle into our home as a family of three. Me? I was terrified to leave the our newfound family of carers.
I have not felt the baby blues, but upon leaving Houm, postpartum anxiety took up residence in my bones. By the time the sun set on our first day back at DMC Ville, my nerves were frayed. Dae-Han found me sobbing on our bed after dinner. I was raw with fear and vulnerability.
When Dae-Han came to curl up around me on the bed and ask what was wrong, I choked out, “I can’t keep her safe anymore. When she was in my womb, she was safe.” At the moment, this was a devastating realization for me.
Nearly three weeks have passed since we have arrived home. I feel less raw now. A little less anxious. But Gram, Mom, Linds and Cass are still on speed dial when I am up in the middle of each night for feedings. I call with many questions.
“Can I put her on the boob when she has hiccups?”
“Is it normal that her eyes roll back when she gets really tired?”
“Is this how the baby wrap works?”
Much of the time, I find it comforting to just have one of these women on the other end alongside me from across the world.
Postpartum: The 4th trimester
The vulnerability that exists when a life is in your hands steals my breath and, sometimes even clenches my stomach. The gravity of the responsibility is so very big. Sometimes, Sofia sleeps with one fist raised. So small, but oh so mighty and strong, already ready to be a warrior for justice with this stance. And to my mind, she is also so fragile.
I gaze at her as she starts to come to, at the end of an afternoon nap. Is it called a nap when she has no concept of day or night yet? Her eyes flutter beneath her lids. She takes a few rapid breaths. “Take a breath,” I say to her in moments of wakefulness when she has gotten worked up. She listens. She knows. She calms almost every time.
God, the raw perfection in her features. In moments, straightforward and soft and uncertain and novel with an unnerving piercing cry. How do you process this much love?
Sofia is next to me on the bed, stretching her arms above her head as Bach trills out of my phone. After every two words I type, I gaze and breathe her in.
Mary, who I watched become a mother when we were teaching in Ecuador, recently reminded me how to say “give birth” in Spanish: Dar a luz. To give light.
*italics in this post are hyperlinks
Babymooning: the Songs by the sea
Coolin’ it at the coast
It is a peaceful moment as I write from Gangneung, a seaside city on the Korean peninsula’s east coast. While Dae-Han works on a presentation about environmental sustainability for my school’s Grade 9 class, I am watching waves crest against the shore. While there is a window, a road, and sand between myself and the sea, I can feel the waves washing over me, first meeting my chest and then enveloping this growing belly. Our sweet Sofia is currently busy swimming little laps in my tummy and it is delightful to know that someday she will be swimming with us in these waters.
Dae-Han and I arrived at our pension, La Casamia, on Thursday afternoon.
Not featured is the swivel tv that allowed us to watch our favorite show, Billions, right from this spot. Our babymoon included some binging.
Where does time go?
More than a week has gone by since I started this post. I have traded a view of the sea for a view of the coffee table where a half eaten bowl of pistachios lives alongside a stack of books on all things birthing and baby and grade 9 essays scattered about as a tall carton of micro-plastic free water towers above my cup of mandarin mindfulness tea. Here’s to hoping a cup-a-zen will center me amongst the clutter.
I did not get to finish this post at that cute coffee shop, but I will return to some babymoon moments now. We had an adventuresome honeymoon in Iceland, and we continued in that spirit with a good hike on our babymoon — we are both excited to put lil Sofia in a baby carrier and get her into the rich nature that exists outside of Seoul next autumn. Not yet sporting the baby carrier, what you will see is a husband who brings the selfie stick, his dad’s old camera, and a plastic bag to pick up trash along the trails.
Dae-Han does love trying to catch those just right shots. While these are not from the babymoon, he did quite a fine job of capturing some goofy and pretty shots of me in our neighborhood, on a nearby city street recently.
Sometimes I grab my phone in time to capture him caputuring me.
