Author: Sophia Lee

A writer, a journalist, a wife, a clueless mother, a broken Christian.

To have and to lose

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I remember the first morning after our wedding, the first time I woke up as a wife. I don’t know why, but that few seconds of a single moment is like a neon painting in the gallery of my memories, impressionable and unforgettable.

I remember opening my eyes and turning right to see the profile of my husband— husband!— sleeping on his side, breathing softly, a slight crease on his neck where his shoulder almost touches the side of his face. This is my husband, I marveled.

And then just as quickly, I thought, He could die. And just like that, I could lose him. In becoming a wife, I’d suddenly also gained the very real possibility of becoming a widow.

Besides for my parents and brother, that was the first time I had something as precious, yet also as fragile, as life. A husband. Someone who belongs to me, yet is so out of my control, someone who brings me immense joy, yet also capable of bringing me immense sorrow, anguish, fear, anxiety.

I never thought of myself as a fearful, anxious person, until one day my parents got old, I married a man, birthed two children, and bought a new house. And then I realized: It’s not that I had no fear. It’s that I didn’t have enough to lose. And now I do.

As I write this on my iPhone, Woori sleeps in my arms, because she’s been refusing to nap in her bassinet. Tov is in school, kept indoors because of the terrible fires currently still raging in Los Angeles. David is gone to a work meeting. And outside, the sky is sludgy and smoldering, as ashes dot the air above this great, terrible city like snow flurries. The light that streams through our window is a soft, glowing orange-gold, lovely but eerie because it’s not normal.

LA is burning. The photos and videos streaming through my screen are like snapshots of an apocalyptic movie— houses and buildings razed into black skeletal frames, memories and keepsakes and well-worn furniture all disintegrated into white and black flakes.

When I first heard about the Pacific Palisades fire, the news barely made a dent in my attention, because there are always some kind of wildfires in Southern California during this drought season. But then the news got more frantic, more high-pitched. And then I got news that Altadena is burning as well, a small town-vibe city where one of my best friends live, and the news drilled from my mind to my heart.

This is real now. It is so real it’s surreal. I didn’t believe my friend would lose her home. I couldn’t believe it. I was willfully optimistic out of desperation. I felt heartsick, thinking of all the happy times we had shared in her humongous, well-maintained, well-lived backyard. Of all the BBQ parties and playdates and picnics on her lawn, underneath the prosperous orange trees. As of now, it seems my friend was able to save her house from burning down, but overnight, her entire neighborhood has exploded and crumbled into rubble, and the fire is still not contained. It’s insane. It’s like a nightmare from which we cannot wake.

All this is happening while David and I are building our new house. For the last two months, I’d been watching countless YouTube clips on how to design a kitchen, how to decorate the living room, etc. I’d been overwhelmed with the decisions I had to make: What paint colors to choose for the bedroom walls— rose bisque or allspice? Upholstered bed or metal bed frame? Brass or bronze tones for hardware? And now it’s laughable and embarrassing that those decisions seemed so important or intimidating, while thousands of people have lost their house, their investment, their belongings.

This tragedy, hit so close to home, is terrifying and sobering. It reminds me yet again that the more I have, the more I have to lose. And I can lose them in an instant, just as a neighbor’s truck took David’s mom away in an instant, and an ember took away more than 2,000 homes and businesses in an instant. Every day when I drop Tov off to school is a gamble, but every day I keep Tov at home is also a gamble. Every day, every moment is a gamble in life. Life is a roulette of gain and loss, pain and joy, success and failure, and we are all just helplessly watching as the wheel spins and spins, wondering on which pocket the ball will land.

This sounds incredibly, horribly depressing and fatalistic. Unless you have the gospel. Unless you still see a reason for hope.

On New Year’s Day, I sat at our local Starbucks and asked God what to pray for the new year. I do this every year. Last year, I prayed for community, and God answered and continues to answer that prayer. This year, 2025, I considered various prayers and kept coming back to the word “generosity.”

