A snowy landscape with footsteps going back and forth. I can see the reflection of the airport terminal overlaid on the wet, black tarmac. In the corner, I see the tail of the Boeing 777 airplane I am seated on. Ever since I was 11, I’ve had three homes. Korea, being the first one because I was born and raised there. Second, either Switzerland, Australia, the U.S.–wherever I am studying or going to boarding school. The third being the planes. From a young age, I have felt comfort on those stiff airplane seats. It is the only place I am truly alone. That might seem scary to some, but for me, plane time is where I reflect, remember, and plan. 

To do this properly, one rule that I will forever follow is to never have in-flight Wi-Fi. Fifteen hours with no Wi-Fi is challenging, but it is a rule that I would never break. When I’m flying, I am nowhere. High above the clouds, above the birds, above the dark ocean, I don’t keep track of where I am or what direction we are headed. The only thing I know is the starting point and the destination. Those oblivious 15 hours on the flight are all to myself. 

As I get comfortable in my seat, changing my leg position about 10 times after the first meal, I pull out my phone with no Wi-Fi. Connected to the short charger, I rest my head near the porthole window and instantly click on the Gallery app on my phone. There, 1000s of photos flash in front of me. I scroll all the way to the top. This time is my treasured time. I go through my entire gallery.

***

Picture of Phoebe Eating.

I am watching you take the first bite of your soon-to-be all-time favorite western style breakfast–mozzarella grilled cheese with buttered sourdough. You still have your round baby-face from when you were 8. I chose to record this moment because it was your first ever time trying a non-Korean style breakfast in Australia when you arrived.

Mom and I had been planning the day of your arrival for a week straight. It had to be perfect. Out of all the restaurants, cafes, places, we had no idea where to go to give you a good first impression of Melbourne. Hearing you over the call sounding nervous to come to a new country, we launched into planning.

“Would the seafood restaurant by the beach be her favorite?” 

“But Phoebe prefers steak.”

“But wouldn’t steak be too heavy when she just flew about 11 hours?” 

After listing every one of the restaurants we had gone to, we settled for Moby’s, one of our favorite brunch spots that had a light and easy atmosphere. I thought it would be a perfect way to introduce you to what our normal weekends would look like. 

“Unnie, which one do you think I’m gonna like the best?” you asked in Korean. After minutes of trying to choose the best dish on the brunch menu, I chose the kid’s sourdough grilled cheese. I reply, “ You should have this one, I think you’ll like it the best.” As I make this decision, I feel my stomach do a small flip. I was nervous. I wanted you to have a good impression of Australian brunch, just like how I described it over the phone when I called you. Our server brought the grilled cheese, steam billowing upwards, buttery scents filling the table. With some hesitation, looking down at a new dish, you take your first bite. The heavy mozzarella cheese creates a bridge between your teeth and the perfectly golden-brown sourdough. After a few seconds, you look up with a satisfied smile. 

“Unnie it’s so good!” you exclaim. The flips in my stomach disappear and I am left with a small sense of pride. 

***

Photo of Mom by the pier.

My mom stands at the silver railing above a tiny bridge which is a path through a boardwalk of restaurants in Melbourne, Australia. The water in the background is golden. The sunshine bouncing off the gentle waves creates the perfect lighting for this beautiful scene. I hear the sounds of people laughing, creating their own personal memories in the restaurant that floats on the beautiful lake. Children run down the piers with bright balloons, the strong smell of fresh water mixes with so many different cuisines. The aroma of grilled seafood which carries that fire-smoke char, freshly made pizza with a bold hint of basil. I even hear unfamiliar melodies coming from the band performing right at the start of the pier. 

Mom is wearing a white button up top with a low ponytail. The breeze gently touches her blouse as she gazes at my camera with a full smile. In front of her with my small digital camera that I had just gotten, I turn the flash on. Four years ago when we lived in Australia, this bridge was a place that we visited often, probably once in two weeks. My little sisters, each holding onto one of my hands, wear adorable floral dresses, as we travel down this bridge with my mom. “Guys, smile!” My mom would ask us to stand still and take a photo every second, reminding us that photos are the only things that would be left behind after years. I would complain: “Mom I want to go…” a little red in the face because there were so many people around us. We stood still for 5 long seconds. “You’re going to understand one day, photos are forever.” My mom reminded me every time. 

She was right as she always is. One day looking back at photos of us in Australia on one of my plane rides, I realized that while my mom takes thousands of photos of us to remember,  there are never photos of her. At that moment, I made a silent promise that I would take photos of her to give her memories with no time limit, as she always reminded me. This photo marks the beginning of me taking countless photos of my mom. 