Everything, everywhere, all at once
While Dae-Han and I still have three months (we hope) before our BaciSong babe is here, I am glad that we took the time away from the city. For many months before Sofia was safely kickin’ it in my belly, I felt consumed by getting pregnant and staying pregnant; entering a time when we know our baby is healthy and growing has opened up my emotional landscape for a flood of other feelings.
My heart looks like a watercolor painting, holding the marvel and beauty of our growing baby and also grief for the passing of a season in our lives that was rather short. One side does not feel heavier than the other, and the colors of both blend together, for I would not have one without the other.
On the last night of our babymoon, I felt like the tears pooled behind my eyes might poor down my face. I am so brimming with joy at being a mama and parenting with Dae-Han. I am also feeling the feels about the transition from our life of simplicity to something richer, yes, and more complex.
Life be life-ing
Mmm, I suppose some of these feels are coming out as irritation lately. Today I have entered trimester three, and before today I entered Major Nesting Mode. So, this weekend especially, our house vibes have been giving Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. I want to minimize all of the stuff in our house, with everything having a precise place — including the bottle of ketchup in the fridge — and my husband wants to create a new world order surrounded by 101 stacks of books.
I am currently asking ChatGPT which spaceship to board to meet him back on Earth (noting that I won’t be catching any of Elon Musk’s rides).
In summary, Chatty offered the following suggestions: listen actively, embrace empathy, communicate openly and honestly, patience. And then my favorite two, which are good but don’t tempt me to exchange our therapist for AI:
Compromise and Flexibility
No one’s perspective is absolute. Finding a middle ground might mean compromising on certain issues or adapting to new ways of thinking or behaving. This doesn’t mean losing your identity—it’s more about finding a harmonious balance.
Appreciate the Differences
Instead of seeing differences as barriers, recognize them as opportunities for growth. People with different perspectives can enrich each other's lives in unexpected ways. The key is to value the other person’s viewpoint rather than trying to “fix” them or make them conform to your own.
I desire very much to find that harmonious balance, but I can also feel the desire for conformity … to my way of doing things. I’m building the baby, why don’t I just get to be the boss?
Perhaps after a good dinner I will find my way out of this sophomoric approach to marriage. Likely we will solve this with another episode of Billions, another cup of tea for me, a short whisky for DH, and a good night of sleep.
May we all toast to babymoons and the beautiful layers of partnership.
Fertility at forty-one: A new day has come
It was Saturday, July 6th, and Dae-Han had driven me to the Urgent Care in Glendale, near my mother-in-law’s home where we were staying for the week. For two whole days now, I had not felt hungover, and this was of great concern to me.
“I think this is a good thing,” the doctor tried to comfort me. “It means your body is adjusting.”
I shook my head with uncertainty. “But I am only 8.5 weeks pregnant. Symptoms shouldn’t be alleviating right now, should they?” I countered. And 41-years-old, I thought. Shouldn’t I feel terrible all of the time while pregnant at this age?
“Every woman and every pregnancy is different,” the doctor pressed on, working to offer me peace of mind.
“Okay,” I said, working my mouth into a smile while still harboring all of the anxiety inside of myself. Dae-Han and I thanked the doctor and walked out into the hot California sunshine to get into the car.
I turned to my husband. “I want to find a place for an ultrasound,” I said, Anxiety having already convinced me that I was losing this (third) pregnancy. If there was still hope to be had, I needed to see it beating back to us from a monitor. Or I needed to start facing the reality of another miscarriage.
Dae-Han swiftly located a place for us to get an ultrasound and we walked into the Prenatal Ultrasound of Glendale office. To be clear, this is not a place you go for diagnostic ultrasounds. The form we signed stated that these ultrasounds were for “entertainment” purposes. I hastily scribbled my signature on the form and climbed onto the ultrasound bed decked out in cheetah print sheets.
And moments later we were looking at a tiny being with a strong and sure heartbeat. This was so much more than entertaining. This was joy. This was hope. This was life building upon itself cell by cell.