It seemed fitting, at a time when we are building a new house with the idea of opening it up to our slowly forming community. I also thought of “generosity” not just materially but in spirit, as God revealed to me in 2024 how petty, small-minded, and selfish I am in my thoughts and actions towards others, especially those whom I love the most, those who I’m most afraid to lose. I want to be generous in my thoughts towards people in my life, to see the best in them and delight in them, to not judge and compare and scorn. I want to be generous with my time and attention with others, to be quick to give my ear and shoulder to those who need it.

As I thought about what it meant to be generous, I listened to a podcast that pointed out that true generosity comes from a deep acknowledgment and understanding that everything that I have belongs to the Lord. That this is not “my” house but God’s. This is not “my” money but God’s. This is not “my” husband and “my” children but God’s. Everything that I have is a gift generously shared by God, and generosity is simply good stewardship of that. Generosity demands a radical change of mindset towards what I have in life. It’s not: Here I have this much, so I can give you that much of what I have. It’s: Everything that I have is the Lord’s. Nothing belongs to me.

Even as I write this, I am frightened of what this means. That maybe I didn’t know what I was really asking for when I pray about generosity, that God might ask me to open up my hands and let go of more than I am willing to share.

As I pray about this LA fire, currently already the most destructive in history, and I pray that the winds and fires will cease and houses and lives be spared, I also pray: The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Praise be His name. And though I don’t always feel this in my emotions, which tremble and quiver, I know it to be true. And there’s hope in that.

How I feel 4 months postpartum as a stay-at-home mother

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It’s been almost four months since I’ve had Woori.

Many people, after reading my essay for Christianity Today on transitioning from a working mother to a stay-at-home mother, have asked me how I’m doing now that I’ve crossed that transition.

I reply, “Don’t know. Ask me in a few more months.”

It’s a hard question to answer because honestly, I’m rarely thinking about how I feel. I’m just clucking about like a crazy hen, pecking at this, chasing chicks, fluttering and puttering and scuttling. My eyes only see what’s right before me in the dirt, at hen-height. The day passes by so fast I can barely tell a Wednesday from a Saturday. I could have sworn I just folded a pile of laundry, and behold, here’s a mountain of laundry waiting to be folded again!

So I haven’t really had the chance to sit down and process my thoughts and feelings, but it really isn’t just about lack of time, either.

I’ve gotten dumb. I’ve gotten really, really dumb. When I expelled all my postpartum blood, I seem to also have flushed out most of my IQ. I forget friends’ names. I forget to respond to texts. I forget where I placed an item right after I’ve placed it. I lose my phone all the time. I can’t finish a thought. Words don’t come to me as I’m speaking, so my sentences are jumbled and chopped. When David wants to talk to me about news and politics, I have absolutely no mental or emotional capacity to respond other than to mutter, “Oh yeah?”

So yeah. How do I feel about being a stay-at-home mother? Maybe the most accurate description is: Dumb AF.

But it’s also confusing. Because in those moments when I am more aware of my thoughts and feelings, they don’t make coherent sense.

At times, as I hold Woori and feel her warm little head resting on my shoulder, or kiss Tov as he giggles with such wild joy, I feel such deep contentment, like my life is perfect the way it is. And then other times, I’m deeply discontent, and the smallest thing annoys me— the permanent clutter, the hands constantly grabbing at me, the noises, the very breathing of my husband. (Is it too much to ask our spouses to stop breathing for just half an hour?)

At times, I’m simply so filled with gratitude for the blessings God has given me that tears spring to my eyes, and I want to leap and sing like Maria in Sound of Music. Other times, I’m in inexplicable rage mode, wanting to kick walls, throw things, scream.

At times, I love the familiar, comforting drudgery of motherhood— feel relieved, even, that I don’t have to go back to work. Other times, I feel pinches of panic and anxiety— is this it? Am I stuck in this merry-go-round of domestic hell? Dropping kids off, picking them up, cooking and cleaning, wiping butts and wringing your explodes mustard-colored poop off onesies? What if I never make something of myself? Am I ever going to write a book?

At times, I tear up seeing how big Tov is now, and how quickly Woori is growing, and whisper to them, “Oh, stop growing so fast,” and I wish I can freeze time and capture them tiny forever in a snow globe. Other times, I’m impatient for the next stage, impatient for them to be more independent and self-sufficient, so I don’t have to help dress them or bathe them and I can have my life back again.

