Baci Abroad Blog
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.
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:
When the best thing you can be is a happy hen
“9 eggs! You’re a regular chicken!!” wrote my friend Caroline in our WhatsApp chat. And by “regular” she did not mean average or normal. No, friends, she meant that I am earning an A+ at laying eggs — as good as any young, healthy hen. Except that I am no spring chicken but a woman working to conceive at an “advanced maternal age” (formerly “geriatric pregnancy” and what is that term except one that elicits images of a grey-haired granny pregnant in a nursing home so thank to whoever pushed for kinder language because #languagematters, yo).
At my Advanced Maternal Age (AMA) I was able to produce the same number of eggs as I produced at AMA minus 2 years when I froze my eggs in Minnesota. This earns me bragging rights. I am an overachiever who is writing today to tell you about the report card from my doctor which reads “Exceeding Expectations.” (There was no report card but I read this note on the doctor’s face through blurry, coming-out-of-anathesia eyes. She was impressed with me, I know it.)
Just like when I was a student and I didn’t find school exceedingly hard but I did have to work for my grades, I worked for those 9 eggs. This time I did not work with a tutor or go in for extra help with my teacher, but I did do the following:
Abstained from alcohol.
This has actually been the case not just for the past 10 days of IVF shots, but for the past 5 weeks, since Dae-Han and I started doctoring with Cha Fertility Center. Dae-Han has also abstained, even though he wasn’t told he had to, and I appreciate the solidarity from him. Also, if you remember from my last post, drunk sperm swim in circles, so our chances now seem better that our little bean will know how to swim straight to its destination.
Listened more closely to my body.
Workouts are generally my way of relieving stress and feeling good about my body, myself, and the world at large, so I often push myself to get in workouts and complete them vigorously. While I was able to keep working out during this process, I tuned in to my body and made sure when she said, “let’s spend more time on the couch today” I answered with, “you got it, girl.”
Took fertility supplements.
Aunt Christy, our favorite Cali-based acupuncturist recommended that we take CoQ10 to increase sperm and egg health. When I told this to a doctor back home in a tele-health appointment he smirked a bit and said “well, it won’t hurt.” I like this doctor, but I also want to call him up and say, “you know how you said I might get 4-5 eggs at this age, well, I got 9, man.” I like combining the wisdom of the East and the West, and we are grateful that Christy has offered her expertise in Chinese medicine.
Avoided cold fluids.
My mother-in-law was the first to say “do not drink cold water when you are trying to conceive.” I was a bit dismissive of this at first, but this again is Eastern wisdom, and Christy agreed I should heed this advice. So, no cold drinks and generally no cold food. Lots of tea and soup.
Gave myself 28 shots.
The first three days of shooting myself up with hormones I was fine. The days following … I was fiiiiiine. No really, just fiiiiine. Which Highly Sensitive Person would be bothered by inducing Super PMS? Certainly not me.
Collaborated with my favorite person, Dae-Han Song, husband extraordinaire.
I married this man for dozens of reasons. His smile, his kindness, his perfect skin, and most certainly for his ability to be the best caretaker. The past 10 days, Dae-Han became Hot Nurse Song as he prepared my shots each morning, working to take any fertility load that he could off my shoulders and onto his.
How is someone this handsome in their Christmas pjs right when they get out of bed in the morning? The man can’t take a poor picture at any angle or any time. May our progeny be good swimmers and just as photogenic.
7. Leaned into the Sisterhood.
The Sisterhood is awesome. It came in the form of many supportive messages from friends around the globe. The Sisterhood also showed up in action. Dae-Han had an incredible opportunity to go to South Africa this week for a conference, so our friend Alice stepped in to go with for my retrieval appointment. Our friendship reached new heights as she accompanied me into the procedure room — my gown flapping as I wiggled into the feet straps on the procedure table — to translate for me before I was in an anaesthesia slumber. She got me home after the procedure. She waited on me while I was laid out on the couch for several hours post procedure.
Alice is awesome.
So I’ve gathered some cool things this week. I’ve learned that I can be a statistical outlier in the best way possible. I’ve learned how much I like being in a deep anaethesia induced sleep. (When I told this to my friend Lychelle, she responded with an amused “Tell me your job is hard without telling me your job is hard.” Perhaps. I was forced to sleep and rest and this part was delicious.) I’ve learned — or perhaps I had this knowledge and it was reinforced this week — what an incredible community of women I have around me here in Seoul. I’ve been reminded that my husband is the shit. I’ve been reminded that I can do hard things — I can work a full time job in my classroom and work a full time job in my ovaries (I’d argue they have both been more than full time this week.) I have been reminded to honor and respect and love my body.
Right now I am bloated and my pants do not fit and I feel fat (and I know that this is a stupid thought) and my boobs hurt and they didn’t even grow at all with all of the hormones and I have complained about this to my sympathetic husband and I am going to stop now. Goshdarnit I am going to start worshipping this body for all that she does and all that she creates. John Mayer is handsome but also kind of a jerk but I will take his words and run with them. My body is a wonderland. A wonder of creation and beauty. I hope your remember this about your body too.
Our next step in The Hatchery (I think this metaphor might be cracking) is to wait until the end of the month when we will find out which embryos are genetically sound and ready for transfer.
There is plenty of uncertainty — how many eggs were viable for insemination, how many embryos went to blast, will the embryo implant in my womb — but today I am just one Happy Hen.
Note: words throughout the post in italics are hyperlinks
Drunk Sperm Swim in Circles
I believe that I became a mother on May 10th, 2021. If you’re reading this, you likely know me. If you know me, you know that 1. I was single in 2021, 2. that now I am married, and 3. that Dae-Han and I do not presently have any children.