I laughed gleefully as Dae-Han filmed the monitor to send a video back to his fam, who had been far less worried about the baby — they knew to lean into the wisdom that symptoms ebb and flow — and more worried about me.
As we walked out of the office with new images of our Bella Bean (an in-utero name that Gram had come up with), Dae-Han turned to me and measuredly said, “Okay, no more anxiety for at least eight weeks now, right?”
Uff, I wish that was how worry worked with me. At that moment, I did feel exuberant and happy (and my pregnancy symptoms showed up to the party again that evening), but was I at a place of deep peace? I was not. It would still be some time before I arrived to where I am today.
During the six weeks I was (Minnesota) home this summer, I had beautiful dinners with family and friends, took long walks with Hannah and Linds, chilled with the nieces, enjoyed Lake Life, shopped for clothes to fit my new body, saw a wonderful doctor referred to me by Jenn, just got to be with Mom, Dad, Gram, Linds, and Cass. And worried a lot. Amidst the aformentioned beauty, I was also cashing out for 2.5 hour naps, falling into strange and vivid dreams, or waking up at dawn to the intrusive thought “Will our baby stay?” cycloning through my mind.
Indeed stay she has. That is right, to no one’s surprise, I am building a baby girl. 💗
It was at my 10.5 week appointment with Dr. Halverson, who I adored from the moment I met her, that I was able to really take anxiety’s hands off of the wheel. After normalizing the fears I had, she leveled with me, with firm kindness. “Your baby looks great. You aren’t going to get lower odds of miscarriage than you have right now. You are having a normal pregnancy.”
I nodded and smiled, actually feeling peace settle into my bones.
Right now, more often than not, I wake up with excitement rather than anxiety. I think it is ultra-cool that Bella Bean is always with me, doing her waves and turns and flips as we got to see on yesterday’s ultrasound here in Seoul. It is bananas that our plum sized baby is so active, though I will not be able to feel these movements for at least another four weeks.
What I do often feel is hungry. I have lived a life with hyperglycemia that has oft inspired hanger, but right now I am talking about this kind of hunger:
Dear sweet husband of mine,
While I am building your baby, let’s keep words like “easy peasy” locked in a drawer.
사랑해, Your wife with humble requests
In front of me I do now have: an iced Earl Grey latte, fried cauliflower, french fries, soba noodle salad, and a piece of gluten-free hazelnut chocolate cake. What do we know about Bella Bean right now? She sure is a Baci Babe. Girlfriend loves to eat. Google says a pregnant women needs about 300 extra calories a day. There is no way an extra half a sandy and a glass of skim milk is doing it for me and our girl, though. You know nothing, Google. Nothing.
While I contemplate what I might save for dinner, I leave you with a cute little family photo and Celine Dion.
I was waiting for so long
For a miracle to come
Everyone told me to be strong
Hold on and don’t shed a tear
Through the darkness and good times
I knew I’d make it through
And the world thought I had it all
But I was waiting for you
Hush, now
I see a light in the sky
Oh, it’s almost blinding me
I can’t believe I’ve been touched
By an angel with love
Let the rain come down and wash
away my tears
Let it fill my soul and drown my
fears
Let it shatter the walls for a new sun
A new day has come
Writing from the Messy Middle
I slept terribly last night. I, usually, sleep facing the door to our bedroom with Dae-Han behind me. I am one of those sleepers who loves to be touching at least her partner’s feet all night long, maintaining a physical connection that somehow grounds me through the strange dreams I have most nights.
Last night, I was sleeping alone. To be clear, this is not about writing in the messy middle of a fight with my husband. I will get into the messy middle soon enough. For now, I am telling you about how my husband went to Okinawa for a peace march and I had to sleep alone. I tossed and turned, trying to figure out which side of the room to turn my back to. I felt exposed and unsettled. Scared, even, in my safe apartment in this safe country.