That’s the paradox of parenthood: I feel the extremes of both ends on the emotional spectrum, often within the same day. I’m standing pulled and stretched in that tension of contradictory feelings, which spike and dip wildly like a monsoon season. And from what I’m hearing from other parents, everything I’m feeling is normal. Laughing with joy one minute and then internally screaming with frustration the next? Quite normal. Wait till your kids are teenagers, they say.

So. At four months postpartum, how do I feel? Like a mother, I suppose.

Woori’s Baekil (100th day)

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This sweet little girl is 100 days old.

To be accurate, she is 106 days old now as I write this. She is a healthy baby, not very chunky but sprightly and smiley and oh so snuggly.

Only 106 days old, and I can’t imagine a world in which she didn’t exist. I was hugging her the other day, smelling the sweet powdery scent of her little head, and thinking how crazy it is that she’s only existed for three months, how still so new and fresh she is as a life on earth.

Baekil (100 day) is a big event in Korean culture because so many babies back then didn’t live past 100 days. 100 days is a milestone that the babe made it this far. To mark the event, Koreans traditionally made white rice cakes, because “baek” is also pronounced the same as the Korean word for “white.”

For Tov’s baekil, I baked a white cake, cooked noodles (white and also a symbol for longevity) and dumplings, and bought white rice cakes from the Korean market. We kept it really low-key— no decorations, no hanbok, no guests except for a couple church friends.

For Woori’s baekil, I did the same: white cake, noodles, dumplings, rice cakes, and church friends.

Guess who didn’t appreciate it in the least.

Woori. She didn’t give a crap whether it’s her 100th or her one millionth day; she was yowling in indignation that she would be so cruelly neglected while I hurried and bustled around trying to shop and get things ready. It was Thanksgiving the next day, so I was prepping for the next day as well. It was a busy, hectic, flustering day, despite me trying to keep Woori’s baekil as minimally fussy as possible.

On the agenda for that day:

  • Prep the maple bacon cinnamon rolls for Thanksgiving, so that it’s ready to be baked in the morning.
  • Talk to the Ferguson rep to finalize orders for all the bathroom and kitchen plumbing things for our new house.
  • Thaw and cook pork butt in instant pot for dinner.
  • Run to Korean mart to pick up ingredients and rice cakes.
  • Make frosting and frost the three-tier Greek yogurt white cake.
  • Chop veggies, boil noodles, make sauce, and fry dumplings for dinner.
  • Wipe down every surface because one of our guests is severely allergic to everything we eat on a daily basis: dairy and nuts.

It doesn’t seem like a lot, but add to that needing to feed Woori every 2 hours or so, and Tov being home because school is off for the week, and the day turned out to be quite frantic. Usually just one grocery trip is a big enough task for the day for me.

I’m always, always shocked by how little time I actually have…and how much time it actually takes to get one thing done.

It didn’t help that I burned the bacon for the maple bacon cinnamon rolls, which meant I had to stop by Vons for more bacon. I burned it because the call to finalize plumbing orders took over an hour, much longer than I expected.

While Tov was napping, Woori and I rushed to the Korean mart, then stopped by Vons to get bacon. By then Woori was hungry and screaming in the car.

“I’m so sorry, Woori, wait just a little while longer,” I said, while silently cursing all the cars on the road that was causing unnecessary traffic.

She screamed, I cursed, she screamed some more. The traffic inched along, chocking with harried people who were probably doing last-minute shopping like I was.

I was so tempted to just forget the stupid bacon, but then it wouldn’t be maple bacon cinnamon rolls, would it? And whose genius idea was it to make freaking maple bacon cinnamon rolls? Why couldn’t I have just made it easy for myself and bought a freaking pumpkin pie from the store?

“I always do this to myself,” I yelled in the car. “Why? WHY?!”

Got the bacon. Rushed home. Found that Tov had already woken up from his nap and was crying in his crib. Fed Woori while Tov begged to play with me, pulling on my arm. We compromised by him bringing a book to me so I can read it while nursing Woori.