Still, I will state May 10th was the day that I crossed some kind of threshold into motherhood.
There is a a voice message that still lives in WeChat that I sent to my friend Lauren on May 12th. When I play this message back now, I hear my breathy voice:
I’ve been having a rough day today, so you’re getting me in that space … I feel really good about my decision to go home and do this thing … and it is coming with a great deal of uncertainty and stress.
I continue my message to Lauren, detailing that I had reached out to Tracy, my therapist, in a state of distress, requesting a session before our weekly scheduled one.
It was on May 10th, 2021 date that I made the call to close the China-living chapter so that I could return to the States to freeze my eggs. At the time, in the midst of the pandemic, China still had not opened up, making an exit and return to the mainland very uncertain.
In subsequent voice messages to Lauren, I recounted an exchange that had taken place in that “emergency” session:
Tracy: What if there was somewhere else outside China that was going to be viable? What if there was a good school somewhere else that you could work at and you could go home and then go to that school?
Me: That would be really compelling right now. I’m not ready to leave Shekou emotionally, but honestly I don’t think I ever will be ready because I have built such an incredible community. Whenever I am going to leave, it’s going to really hard.
Tracy’s question sat with me for the hours after my session with her. While I had little hope of landing a job in May in the international world of teaching, I knew that her question was meant to unearth clarity — she was trying to help me ascertain what my number one priority was at that time. The resounding message that came back from that wild woman place within me was motherhood. I would make the decision that would give me the greatest chance to bring a baby into this world someday. Motherhood would shape this decision to leave the family I had built in Shekou, China, in order to build the family that would begin in my womb someday.
One day later, I turned in my resignation to Shekou International School. On that day, I had a one way ticket to Minnesota, I did not have a job lined up for August, but I did have my clarity.
And then a Universe thing happened. At least the way I see it. As I told Lauren of my decision and my sadness to leave all that I had loved in and loved about China, she typed a message back:
Lauren was writing to me from Seoul, South Korea, where she had spent her first year as High School Librarian at Seoul Foreign School.
And this is how I now too write from Seoul Foreign School, from the 2nd floor High School English office where I have begun my third year as a Language and Literature teacher, and second year as Head of Grade 12.
When Tracy asked me to imagine a scenario in which I would go back to Minnesota to freeze my eggs and then start a job in August, I didn’t think this would actually happen, but I get goosebumps looking at how everything came together once I found my truth in that moment and built everything else around that.
It was not just a great job at a top-tier international school that I landed when I made that decision to put my eggs in cryogenic basket in Minnesota. It was the love of my life that I found in Seoul. My Seoulful Life, I now frequently hashtag on Instagram.
While I would love to live a dozen lifetimes with Dae-Han, and maybe one of those lives would include just the two of us, the way I believe it to be is that we get this one wild and precious life, and in this life we want to bring that dream of parenthood to full fruition. Thus, we have stepped onto a road traveled by some, but not by everyone.
When we returned from our honeymoon, I made an appointment at Houm OBGYN and Natural Birthing Clinic. It was at this appointment that I learned that I have 11,000 eggs left in my ovarian basket, 3,000 of which are healthy. It is bananas that science allows me to know this now. I also learned at this appointment that I have a 6% chance of conceiving a healthy baby at this point in my no-longer-in-my-twenties life.
Since it is not only my reproductive health that affects our chances of conceiving, Dae-Han too went to the doctor. Ultimately, the combination of both of our stats — if we were baseball players our batting average would unfavorable — led us to walk the road right into Cha Fertility Center. And that is where we stayed for three hours on Saturday morning. I went through a battery of tests, from blood to heart, and Dae-Han sat by to hold my hand and translate. (If ever I am at an appointment on my own, there is a number I can call for a translator, though no other translator compares to your partner.)
This week, the thoughts in my head have been swimming the way that I imagine drunk sperm do — in circles. So many questions, uncertainties, fears — will IVF work for us? Will I endure the heartbreak of a miscarriage? How many gosh darn baskets do I need to put my eggs into? (This mama cannot fly her Minnesota eggs across country lines, so there is not a chance of them hatching until at least June.)
It is now the end of my school day. The only moments I have been able to transfer, for short periods, swimming thoughts from their sea to a nesting pond are when I am in front of my students. The rest of the time, I am trying to stay afloat in that sea.
I am afraid of heights, but here I am typing out my words on a keyboard, leaping off the vulnerability high dive as I share them with you. Why did I walk up all of those steps to the top of this platform with wobbly legs? Because I think there is too much power in stories not to right now.
When Dae-Han and I were first wrapping our heads around the recommendation that we use IVF to form our family, I was processing with my soul-sister Ceci. She reminded me that her friends Liz and Mark had done IVF in Korea, and they now have the most gorgeous three-year boy Finley for it.
I was quick to message Liz and she was quick to pick up the phone and video call me to share her story with me. Liz’s story was not simple or straightforward; there is strength in knowing someone on the other end to understands these next steps.
So maybe someone else stumbles across the words and we continue to build our community of stories.
The next chapter will write itself at our appointment Thursday where the doctor will sweep out my fallopian tubes. I imagine a tiny little micro-brush lightly twirling around in my tubes like a sweet grandma dancing to Elvis while sweeping her front porch. In reality, I know the experience will be much less quaint.
In the coming days, Dae-Han and I will be working towards collective clarity on building our birds nest.
In the past, I’ve always been able to tune into my intuition to find my answer to many of my big questions. This time, I do that with Dae-Han.