“Ufff. That’s vulnerability,” I told my therapist, in my head, where she lives on the days in between our weekly sessions. “I used to sleep alone every night in my single life, and now sleeping alone for a weekend is excruciating.”
As I write from the quiet couch tonight, I wonder how my husband had the gall to leave me by my lonesome self for a whole three days. I find it acceptable to whisk myself off to Hong Kong for birthday weekends to shop and dine, but somehow I find it wholly unfair for DH to go to march for peace if it means I will miss him so much. I suppose there may come a day when I relish a night or two alone. I am not there right now.
Two weeks ago Dae-Han and I were together in Japan. We took a long weekend to visit Osaka and Kyoto. This post isn’t really about that whole trip, but both places were beautiful and we took some great photos and they are worth sharing.
An honorable mention goes to this moment from the Imperial Palace in Kyoto:
In my hands I am holding a $20 ice cream cone. I wanted ice cream. I didn’t actually think the gold was real. It was too late to take back the order.
My husband’s face says it all. But babe, you’ll always be my Sugar Daddy now. #winning
(You can’t digest gold, by the way…)
A shoutout to the owner of Cafe Seberg, a cool little joint down the block from our teahouse abode in Kyoto.
This cool cat is a movie aficionado and he will set you down with a menu and a list of movies to watch.
Additionally, he’ll bring your coffee with a little slip of paper with Kansai (regional) phrases to use around town.
Here are spots in Osaka and Kyoto that come with high endorsements from Dae-Han and me:
Osaka Castle•Moegi Restaurant•Doki Sushi
Fushimi Inari Shrine•Kyoto Imperial Palace•Arashiyama Bamboo Grove•Kiyomizu-dera Temple
At Kiyomizu-dera Temple we met the Goddess of Mercy, at least this is who I believe her to be, keeper of the babies that never came to be.
In Japan, there are cultural ways to process and grieve unborn babies. I learned this while reading Jessica Zucker’s memoir, I had a Miscarriage. It was in the days that I would walk my favorite trails with Zucker’s voice coming through Audible that I learned that I was pregnant for a second time.
When a pregnancy stick turned positive the day before my parents were arriving to Korea, I was in disbelief. I guess the first pregnancy wasn’t just a fluke, I thought to myself. Dae-Han and I (and the whole family) were happy. I was also full of angst and worry as this second pregnancy was coming directly on the heals of a miscarriage.
I continued to listen to Zucker’s memoir, still healing from the first miscarriage, working to feel connected to a second pregnancy.
“This is the post-traumatic experience—our past remains ever present. Encumbered by the weight of our traumas, we feel the sting of every terrifying possibility,” spoke Zucker into my ear as I walked past budding cherry blossom trees on a day in early April. I held the weight of trauma, but I also felt hope as flowers were blooming. New life outside and inside of me, I marveled. My pregnancy app told me that the due date for this little bean would be the day before Thanksgiving. So perfect and poetic.
A few days later, I began spotting and spotting turned to a second pregnancy loss.
And two weeks later, Dae-Han and I stood in front of the Goddess of Mercy at a shrine in Kyoto. I was not quite sure what to do. Do I pray? I wondered. I stand in front of her as she held a tiny baby in her arms. We softly gazed at one another. And I just breathed, slowly and steadily. I did not feel a great rush of emotions in this moment. But, I felt grateful for the Goddess of Mercy. And the moment. For the minutes we stood to honor two sweet embryos that came and passed. I was thankful to be with my husband and this deity, standing together in the Messy Middle (a term coined by Glennon Doyle).
There have been times since my second miscarriage where I have felt so strong. One day walking to yoga a thought materialized. You got this, came a message from the Great Beyond. Yes, I thought back. I do. Whatever “this” is, I got it. We got it. Dae-Han and I, we got this.
There have been times since my second miscarriage where I have felt heavy and angry and anxious. I did not anticipate that Mother’s Day this year would be any different from any other. And then it was. I carried anger and grief from that day into the days that followed. I was finally able to start to sort through these emotions openly in a session with our therapist.