***

Two hands on a dark wooden table.

“Grandpa, could you put your hand on the table next to mine?” I ask. “ Haha, of course,” he replies with a gentle laugh. The sounds of the busy sushi restaurant in the background leaves the room as I stare at the two hands that are carefully placed on a dark wooden table. My brain pauses. My hand is on the left, no wrinkles, baby soft, along with freshly polished red manicures. On the right, my grandpa’s wrinkly, stiff hands with clean nail beds. This was the moment I started noticing my grandpa’s aging. 

Growing up, my grandpa was someone I could trust with all my secrets. And somehow, he could magically comfort me in any situation. When I was 8, he helped me cover up a crime. The scene: a peaceful Saturday morning. It was just me and grandpa and my sisters sleeping in. I had woken up early and I was starving. Tip-toeing to see over the tall marble kitchen countertop, I was attempting to make pancakes. I saw the spray-on avocado oil that my mom told me to use because it was in an unbreakable container. Excited, I sprayed it on my hands to check if it was working. I was so proud of myself as I saw my pancakes turn golden as the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. 

In order to have the full luxurious breakfast experience, I decided it was the perfect time to bring out my mom’s beautiful blue-tiled plate. This would give my masterpiece the stunning presentation it deserved. Forgetting the spray-on oil that I had tested way earlier, my mother’s blue-tiled plate soars out of my hand and hangs in the air like an Olympic discus. Then–CRASH!  The beautiful, ocean blue plate shattered into pieces on the wooden floor. I quickly glance around the room. No one. I get out a trashbag, and clean the mess up. Hurriedly, I turn off the stove and sprint to my grandpa’s house.

“Grandpaaaa! It’s an emergency” I cry. My grandpa, back from his daily morning jog, comes out of his room with worry. The moment I see him I hold out the trash bag with the broken treasure of my mom’s. “I broke the plate. I need you to do something so she doesn’t find it in our trashcan.” I plead. Without any scolding or hesitation, my grandpa takes the bag and checks my arms or legs to check if I have any cuts. After making sure about 3 times, he smiles. “ You did something again. Of course I’ll cover for you but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone,” he tells me. We exchanged smiles. In 2025, my mom still doesn’t know where her beautiful blue plate went.

***

Christmas at the Beach, Phoebe and I.

A clear blue sky in the background with two giant pine trees. On an oversized wooden bench, my sister and I are sitting close together wearing soft smiles on our faces. It was a hot day in Australia. I could feel my makeup melting. 

My morning started off bad. I woke up sweating from the sunshine bearing down on me through the giant glass windows in my room. Our ice had run out in the fridge, preventing me from getting my ice-cold peppermint tea. The birds seemed to chirp the loudest they could. My sister using the hair dryer in the bathroom right next to my room made me even more annoyed. I remember, we had planned to go to our favorite beach to have a family lunch. I was filled with excitement the night right before, but the bad start to an extremely hot day changed my mood completely. 

Just as I was complaining in my head,“‘Why is it so hot?? Can't everyone just be quiet? I have a headache...” I hear my mother announce “Ok, let’s go to the beach as we promised. I got up with a frown, trying not to express my frustration. I trudge down the wooden staircase a little louder than normal, hop into the car sourfaced, Airpods ready by my side to distract me. 

The car drive was loud, but I was silent throughout. I look out the window, airpods in my ear, blasting the music of choice. “Last Christmas” by Wham. Me trying to get myself into the Christmas spirit and cheer myself up for my summer Christmas in Australia, once again. When we got off, the scenery was spectacular. The sky was the bluest I’ve ever seen; little kids weaved in between us, laughing and blowing bubbles. Everyone had smiles on their faces. Looking at the flawless waves that glistened against the  sunlight, everything immediately got better. The soft hot wind kissing my face, the calm, repetitive waves coming onto the shore, the soft pillowy white sand wrapping my bare feet: the beach had fixed my frustrated mood. 

When I think about it, I think it’s because of the nostalgia that I hold around the place. The beach had always been like this. Going on countless vacations with a beach memory involved, it’s always happy memories. One of the many great tales is, I grew up going to an island called Jeju Island. Going to the beach to collect pretty shells, running races with my grandma, banana boating with my best friend. The beach is a place that holds many pieces of me and my childhood. Everyone has a place like that. A place with golden memories that you would never dare to exchange with anything. These places that live in our heart can even fix the most annoying and frustrating days. When I see this picture of me and Phoebe, I can smell the Australian beach and hear the laughter of all my family members gathered at the lunch table around a platter of seafood linguine. I can hardly remember why I was mad.

