When I moved to LA in 2021, we were just beginning to make our first wobbly steps out into the world, as COVID restrictions were slowly being lifted and vaccines were rolled out.
This was also the first time I was living alone. From living with my family to living in dorms, then moving in with randos from Craiglist, and later, my ex, I’ve always had roommates, so to have an entire apartment to myself was both terrifying and exciting.
I didn’t know very many people when I got here, so those first six months were filled with solitude. Yes, it was lonely at times, but more often than not, I found the quiet to be quite peaceful and rife with possibility.
After work and on weekends, I’d regularly drive to Koreatown to grab my favorite snacks (usually Corn Chips or Turtle Chips) and comfort foods like kimbap. Through these solo adventures, I found a kimbap spot I loved and frequented so much that I ended up writing an entire essay about it for the LAist, a local news outlet I occasionally read for food recommendations.
And wouldn’t you know…
A few weeks ago, a producer in Seoul came across that essay, two years after it was written. She’s working on a documentary about the global rise of kimbap and wanted to interview me for it. Never in a million years did I think I’d be interviewed for my thoughts on kimbap, but the timing felt right. (More on that in a future post.)
I share this as a reminder to both myself and to anyone who needs to hear it:
Write the thing. Make the thing. Share the thing.
It might not earn you much money or garner any attention right away or maybe ever, but it could open a window of possibility for something you haven’t even imagined yet.
After months of living a very quiet life, I was ready to emerge from my cocoon. At this point, I was deep in my BTS obsession, so I decided to check out a dance studio that specializes in K-Pop choreographies. I figured I’d learn a few BTS dances “for fun” (ha!) and get some exercise while I was at it. It turned out to be so much more than what I signed up for.
Two things that surprised me the most about these classes:
They were *much* harder and more serious than I’d anticipated. If I’m being honest, I always fancied myself a decent dancer in that I knew I could keep a rhythm and I had a lot of practice at the clurbs :) I was sad to find out that being able to drop it low after a few shots of vodka with friends does not equate to the years of actual training it takes to keep up with this level of choreography. With zero foundational skills under my belt, I felt like I had two left feet and a malfunctioning brain most of the time. I still feel this way.
I met a ton of new people—of all ages and from all walks of life. As we spent more time together inside and outside of the studio, friendships began to blossom. Soon, I found myself in a community of fellow K-Pop/dance enthusiasts who have made this sprawling city of Los Angeles feel like home.
It’s been over two years since I first stepped foot in that studio, and it’s become a regular part of my routine and life here in LA. I love having something that continually challenges me.
In many ways, dancing feels like writing. It never, or very rarely, feels easy to me. I don’t think I can ever truly “master” either endeavor, but the process of trying and making incremental improvements makes me feel alive.
And so, despite how frustrated I feel when I’m in the middle of learning a complicated routine that’s way above my current skillset or ability, I keep showing up because it offers me a rare moment to disconnect from everything else, because it reminds me of how lucky I am to be moving my body at all, and because it celebrates the little girl I once was, the same girl who danced alone in the living room once all of the adults were asleep. I dance especially for her, and I hope to continue dancing for a long time.
My friend recently shared this video of an older Japanese man at a dance event. Seeing him joyfully popping off in his flashy outfit, surrounded by a sea of gawking youths unlocked a new dream for me.
Yes, I would love to land a fancy book deal that my parents can be proud of and humblebrag about to their friends with children who are doctors and engineers—or just married adults who own property and have kids.
I would also love to be paid handsomely and publicly acknowledged for my work.
But these are outcomes that are outside of my control, and they’re not what motivate me to keep showing up and doing “the work,” which I’ve identified as staying curious and open to the world, and sharing what I learn along the way.
Having this parallel dream of being an elderly dancer. A dream that exists outside of any societal expectations and norms, and in fact, defies many of the preconceived notions we have about what it looks like to get older feels expansive to me. It feels sacred and celebratory and closer to the truth of how I want to live and be remembered someday.
Your aspiring dance grandma,
Jenny
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, please click the heart at the bottom or top of this email/post. This helps other people discover my newly budding newsletter, and it makes me smile at my computer screen like this:
I also love hearing from you! If you’d rather leave a comment, here’s a question for you: What is one song you can’t resist dancing to when it comes on?
Tearing up reading the Kimbap essay. FWIW, I think publishers are missing out not giving you a fancy book deal! I have not cried reading about Kimbap until today.
"Feel It Still" by Portugal. The Man is my go-to dance it out song, and I don't know that will ever change!