(I love therapy. I seem to have become a collector of wonderful therapists. I liken therapeutic spaces to the gym. In therapy you get coaching on how to do emotional push-ups. Dae-Han and I chose to start therapy together not because anything was wrong but because we wanted to keep us — our communication, our shared vision — feeling right. We go to the gym together to stay physically fit and we go to therapy together to be emotionally fit.)
Today? Today is neither particularly light nor dark. It just is.
I have been listening to Anne Lamott’s latest work entitled Somehow: Thoughts on Love. In the Overture, she shares with her readers something her husband says: “Eighty percent of everything that is true and beautiful can be experienced on any 10‑minute walk.” This morning I went on a run and 10 minutes into it, I ran into the truth and beauty of this scene:
I stopped and I appreciated just how glorious life can still be, even when you are inhabiting a Messy Middle. I suppose I am trying to build my capacity right now for, rather than squirming out of a Messy Middle, standing in it with strength. A Messy Middle will be a Messy Middle for as long as it needs to be and we are not privy to knowing that timeline.
It’s a little daunting, having to face again and again how little control we have. As I work towards accepting that truth, I plan to keep taking walks to keep finding more beauty around me. Send me the truth and beauty that you find on your walks.
To have and to hold: a story of loss and love
Dae-Han and I had returned from a doctor appointment on the afternoon of Tuesday, February 13th, when I decided to go for a run to try and process the news the doctor had given us.
I was just steps into the uphill battle that is the path we take in World Cup Park when I began to sob. I was confused and angry. So angry. I was grieving, but it was also a stuck grief. A grief held in “maternal purgatory,” stuck in a broken elevator that might take you up to the maternity ward or, sooner, down to the morgue.
My face twisted, tears pooling, I called Ceci. She answered from her red Ikea chair in Ho Chi Minh City.
“Hey babe,” she said softly. I had already texted her that at my eight-week appointment, the doctor had not found a heartbeat for our little Poppy.
Four weeks prior, I had boarded a plane to spend my birthday in Hong Kong with Ceci and another friend, Allison. On the plane, I wrote in a journal, just for Poppy and me.
“Poppy, it’s your very first trip! As a tiny poppy seed inside my belly ♡. We are heading to Hong Kong for my birthday weekend with Auntie Ceci — what a delight that it was this morning just before noon when 아빠 called to confirm “Poppy is here!” We really already knew this but the doctor’s call gave us the 1,000,000% verification.”
On my birthday, little Poppy’s implantation was confirmed, a process that miraculously hadn’t needed any scientific intervention. Now, the day before Valentine’s Day, my heart was cracking in half.
As I held the phone with Ceci on the other end, my words were stolen by more sobs. In an act of grace, sisterhood, and bearing witness, Ceci held her soft gaze on me, her hand on her heart.
For the next two days, Dae-Han and I tried to out-math math, to recalibrate the timeline and come up with a way that I could (as the doctor offered) be too early in the pregnancy to hear a heartbeat. But intuition is a way of knowing far more truthful than numbers for me, and each time I tried to hang on to Hope, she slipped like grains of sand through my fingers. I knew.
The embrace that my womb had been holding Poppy in began to release on February 15th. Cramps, first trimester contractions, were my womb’s way of telling me the time of letting go had begun. Beyond logic and reason, I wanted to feel the physical pain. And it came, for three days.
On the second day, I sat in a circle of dear friends. My friend Jason, our inquiry group facilitator, had finished guiding us through a meditation. The pace of my heart quickened as she began contractions. I was sobbing once again. My friend Caroline was the only one in the room who knew that I had begun to lose Poppy, but soon the room was filled with the sobs of others, these five friends whose hearts could feel my pain without yet an explanation.
