"Being a mother to two children with autism is an experience that reshaped my entire world. At first, I struggled to accept it. I kept questioning, ‘Why me? Why did God allow this to happen?’ The weight of the diagnosis felt like a storm that I couldn’t escape. I cried for nights, praying it was just a bad dream. But reality doesn’t disappear with denial—it demands to be faced.
My husband embraced the situation immediately. While I was still processing the grief, he searched for the best doctors to help our children. Meanwhile, I felt suspended between hope and despair, unable to grasp the truth of our new reality. It took time—so much time—to wake up from the dream I wished wasn’t real.
Eventually, I embraced it. My children started therapy, and I found strength in seeing their progress. As I supported them, I also began my own journey—I was diagnosed with ADHD. Accepting this was another hurdle, but over time, I understood that treatment was just part of life, like therapy was for my children.
Instead of dwelling on what I couldn’t change, I discovered new passions—designing, storytelling, creating worlds through words. My child also found joy in art, proving that challenges don’t mean the end of happiness; they can lead to beautiful discoveries.
We live in a time where acceptance is growing, where struggles are embraced with positivity instead of shame. Through faith, love, and perseverance, I’ve learned that every difficult chapter in life can bring purpose and strength."
CHAPTER 1
have been married for almost eight years now. My husband and I first met through a dating site—he is a foreigner, and for over a year and six months, we built a connection through messages, calls, and dreams of a life together. When he finally visited me in the Philippines, he stayed for only three days, but in that brief time, I knew our story was meant to continue. After waiting another year and three months, we had a civil wedding—first in the Philippines, then in Korea.
Our new life together was filled with hope. Just a month after arriving in Korea, I found out I was pregnant. It felt like a blessing, the start of a new chapter. But at eight weeks, everything changed. Without warning, my baby was gone.
We visited three different hospitals, seeking second opinions, praying for a different outcome. But the answer never changed—our child had left us. That same day, at the third hospital, I had a forced abortion. The pain was overwhelming—not just physically, but in my soul. For the first time, I saw my husband break down in tears, his grief echoing mine. As he sat by my side in the hospital, unable to control his emotions, his best friend and sister tried to comfort him, reminding him to stay strong. But in that moment, strength felt impossible.
Grief lingers in the quiet spaces of our lives—it doesn’t disappear, it simply reshapes us. That loss became a part of us, a chapter written in sorrow, yet a reminder of love, hope, and the life we once carried."
"While lying on the hospital bed, I could hear my husband crying. His sobs filled the quiet space, but I could barely move—intoxicated by the medicine and the overwhelming grief of what was about to happen. Ten minutes after the procedure, he gently assisted me home. The pain of the abortion was unbearable, every step felt like fire beneath me, but my husband did everything to comfort me.
That night, he cooked seaweed soup—a dish meant to replenish strength, often eaten after giving birth. But there was no celebration, only sorrow. He cried as he whispered apologies, blaming himself for not being physically healthy enough, for everything that had gone wrong. I accepted my fate with a heavy heart, still clinging to the hope of having my own child.
We sought help wherever we could—traditional healers, expensive treatments, spending over $1,000 on medicine to cure my ‘cold womb,’ a condition some believed was preventing pregnancy. We followed every piece of advice, desperate for another chance.
Five months later, I got pregnant again. This time, there was no heartbeat. A blighted ovum. Another tragic loss. Hospital visits became an unbearable routine—seeing other expectant mothers, their joy-filled faces glowing with anticipation, while we sat in uncertainty, bracing for yet another heartbreaking diagnosis.
The doctors told me I would need another surgery. My husband, seeing the emotional toll it was taking on me, begged them to let me try a natural abortion instead. He called different hospitals, searching for an alternative. Then, by some grace, I began to bleed that night. I told him, through tears, that this time it was happening naturally. Again, he prepared hot seaweed soup, held me tightly, and we faced yet another loss together.
Three days passed, the bleeding worsened, and I was rushed to the emergency room. It was a Sunday. The doctors confirmed it—a complete natural abortion, the baby was gone. Still, I remained hopeful. I prayed and prayed, and one month later, I discovered I was pregnant again.
During an eight-day trip to the Philippines, I visited a traditional healer. She checked my pulse and told me I was carrying a child, though it was too early to confirm. Days later, she assured me the heartbeat was strong—23 days old, growing inside me. Returning to Korea, I felt the symptoms settle in, and after two days, the doctor confirmed it—I was three months pregnant.
But this pregnancy was different. It was exhausting, relentless. Morning to night, I vomited. My body rejected travel—I barely left the house, only stepping outside for prenatal checkups once a month. My husband was in the city while I stayed with his parents in the province, isolated from him. By my bedside, I kept a Bible, reading scripture from sunrise to sunset, playing kingdom songs as I slept, praying for strength.
At seven months, the doctor warned me—I needed an iron infusion. At nine months, my labor didn’t progress. Only water kept coming, but the baby wouldn’t move down. Forced cesarean. And then, finally—the best day of my life.
My baby was born. A big, beautiful baby.
A few days later, she developed mild jaundice, and we had to transfer her to another hospital, two hours away. She stayed there for five days. It was agonizing to be separated from her. When we finally picked her up, I saw how perfect she was—her delicate pink skin, dark brown hair, the way she looked like a doll come to life. My husband and I were overwhelmed with joy.
But just two months later, I was pregnant again. Fear crept in—the stitches from my cesarean weren’t even fully healed. We waited three months before seeing the doctor, torn between excitement and deep anxiety."
"My second pregnancy felt different, like a blessing from God. This time, I wasn’t as sensitive—I could attend Kingdom Hall, preach, and be surrounded by Jehovah’s Witnesses who supported me in faith and strength. When I finally gave birth to my son, we named him Taeyang, meaning ‘sun’—a light after all the darkness. My daughter, Hanhui, means ‘greatest pleasure.’ She was my blue gift, my calm present, my reminder that life still carried beauty."
"But giving birth to my son was terrifying. My stitches from my last cesarean were still fresh, and my body hadn’t fully healed when I conceived again. After delivery, as I lay in the recovery room, my stomach suddenly opened, and I started bleeding heavily. Fear consumed the room. The doctors rushed to stop the hemorrhaging, worried that if the bleeding didn’t slow, I would have to be transferred to a bigger hospital.
"Two cesarean sections in less than a year left my body deteriorating, drained by anesthesia, pain, and sleepless nights. But I still held onto one truth—Jehovah heard me. He blessed me with these two beautiful souls, and they became my purpose."
"Motherhood was a whirlwind. My children were only 11 months and 3 days apart, and sleepless nights became endless. But I was fortunate—my sister was by my side, helping me through the exhausting cycle of feedings, cries, and moments of quiet joy. Life was intense, chaotic, yet so profoundly meaningful."
"Then, when my daughter turned 1 year and 8 months, everything changed. We sent her to childcare, and there, a teacher pulled us aside. She told us that my child had a problem. My mind couldn’t process her words. She’s just a baby, I thought, how could they possibly diagnose anything so soon? Denial clung to me like a weight I couldn’t shake. I was angry—angry that this conclusion had been made so fast, angry that I had spoken to her in English all her life, and now, with Korean being used, she struggled to understand. It all felt so unfair."
"My husband couldn’t accept it either. We fought endlessly. The weight of uncertainty crushed us. In his moments of hopelessness, he wished he could disappear, unable to bear the thought of our child facing challenges. It was traumatic beyond words—like drowning in unanswered questions, screaming for help but no one hearing. Why was this happening? Why couldn’t things just be okay?"
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