***

Three teens on a ski lift, black and white.

Me and two of my best friends on a ski lift. All of us are wearing the same exact ski uniforms. This was my winter routine for 3 years. At my school in Switzerland, it was mandatory to have ski sessions as a grade twice a week. When I first heard this news, I was terrified. I was simply scared. Scared of changes, scared of trying new sports, scared of hurting myself. Skiing was a challenge well out of my comfort zone. For my first year of skiing, there was not much improvement. I skied pizza, feet turned inwards, too afraid to challenge myself with runs at red or black courses. 

One fateful ski afternoon with my friends changed everything for me. I was out of it that day, skiing down a narrow trail where two people at most could ski. It was a familiar course for me so I wasn’t paying attention. The only thought spinning in my head was, “When is this gonna end?” So, I didn’t notice that there were people at the back skiing very quickly. As they approached, one skier couldn’t move to the other side quickly enough. His skis hit my back skis hard enough for me to lose balance. My whole body tilted to the left. I fell with extreme speed down a cliff. 

“I'm going to break my leg.” 

“Do I call my mom?” 

“Am I going to die?” 

These were the only thoughts in my head. However, a soft pillow of powdery snow caught my fall. I had fallen onto the big platform in the middle of the cliff where mountains of powder had piled up. My friends made sure I was ok and we all started dying laughing. This moment in my ski journey changed everything. Because I had survived a fall where I could’ve broken something, it felt like a promise that I didn’t have to be that scared all the time. 

From that day, I skied with no fear. I challenged myself. My Ski Group at the start of 7th grade was Group 1 out of 8. I ended at Group 6 in 9th grade. In just two winters, I had improved so much. Skiing was now my comfort zone. With the cold wind swishing through my hair as I sped down slopes, it felt like I was finally comfortable in my newfound freedom. 

But, the winter after that fall served as a turning point. I rolled down the slope toward the end of the season down a rock-hard icy slope because I had forgotten to lock my boots on the lift. “You fractured your neck bone,” the doctor said. “You have to wear a collar support for a month and take different kinds of medication to heal. Be careful.” Lying there in the MRI machine, I thought “I still love skiing.” 

***

White and pink birthday cake.

“I hope you have the best day with your friends. Sorry I can’t be there.”

A message from Mom. As my birthday approached this year, an uneasy feeling tumbled in my stomach. It’s hard to admit, but  I was scared that I would spend my 16th birthday alone. My birthday mornings in the past were different, surrounded by family. I would wake up in Paris, with balloons in my room. The thought of my parents arranging for decorations without my help translating in a foreign country truly touched me on every one of my birthday mornings.

But now, on the verge of 16 in Pomfret, Connecticut, I was alone again. Luckily, three senior friends that I had quickly gotten close with decided that we should go to Boston. Bright and early in the cold February morning, we jumped into the car that we had booked and set off to Boston. The car ride was fairly quiet. Reading my mom’s message had made me even more emotional. Looking around, I quickly forced myself to be in a better mood. I was extremely grateful for these friends and I didn’t want to burden them with how I felt. 

Getting off the taxi, I felt the cold crisp air hit my face. We went around from shop to shop: hole-in-the-wall boba shops, Japanese restaurants, Newbury Street, clothing boutiques, and our final destination–a local Korean restaurant. While shopping, even though it helped me distract myself from the thought of not being with my parents, I couldn’t help but think of them. 

Me and a Korean unnie of mine were seated at the table. Shortly after we ordered, I began to distract myself on my phone, not noticing that two of the other seniors had disappeared. Suddenly, with a ring of the bell stuck to the restaurant door, I  heard the two friends’ excited giggles. The manager and the friends came in with a white and pink birthday cake, lit with candles. I looked up awkwardly laughing. I was happy of course, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t embarrassed being under a huge spotlight. They started singing “Happy Birthday”. With my face flushed bright red, a genuine smile grew on my face, warm and familiar. It was the smile I had every year on my birthday dinners with my parents. I was filled with the same exact happiness of childhood, but now, 16, almost an adult in the middle of my high school journey.

***

Every flight, I find myself smiling. Cackling at funny snapshots I took of friends, feeling nostalgic over childhood photos,, smiling at something inane. The photos take me back. Phoebe having grilled cheese for the first time, my mom leaning against a pillar, a pink birthday cake… a smile arises on my face again. A black and white photo of me skiing, all the memories of my chaotic ski journey flashes across my screen. This time is magic. It is my version of a real-life time machine.