To be held in a space like this is spiritual. To so viscerally feel the connection between us is to grieve and heal collectively, is to know the foundation of our purpose on Earth.
If grief is collective, it is also solitary.
To have and to hold
In an alone moment, I slide my hands into the water, searching for you, Poppy. The size of a blueberry or maybe a kidney bean. Blue, the color of my heart as I push around so much red in the water to try and find you. To hold you. All the blood, yours and mine that was now flushed from my body, the blood that had been building a heart for you, a heart that did not beat in my womb but now flutters in the arms of Grandpa Art and Grandpa Red and NieNie.
In so short a time, you taught us so much, our tiny Poppy. How to nurture more, my body, and each other. You taught us how to marvel at a miracle, how to open to Joy, how to communicate with each other about priorities. You reminded us to hold tenderly to Hope. And we hold you and your lessons, Sweet Poppy.
On loss and love
We honored you and our time with you with petals down the Han River. Petals for Poppy. Your 아빠 read these words:
“It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers [and sisters] in what we share ... We know that there is no help for us but from one another, and that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand ... You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give.”
You have given us the chance to just begin to touch the love of being an 아빠 and a mama. This was the gift of so much Joy, and we know that Joy will expand and increase when you send a little brother or sister to be with us.
As I watched the rose and tulip petals softly drift down the river on this foggy day in Seoul, I felt like plunging into the water to gather them up again, to have them back, to hold them and rewind time. To knock on Universe’s grand door and demand a different destiny for you.
As I felt the pain of letting you go, I reminded myself of the words of Thích Nhất Hạnh, my Poppy. “Peace is every step.”
Your 아빠 and I walked the path together after watching your petals. We held hands and we acknowledged the peace of this soft, foggy day. In your short time with us, you have woven 아빠 and I even closer together.
I love you so much, our sweet, sweet Poppy. Peace is every step.
Love always,
Your mommy
End note: We often say or think that we cannot begin to really feel another’s grief. And, yes, there is truth to this. Any Grief is unique and takes her own shape in how she is held by her owner. And yet, this week, my grief has been held and shared by so many others and this has mattered very much to me. My husband’s, mom’s, dad’s, sisters’, grandma’s, aunties’, friends’ and colleagues’ words have landed softly on my heart, warming it where it hurt so much. Food from friends, a comedy show shared, phone calls, Marco Polo prayers, and just there-ness has mattered, has made a difference.
Sometimes we are afraid to say or do anything when someone is grieving, fearing it will be the wrong thing, but what has mattered most is that people showed up. I am not surprised by this — I know how wonderful my people are. Every word and deed has helped me to know that, in this moment, I am not alone.
My school, as well, allows for up to 5 paid days of leave for miscarriage. This is attuned to what many women may need following a miscarriage. Perhaps there are those of us who want the distraction of work right away, but for me, my body and spirit were not ready. I am advocating that anyone who has the power to make changes — and essentially, don’t we all — look at policy to see how it honors and protects women’s health and wellbeing.
Peace be every step.
The Cost of (in)Fertility
Hello from Minnesota!. Dae-Han and I have touched down in my hometown for a brief but wonderful 4 days at the OG BaciAbode.
Before I get into all things Operation Build-a-Baby, a moment to acknowledge the floury fun we had yesterday making homemade pasta sauce and ravioli:
Dae-Han has now been officially initiated into his newly acquired Italian(ish) family. ♡
In two days, we fly to California. I am looking forward to a Christmas with kimchi and Vitamin-D and my new Korean American family.
We have traveled 14,000 miles (roundtrip) and spent $2,949.28 (two tickets) to spend Christmas with family. It was worth every sleepless hour on the plane and every moment gripping Dae-Han’s arm through rough turbulence.
Right about now, Cake’s “The Distance” is starting to play in my head. Why?
Simply for one line:
“He’s going the distance.”
Dae-Han and I are not just going the distance for family, we’re also going the distance for Baby BaciSong. Unlike Cake, I don’t think we’re going for speed anymore.
