Heart Record - Korean Mama's Heart Record

Is Birth the Opposite of Death?

We’re expecting our third baby next month. Until I experienced delivering my own children, I used to think that birth, the beginning of life, and death, the end of life, were opposites. However, as I fully embraced home birth to experience labor and delivery as naturally as possible—and to dig deeper into the meaning of death through my research—I realized that birth and death have much in common.

Both are transitions from one state to another: unpredictable, messy, exhausting, and ultimately sacred journeys. They are also topics we tend to hush—too gruesome to discuss openly, too intrusive for polite company. Yet, we all share a 100% guarantee: each of us faces both birth and death. Here are my reflections.

postpartum slumber — After-birth slumber

Unpredictability

Birth and death both unfold in their own time. You may experience signs that foreshadow the event, but their exact timing and manner are rarely within your control—unless you schedule a planned caesarean section or assisted dying.

Even with a birth plan, nature still keeps the final say. Our entry into and exit from existence are equally mysterious.

Messiness

The natural course of both birthing and dying is messy. These are raw, physiological states that may involve involuntary movements or unpredictable moods. Visitors may arrive with flowers and gifts, but in the end, flowers wither, dishes pile up, and someone must clean up.

Both experiences strip us down to our most primal selves—as we cross from one state to another.

Exhausting Preparation

Preparing for either birth or death can be profoundly tiring. Even simple chores—organizing a closet, writing a will—become burdensome when a major transition looms.

Both processes invite the same sorts of questions:

Where will it happen?
Who will be with me?
What will I wear?
Will music play, or silence reign?
How much pain will I tolerate?
How much medical intervention will I accept?

And if there’s time to wait, there are often long stretches of boredom before the inevitable event takes over.

A Journey with Choices

Both journeys involve choices—like planning a trip. Or, if you’ve been avoidant all along (which is your choice), it will come to surprise you anyway. You can choose to learn the local language, hire a guide, or check into an “all-inclusive resort.”

More people today rely on the “all-inclusive resort” option—the medical system—for birth and death, too. While modern medicine saves countless lives, its efficiency and profit motives sometimes override the natural rhythm of these sacred transitions. Hospital births are known to rush the birthing process, such as induction (e.g., pitocin), cutting the umbilical cord before blood from the placenta is fully transferred to the baby, and weighing the newborn before having sufficient physical contact with parents. Studies show that about 32% of all U.S. births are by C-section, many performed for convenience or scheduling rather than medical need (March of Dimes, 2024).

Just decades ago, most births and deaths occurred at home, surrounded by family and neighbors. That visibility made these experiences communal and familiar—part of everyday life, not events to be outsourced to institutions.

Korean Mama’s Take

I had a morbid curiosity about entering the so-called “curse of Eve” and experiencing it to the fullest without medical intervention. I also learned that home birth can offer significant advantages for low-risk mothers and babies: fewer interventions, lower infection rates, faster recovery, and higher satisfaction compared to hospital births (National Library of Medicine, 2009). I don’t like the sterile hospital environment with bright lights, professionals checking me and the baby several times at night, and poking us with needles. I don’t like to be told that I can’t eat my favorite snacks.

Therefore, I chose the path of home birth for my two boys—and I plan to deliver my baby daughter at home, too. My husband and I attended several weeks of Bradley Method classes, and we partnered with two skilled midwives to guide us through preparation, birth, and recovery. We’ve learned to speak the language of “birth,” for an unpredictable journey it takes us.

Our midwife, Martha Weaver—a nurse and believer—was a God-send.

Covered by Grace

Even this “curse” was covered by grace. Though the birthing process was physiologically taxing and animalistically brutal, it was also astonishingly beautiful.

God was the one who “created my babies’ innermost being and knitted them together in my womb” (Psalm 139:13). The contractions—about fifty times the intensity of my menstrual cramps—were bearable through deep breathing and praise:

“Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” — Psalm 150:6

Pushing the baby’s head felt about ten times harder than completing a triathlon, yet moments of rest came between the intense exertion. When the head finally crowned, long, gentle breaths guided my baby out with minimal tearing.

My husband and midwife were my battlefield companions—they saw my barest, strongest and weakest moments, and bore with me through the groans of night and dawn. I will never forget the passage that Martha read to me after eight hours of labor through the night, as she gazed into the rising sun: “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”– Psalm 30:5

Facing Death with the Same Faith

Even when the “curse of Eve” is upon me and my body withers like grass, God is not at a loss in handling my body, mind, and soul. My home births were bearable with His presence and the right support.

Death, too, is a result of our original sin. Though I do not know when my body will perish, I pray to face it with the same sacred curiosity—with trust that the God who created my inmost being and brought me through this life will also carry me through that next transition. I plan to die at home as much as possible, adjusting to my timing to transition into a new state while letting the medical interventions fade. I plan to let my loved ones see my bare, vulnerable, unpredictable moments, as much as they can face it with boldness, so that they won’t miss out on the important lessons that this once-in-the-lifetime transition offers. So that my loved ones will have the opportunity to become a little more familiar and comfortable with it—to better prepare for their own transitions one day.

“Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” —1 Corinthians 15:51-52

What are your experiences and expectations on these birth and death transitions? What confidence, fears, or questions do you have?

Childhood Friends Who Gave Me the Greatest Gift

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.

gaebong elementary school — My elementary school classroom in Korea. I believe Hwan-Wook was wearing a yellow jacket.

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?

My Father’s Letter: Remembering My Family History and Hope

My story begins with the voices of those who came before me, echoing across time.

My Korean parents carried both the wounds and the wisdom of a divided homeland. My father, a retired engineering professor at Ewha University, shared a reflection on our family’s story — spanning across the Japanese occupation, liberation, war, loss, rebuilding, and hope.

When I read his letter, I was reminded that who I am is deeply connected to the courage, kindness, and endurance of generations before me. This is how Korean Mama’s Heart Record begins: by remembering.

From My Father’s Letter (abridged)

“Your grandfather was born in 1919, just after the March 1st Movement for Korean independence. His father — your great-grandfather — joined the crowds shouting ‘Mansei!’ at the marketplace. But during the Japanese occupation, people were told to keep such acts quiet, so this story lived only in whispers within the family.

Your great-grandfather’s name was Lee Seung-man — written in the same Chinese characters as President Syngman Rhee. Our family, too, belongs to the same Yangnyeong-gun branch of the Jeonju Lee clan, making us distant relatives. Family stories say that President Rhee’s father once borrowed money from your great-grandfather and never repaid it.

Though the family wasn’t wealthy, your great-grandmother, Jo Ryeong, was strong and frugal. She managed to buy land and made the household more stable.

Your grandfather attended one of the most prestigious schools of his time — Haeju High Ordinary School (Haeju Gobo) — when only 0.045% of students in Korea advanced that far. He loved science, photography, bicycling, and even ice-skating across frozen lakes with a long pole tied around his waist — so he could climb out if he fell through the ice. Once, he traveled to Japan on a school trip and visited Nikko, where he saw the famous Three Wise Monkeys carved at the Toshogu Shrine.

He had hoped to study abroad, but his older brother squandered the family’s fortune through gambling and drinking. So instead, he stayed behind and worked for a farmers’ cooperative in Baekcheon, a small town known for its hot springs.

After liberation in 1945, Soviet troops entered the North. The new Communist authorities confiscated your great-grandfather’s land, and he was later interrogated by local security forces. Your grandfather escaped by jumping out of a second-story window—the power went out, and he fled in the darkness as gunshots followed him.

In 1948, carrying only a blanket, he crossed the 38th parallel into South Korea. He found work at the Nonghyup (farmers’ cooperative) in Deokjeong, Gyeonggi Province. Because he spoke some English, he often sang songs like ‘Swanee River’ and ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ with American soldiers.

Your great-grandfather, devastated after losing everything to the Communists, ended his own life. Every year afterward, our family held memorial rites for him. Because no one knew what became of your great-grandmother in the North, your grandfather’s older brother would visit fortune-tellers each year to ask whether she was still alive.

Your grandfather loved American movies, baseball, and quiet family life. I remember watching High Noon with him at Seoul’s Civic Hall and eating galbitang afterward. He was gentle, humorous, and never spoke harshly to anyone. He valued knowledge, science, and music — and taught me, when I was a child, that heat transfers through conduction, convection, and radiation.

He lived through colonization, war, and displacement, yet never grew bitter. He passed away in 2004 at age 85 — a man who endured history with quiet strength. Through his story, we can see how Korea’s modern history wasn’t just written in textbooks, but lived out in ordinary families — in courage, in loss, and in the will to begin again.”

(Written by my father, Lee Byung-Uk. Edited by my mother, Park Kyung-Hee, and translated by Su Yeon Lee-Tauler.)

Korean Mama’s Reflection

Remembering my roots gives me a deeper understanding of the generational influences I carry — and how much healing is much needed from the history of accomplishments, loss, and unfulfilled dreams.

My grandfather, Lee Do-Soo, was a man of few words, but every now and then he cracked ridiculous jokes and shared riddles that made me think. Now that I’m older, I can’t imagine how much trauma he must have endured — experiencing the division of Korea, losing his own father to suicide, leaving his first family in North Korea, and starting over in the South.

As painful as these stories are, I believe they connect us to countless others who have endured suffering beyond their comprehension or control. This is my family’s historical context — a starting point for the purpose and meaning behind my life’s work in suicide prevention and healing across generations.

How has your family history shaped who you are today?

Learn More about PSALT-NK, a non-profit organization dedicated to increasing awareness of the crisis in North Korea and support the defectors through prayer, service, action, love, and truth.