To Me, and Maybe to All of Us
I didn’t grow up thinking life stories needed to be written down.
They lived in fragments — in things people remembered at family dinners, in objects kept in drawers, in the way someone’s voice echoes even after they’re gone.
But lately, I’ve been rethinking that.
It’s not just about nostalgia.
It’s about loneliness.
And about what gets left unsaid.
When Writing Becomes Remembering
Years ago, while working on my cultural anthropology thesis, I spent time with Korean white-collar retirees — men who had risen through banks and government offices in the decades following war and upheaval. They weren’t celebrities. They didn’t lead revolutions. But their lives were full of movement — from villages to cities, from typewriters to meetings, from youth to responsibility.
What I remember most was how quiet they were.
How often they paused when asked simple questions like,
“What did you want, back then?”
Sometimes they couldn’t answer.
Other times they tried — slowly, carefully.
And occasionally, writing helped them get there.
Getting Older Is Getting Used to Silence
As people age, something shifts.
Not just physically, but socially.
The family grows busy with its own life.
The workplace disappears.
Friend groups shrink.
We become more alone — even before we’re truly alone.
And in that quiet, memories gather like dust.
Unshared, unasked, unread.
It’s not about being forgotten.
It’s about being misunderstood.
Your child doesn’t know why you made that decision in your 30s.
Your spouse might not fully understand what you lost in your 40s.
Even you might need help remembering what mattered most.
Writing a life story can feel like an excuse — not in the apologetic sense, but in the explanatory one.
A way of saying: This is why I chose what I did. This is what it meant to me.
My Father, and the Others Like Him
My own father was born in the early 1950s in the Korean countryside. He moved to Seoul for a job, started as a bank teller, worked quietly, and eventually retired as a branch manager.
At work, his coworkers respected him — he was flexible, reliable, generous.
At home, he was stricter, more distant. I now wonder if he felt lonely there.
Maybe it was hard to explain his inner world to us.
Or maybe he didn’t know how.
He was the eldest of eight siblings, raised with responsibility etched into his habits.
Duty, not expression.
Provision, not explanation.
So much of him — like the men I interviewed — remained unsaid.
But I now see: it wasn’t because there was nothing to say.
It was because no one asked.
And maybe, he didn’t know how to start.
Science Has a Name for This
Psychologists call it narrative identity — the idea that we make sense of ourselves through story.
Writing, especially in later life, helps reduce stress, increase emotional clarity, and even alleviate feelings of isolation.
Sociologists frame it as a bridge across generations.
Anthropologists like myself see it as cultural memory — a form of preservation that can outlive the speaker.
When someone writes their life story, they’re not just sharing facts.
They’re building a path for others to walk through their mind and time.
Family Is the Closest, Yet Sometimes the Least Understood
We think we know our parents.
Or our grandparents.
But we know them mostly through roles — not reflections.
Writing a life story gives the family something rare:
A chance to understand.
Even when the person is no longer around.
Even when distance, death, or silence have stepped in.
It’s not about legacy in the traditional sense.
It’s about repairing the unseen misunderstandings that time has layered into relationships.
When someone writes down what they felt — not just what they did — we begin to know them as people.
And that knowledge softens things.
Even the difficult parts.
A Gentle Invitation
You don’t have to be a writer.
You don’t need perfect grammar.
But you have a life no one else has lived.
And someone — maybe even your future self — needs to hear it.
I believe this not just as a son, but as a researcher.
Not just as a Korean, but as someone trying to make sense of what connects people across time.
We’re made of more than events.
We’re made of meaning.
Writing your story might be the most generous thing you do — for yourself, for your family, and for the quiet places inside you that are still waiting to speak.
Story Table 