When we started the IFV process this fall, I knew it was unlikely that we were running a sprint, but my ever-present optimist was hopeful. After a second egg retrieval that yielded three eggs, two that became three-day old embryos that decided this world was not for them, I am trying to figure out how to pace myself when I am not privy to the distance of this race. And for that reason, perhaps this is the perfect training for parenthood, when you have to dig down and find the stamina for days after sleepless nights, projectile vomiting (props to my mom for dealing with mine), and many dirty diapers.
When I came out of anaesthesia on the most recent egg retrieval venture, the first thing I did (again) was warn the nurses that I was not yet asleep so please do not yet start the procedure. With soft classical music playing around me, they warmly told me that the procedure was indeed done.
As I lied on the cot recovering, not yet knowing how many eggs the doctor had retrieved, I imagined looking over five (this was what I hod hoped would be ready to hatch) one by one, asking “Are you my baby?” “Are you my baby?” “Are you my baby?”
When 10 days later we found out that indeed none of those eggs were to become our baby, I imagined hearing a soothing voice say, “It’s not time yet. Take more time to enjoy just being with my dad for now.”
So, we’re doing that, little Baby BaciSong Bean. We’re staying up late, and sleeping in (or at least I am). We’re being here, ready for you, when you are ready for us.
Tit’s Up! has become the collective motto in our house. Listen, somedays, this shit is pretty hard. Amidst shooting my body up with hormones and receiving undesirable news from the doctor, I can project my angry sense of helplessness onto Dae-Han, just some of the emotional cost of infertility.
I see now firsthand in my marriage the way that our partners can be both recipients of our love and tenderness and our fire and fury. I am grateful that with Dae-Han and I moments of fertility disappointments do not outweigh the understanding that we are Team BaciSong, in this together. So, we’re working to keep our heads high and Tits Up!
The doctor has suggested that we take two months off of stim shots. This works out well as we were traveling this month for the holidays, and in January, I will be meeting my Soul Sister Ceci in Hong Kong to celebrate my birthday.
When we bought our tickets to celebrate Christmas in the States, originally we had planned to fertilize the six eggs that I had frozen before moving to Seoul. While there was more than one factor in our decision not to do so this year, one of those factors was financial. Both of our parents have told us that they would help us with this cost, and the support they have offered would allow us to move forward with Stateside IVF, but I am not yet in place where I want to (or feel I have to) work with the American healthcare system’s costs.
I have little idea how healthcare is figured out in different countries, or why things cost what they do in different places, but let me lay out the finances of IVF in both the United States and Korea:
Retrieving and freezing my six eggs 2.5 years ago cost $15,000. If we moved forward with fertilization, it would be an additional $6,747, for a total of $21,747.
I kept careful record of our bills this past retrieval. The total cost of retrieval and fertilization was $4,917.45.
So, the difference between one egg retrieval and fertilization in the US versus Korea: $16,829.55.
It is baffling to me. My hospital in Korea is state-of-the-art. I get personal care from doctors and nurses. So, how is it that Korea can keep costs so much lower than the States? Maybe it is a rabbit hole for another day. Maybe not. It just makes me angry that those living in the States could break their banks or be unable to use IVF because the cost is so exorbitant.
Because my sweet husband often gives enough f*cks for the both of us, I will abstain from getting on a higher soapbox and choose this moment to start my sign-off.
Regardless of where one lives, the cost of infertility can certainly be high when you consider the emotional and financial toll it can take. Dae-Han and I are blessed. We have access to great care, we have wonderful support systems both inside and outside of our partnership, and we continue to be hopeful realists in this journey.
This post has taken me from Mom and Dad’s kitchen to an airplane en route to California. Goodbye for now, from a mile high. ♡
It’s okay to be ordinary, so “tit’s up”
Note: Italicized words in this post are hyperlinks.
