I grew up between continents, cultures, and classrooms… but the people who shaped me most were the ones who stood out, not the ones who fit in.
I was the first grandchild in my family and spent the first six months of my infancy living with my parents, grandparents, uncles, and an aunt in a tiny villa in Seoul, Korea. When my father was accepted into a doctoral program in electrical engineering at Stanford University, my parents took me on their first big adventure to Palo Alto, California — perhaps relieved to have a bit of privacy and freedom after life in a crowded home.
I spent the first six years of my life in California before our family returned to Korea as I entered first grade. Moving back meant adjusting not just to a new home but to a new language, culture, and rhythm of life. My brother, born in California, and I struggled at first, but we eventually found our footing — and along the way, I made friends who would shape the person I became.
Three childhood friends stand out vividly.
The first was a girl I met before kindergarten. Her head tilted permanently to one side, her neck unable to support its weight. I stopped mid-play to watch her, feeling a quiet sadness I didn’t yet have words for — and sensing the concern on her parents’ faces.
The second was named Kim Chang-Young (김창영), a boy in my second or third grade class who probably had an intellectual disability. I was fascinated by the way he expressed himself — unusual yet full of warmth and sincerity. He didn’t have other friends, so I began walking home with him after school; his house was halfway to mine. His mother always greeted us with a radiant smile, grateful that her son had a friend. Once, he gave me a small snowman he made out of styrofoam — a heartwarming gift. I talked about him at every dinner table until my mom jokingly said, “You must like him so much you’ll marry him one day.”
The third friend was named Baek Hwan-Wook (백환욱), from my fifth-grade class. He rarely paid attention to the teacher’s instructions, spending hours quietly drawing pencil lines under each sentence in his textbook. One afternoon, when the teacher wasn’t around, some classmates shouted that he was demon possessed. Terrified, he crawled under his desk, trembling. I stood frozen, unsure how to help — confused and heartbroken by the cruelty around me.
These three friends stand out not because they fit in, but because they didn’t. Their differences revealed something to me — that there is beauty in simply being, that normalcy is not a measure of worth, and that empathy begins when we stop looking away. They taught me that all the effort we put into “fitting in”—wearing the latest trends or getting invited to a popular kid’s birthday party—may not matter as much as we think.
In middle school and high school, the moments that I look back often are the times when friends disclosed their suicidal thoughts or self injuries stemming from family conflicts, feelings of isolation, and lack of self-esteem. I was no mental health expert – all I had was a little love and concern, and they brought me to where I am today more than what any career coach could do.
These friendships were my first lessons in inclusion and human dignity. They sparked a lifelong curiosity about how the mind and environment affect well-being, and why some people struggle while others thrive. They planted the seeds of my career in mental health and suicide prevention: a desire to dig deeper into people’s inner worlds, to create communities where everyone feels seen, and to foster a sense of connection to those vulnerable to isolation and despair.
Even now, I think of Chang-Young’s youthful smile, Hwan-Wook’s trembling under his desk, and the quiet courage of my earliest friends. They remind me to honor and love every person, especially those whose differences are misunderstood, whose pain is invisible, and whose lives quietly sparkle whether the world recognizes it or not. They were some of the greatest gifts in my life.
What childhood friends have shaped your life journey?