Behind the ink... & the error

My Story: The Journey So Far

Welcome to Ink & Error, my little corner of the internet where thoughts collide and stories unfold. Before we delve into the deeper aspects of life, let me share a bit about myself.

I grew up in a suburb where most people followed a predictable path: attend school, get a job, settle down. I was different. I was curious about the bigger world—about the untold stories and the truths hidden behind the headlines. Yet I also struggled with indecision, torn between countless interests and passions that often felt unrealistic. Unsure of which path to choose, I picked the one that seemed to promise the most success.

Just two weeks after high school graduation, I left home for the U.S. Naval Academy, eager to become the leader I’d always dreamed of being. Boot camp, also known as Plebe Summer, was grueling yet empowering. I was in the best physical shape of my life, and my mind was sharp, especially when it came to memorizing knowledge for the academy. Plebe Summer transformed me into a runner, a team player, and a humble follower. I grew close with my classmates in the 22nd Company, as well as with the plebes who attended Bible Study or Sunday Worship alongside me.

Once the academic year began, I felt unstoppable. Just one week into the semester, I was awarded the title Spartan of the Week, recognizing me as a standout midshipman in the company—not just among fellow plebes, but even upperclassmen. In a way, this was both a blessing and a curse. The upperclass now knew my name—and they now knew my face.

It wasn’t long after that when I started slipping up. As a midshipman, virtually everything—whether related to classes, the company, the Brigade, or the Navy in general—is communicated via email. The day starts at 05:30 and ends, for most, at 23:30. Time management is essential, and there’s absolutely no room for “feeling overwhelmed.” My mistakes were often minor—being late, forgetting a uniform item, or failing to communicate my whereabouts—but at the Academy, small slip-ups carry big consequences.

Now, I must clarify: plebe year is meant to be tough. It’s the time when upperclassmen rule, and plebes—quite literally—get on their faces and drool. When a plebe fails, they’re supposed to have a team to fall back on, and that team is their squad. My squad leader, a fellow Korean-American from Southern California, was by far the most cynical man I’ve met to date. He wasn’t socially adept, and for some reason, he had a difficult time showing the slightest bit of dignity toward me.

At the Naval Academy, all midshipmen are taught the difference between dignity and respect. From a quick Google search, one can learn that “dignity is the inherent, inalienable worth and value that every person possesses, regardless of their actions or circumstances, while respect is the outward act of showing consideration and esteem for another person.” My squad leader neglected to show me dignity—to look me in the eye, to let me finish my sentences, to take my mental health concerns seriously. I was constantly made to feel like either an object or a helpless child.

In moments when I thought we were finally on the same page, he would steer the conversation back to himself—how his own squad leader had mistreated him, or how his first goal after graduation was to leave the Navy. For a struggling plebe seeking guidance or reassurance, these were not the conversations I needed. At the time, I was really struggling—more than I liked to admit.

The negative interactions with my squad leader escalated: getting called out in front of the whole company, having my dorm corner “tornadoed” (all my belongings thrown on the floor in the name of discipline, while my roommates’ remained untouched), and being summoned to private meetings where every upperclassman with a billet yelled at me until I broke down in tears. Mentally and emotionally, this shattered me.

By late autumn, I was referred to a psychiatrist who prescribed anxiety medication and recommended therapy. The therapy sessions, however, kept getting postponed, and the medication doses kept increasing. I also began skipping classes more frequently and was often called into my company officer’s office. She was kind on the surface, but I found it hard to trust her intentions after overhearing her talk about me behind my back. At this point, I no longer wanted to be at the Academy, and she was doing her best to convince me to stay.

I was putting my parents through hell by not responding to their calls or texts. Eventually, I stopped attending classes altogether. I missed every major exam. I was banned from Glee Club rehearsals to focus on academics, but instead, I prioritized napping. Nothing seemed to matter anymore because no one seemed to understand what I was going through. I still attended church, but I wasn’t walking with the Lord. My prayers turned into quiet muttering about why I had ever come here—because at the end of the day, it was my choice. I had fought for that appointment letter on February 22nd. I’ll never forget it.

God works in mysterious ways, even when His children choose to be distant from Him. Even at my lowest point—when I wanted so badly to fall asleep and never wake up—I had friends who cared. I was so closed off, but I had company mates who would literally pull me out of my rack to stretch, work out, or walk around the halls. I’m not usually a TV person, but I randomly stumbled upon Desperate Housewives, and there was something deeply comforting about it. Watching this group of friends endure hardships together—solving mysteries, getting into fights, even committing their share of sins—reminded me that life was messy but never meant to be faced alone. Each episode carried themes of family, love, and friendship, which were exactly what I needed to hold onto at the time.

When I wasn’t with friends or watching the show, I often found myself drawn to the bright-green, blinking Trident Light at the edge of campus—the one place where I could truly be alone. There, no one was watching; it was just me, the soft crash of waves along the Annapolis coast, and the occasional bottlenose dolphins breaking the surface in the distance. Looking back, that green light reminds me of The Great Gatsby—except it wasn’t Daisy or some illusion of the American Dream that I longed for. It was a quiet sense of peace and purpose, always shimmering just out of reach, pulsing in time with the water that seemed to carry it farther away each night.

Winter break gave me time to reflect, and soon after, the academic board sealed my fate. Although I had regained the courage to stay, Superintendent Yvette Davids, Commandant Walter Allman, and the rest of the board decided I should leave and reevaluate my life. In hindsight, it was the best choice for me. Beyond my individual experience of being hazed and mistreated, the Academy—while full of honor and tradition—wasn’t a place where I could truly be myself. It didn’t allow me the space to grow or define my own identity. It was an institution that molded you into the image of the collective, not an individual. And while I still respect and admire military service, I’ve come to value personal growth even more—something I’ve found far more attainable in a traditional college setting.

Leaving the Academy was a wake-up call. I realized how easily modern life can keep us busy—school, work, internships—until we forget to ask whether we’re truly thriving or simply meeting external expectations. Growing up in such a competitive academic and athletic environment, I spent years trying to fit into a mold, losing touch with who I really was. In March of this year, I made the life-altering decision to start therapy.

Therapy became a game-changer. It unlocked insights I hadn’t expected. For the first time, I could step back and see myself not just as a collection of problems, but as a person in need of healing and growth. I learned how to navigate old friendships, rebuild my relationship with my parents, and embrace a slower pace of life. I began attending Mariners Church and serving on the Worship Team as a vocalist. I got a job at my dad’s gastroenterology clinic as a medical assistant, and working there has become one of the highlights of my week. I transferred to community college, where I decided to pursue a career in journalism. Writing became my way of understanding the world and reflecting on my experiences.

In many ways, Ink & Error is a personal journal—an open space where I can share the lessons I’ve learned, the mistakes I’ve made, and the messy journey of figuring out life. I’ve always believed in the power of words to create change—whether through a song that speaks to your soul or an article that challenges your perspective. That’s what I hope to offer here: a blend of my life experiences, reflections, and storytelling.

So, why Ink & Error? Life isn’t perfect, and neither is writing. It’s about the process—the mistakes we make, the lessons we learn, and the beauty that comes from putting it all together. I’m inspired to emulate my Creator, who tells the story of my life with grace and purpose. In the same way, I want to share stories that reveal beauty in both success and failure. I am far from perfect, and my journey is full of mistakes—but that’s where the magic happens.

This space is for anyone who’s ever felt torn between two worlds, who’s searching for their place, or simply in need of a good read. I hope Ink & Error will be a place where we can explore, reflect, and maybe even laugh along the way.

Welcome to the journey. Welcome to my story.

"Hooyah!"