Then as I was making the frosting for the cake, of course Tov wanted to participate too. He screamed because there is no flour needed for the frosting, and he loves measuring and dumping out the flour. And then he insisted on helping me frost the cake, though he lacks the proper skills. I let him muck around for a bit, and then had to hurry things along because I hadn’t all day.

“Here, let umma do it.”

He whined, gripping on to the icing spatula with a death grip.

“Come on, let me do it!”

I grabbed the spatula, now all sticky and gross from his frosted fingers, and we played tug of war for a good few minutes.

“No, no. Drop it. It’s umma’s turn.”

“Aaaaah nooooooooooo!!”

“Give that to me!”

He tilted his head back and howled like a wolf that’s been kicked in the gut, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking his t-shirt: “Waaaaaaaah!!”

Meanwhile, Woori was starting to fuss on her bouncer, either getting hungry or restless or tired or all of the above. Her grunts escalated into howls as well.

Tov mercifully stopped howling then, as though surprised that someone else is as anguished as he is. “Bebe crying,” he told me.

“Yes, you’re both crying, and you’re driving me nuts,” I said.

And then— “Ah, shit.” I didn’t make enough frosting. I quickly turned on the Kitchenaid mixer again, tossed in the vegan butter and sugar. Whip whip whip.

I finished frosting the cake at record speed after another wrestle match with Tov and then let Tov lick some leftover frosting from the Kitchenaid paddle. Whatever it takes to keep him quiet.

OK. What now? Oh yes. Candy the bacon— no burning it this time! Roll out the dough I had prepared in the morning. Slather the butter and cinnamon sugar. Crumble candied bacon on top. Roll roll roll. Cut cut cut. Clear the fridge so I can make room for the cake and the rolls.

I get a text from my church friends saying they’re on our way. Yikes, gotta speed things up!

Chop chop chop vegetables. Let Tov make a mess next to me on the countertop to keep him occupied. Stick out a foot to rock Woori’s bouncer whenever she starts fussing. Grate grate grate the vegetables. Pull the pork. Whip the sauce. Boil somen noodles. Fry the bulgogi dumplings. Wipe the tables and other surface areas.

By the time my church friends arrive, my hair is in disarray, my clothes are marked with frosting and soy sauce, and I still have groceries from the Korean mart sitting in their bags on the dining table.

But at least the cake is frosted, the pork is tender, the noodles are sauced, the dumplings are crispy, the vegetables are cooked, and the rice cakes are sitting on a wooden cake plate.

All in celebration of Woori. None of which Woori can eat.

I don’t know why we do this. Make busyness for ourselves. To put so much significance into certain things. Celebrating baekils doesn’t really make sense anymore in today’s modern world, when the vast majority of babies survive infancy. But we still do it, because, I suppose, it’s an excuse to gather. It’s a heralding of a life that’s worth that fuss, even if that person doesn’t know how to appreciate it yet.

We all squeezed into our dining table and ate the food while Woori sat on her bouncer staring up at us, unable to even taste a single bite.

The irony of it tickled me: She had been lugged here and there when she wanted to nap, bounced vigorously when she wanted attention, smacked in the face by her over-affectionate, over-enthusiastic brother, sitting in a poopy diaper for who knows how long because her umma forgot to check her diaper, fed inconsistently because her umma was busy scraping dough and speed-chopping shiitake mushrooms. All because we wanted to celebrate the fact that she’s still alive.

She may not appreciate it now, but she’ll come to see this moment as an investment in her. The church friends we invited are a family of four (soon five) with two toddlers aged 3 and 1. They came risking their older son’s allergy flareups, knowing our house is full of potential allergens, medication ready in case he breaks out in hives (he did, sadly— despite my best efforts). They left their house almost an hour early and arrived at our house just in time— which means they spent an hour in traffic. They gave us a good chunk of time despite their kids’ bedtimes. They were investing in us as a family.

I didn’t need to do anything for Woori’s baekil. But I did something because it’s one opportunity to build that community David and I have been praying about, the community Woori is named after. I didn’t care for a huge elaborate party. For Woori’s baekil, I just wanted one family to show up and be present, because Woori matters to them, because we matter, because any reason to gather as a community is worth it.

Happy Baekil, Woori. May you always be surrounded and loved by people who invest in you, because you’ve invested in them.