To begin, in my last post I emphasized how extraordinary I felt as my bod had just released 9 eggs after a round of IVF drugs. “You’re an incredible Hen House,” my friend Cristina had noted. What pride I felt. What luck, I thought as I reveled in my eggcelent success.
Maybe, a voice echoed back.
This week I was reminded of the story of The Chinese Farmer. The story begins like this:
Once upon a time there was a Chinese farmer whose horse ran away. That evening, all of his neighbors came around to commiserate. They said, “We are so sorry to hear your horse has run away. This is most unfortunate.” The farmer said, “Maybe.” The next day the horse came back bringing seven wild horses with it, and in the evening everybody came back and said, “Oh, isn’t that lucky. What a great turn of events. You now have eight horses!” The farmer again said, “Maybe.”
The following day his son tried to break one of the horses, and while riding it, he was thrown and broke his leg. The neighbors then said, “Oh dear, that’s too bad,” and the farmer responded, “Maybe.” The next day the conscription officers came around to conscript people into the army, and they rejected his son because he had a broken leg. Again all the neighbors came around and said, “Isn’t that great!” Again, he said, “Maybe.”
I have been reflecting on this Zen short story because this week has taken last post’s “what good luck” to this week’s “what poor luck” and I needed to reframe that thinking.
This past Thursday, Dae-Han and I entered the doctor’s office to learn how many embryos might have been created from those 9 eggs.
The doctor took her time to explain that
9 initial eggs
-3 bad eggs
= 6 eggs to fertilize
-1 egg that didn’t take to the process
= 5 embryos created
-4 embryos that did not develop robustly
=1 embryo sent to genetic testing
which came back as a mosaic embryo.
If this sounds artistic, like transferring this embryo to my womb could bring the next Gaudí or Emma Karp Lundstrom to the world, the language is misleading you. A mosaic embryo is not an indication of artistry as much as it is an indication of chromosomal abnormalities.
Now, it is possible that a mosaic embryo self-corrects if it does implant in the womb, and in this week’s therapy session Tracy did remind me of the gifts of imperfection. Has my imagination painted a picture of this mosaic embryo resulting in a baby that chooses a brush instead of a pencil at their first birthday, for their doljanchi and then grows up to become a famous calligraphist? Of course it has. Bless my imagination.
Our doctor is less about my imagination and more about science and statistics. For this reason, she has advised us to freeze the embryo for back up and to give another round of egg retrieval a go in hopes of an embryo absent of chromosomal imperfections. When Dr. Kim suggested this, I was … frustrated and confused and angry. Because we had had such good luck initially.
Maybe.
And now it felt like we were having such bad luck.
Maybe.
After the first round of egg retrieval, I had started to fantasize about being this extraordinary couple who in their 40s becomes this “one and done” story. As Dae-Han and I rode the elevator down from the fertility clinic, he turned to me and said, “We’re not extraordinary. We’re ordinary. That’s okay. It’s okay to be ordinary.”
So this weekend I am meditating on this notion that there isn’t really “bad luck” and “good luck.” There is just what is.
And what is next for us now is another round of egg retrieval (which does mean another anesthetic slumber and I don’t hate that).
I know that our baby already exists in some realm somewhere. Perhaps this sounds … woo woo or weird, but I already feel connected to our baby in some spiritual sense. I don’t get to control when that little bean is ready to make their way to my womb, but I do get to sing my own version of Cardi B’s WAP. (Gram, I advice you against clicking the link to the original song. If you felt that the 2022 halftime show was NOT CLASSY you will have even more thoughts about WAP.)
I haven’t finished writing it, but my version starts like this:
Room in this womb
There’s some room in this womb
There’s some room in this womb
There’s some room in this womb (‘hol up)
(I’m now really stuck now how to to take “certified freak seven days a week” to something more maternal. Open to suggestions if you have them.)
When I recounted this week’s fertility disappointment to Ceci, she responded with empathy, and concluded with the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel’s favorite inspiring phrase: