Today was a holiday.
My husband stayed home.
For breakfast, he had some bread he got as a gift,
with an apple and yogurt.
I went out to a café and came back,
planning to make doenjang stew
for lunch.
So I started making broth.
Music playing.
Rice cooking.
Dishwasher running.
Laundry spinning.
I was just moving.
Not thinking too much.
Just doing what I usually do.
At Some Point, My Body Felt Heavy
The broth was boiling.
The rice was done.
My daughter came out
and mixed the rice.
“I already had bread,”
she said.
We were going to go out
to a café together
after I prepared lunch
for my husband.
She was waiting for me.
Suddenly,
I paused for a few seconds.
A small shift.
The stew could wait.
So I stopped what I was doing.
I took out some imitation crab,
heated a pan with olive oil,
cracked two eggs with a little salt,
tore the crab roughly with my hands
and put it on top.
Flipped it once.
Two minutes.
That was it.
I had already made cucumber salad on the side.
She ate.
I ate.
She said,
“Simple and good.”
I Stopped Making the Stew
I thought it would be quick.
But it wasn’t.
Good broth takes time.
Deep flavor takes time.
I knew that.
But I was moving
as if everything needed
to be finished now.
So I left it.
The pot stayed on the stove.
Mushroom stems still inside,
just the kelp taken out.
“It’ll be ready later.”
It was the first time
I had ever stopped
making doenjang stew halfway.
And Then I Saw It
Nothing had to be done.
No one asked for it.
But I had already decided
to do it.
Earlier, I had taken out
leftover kimchi seasoning
from the freezer.
I had already planned
to make fresh kimchi.
Instead,
I prepared something simpler:
sliced cucumbers,
onion and gochujang,
and grilled seaweed.
And suddenly,
I saw myself.
Still adding
a few more things.
And Then I Remembered
Two days ago,
at my in-laws’ house.
My mother-in-law was setting the table
for my father-in-law.
Carefully.
Neatly.
Her hands were fast.
But her face—
looked tired.
Another memory came back.
An older woman at a restaurant.
She was placing food
onto her husband’s plate.
Quick.
Skillful.
But her face—
was tense.
Back then, I thought,
Why would she do that?
Now—
I knew.
Tiny Adjustments, Over Time
I wasn’t like this
before I got married.
I didn’t need kimchi to eat.
I didn’t think about side dishes.
But my husband loved kimchi.
So I started adjusting.
I remember when I didn’t know
how to make it.
I told my mother-in-law
we ran out.
She said,
“Then make it yourself.”
I felt upset.
Why should I?
But I tried.
One cabbage.
Failed.
Tried again.
Eventually,
I became someone
who could make 100 cabbages.
It didn’t happen all at once.
It happened slowly.
Quietly.
Almost invisibly.
My son once asked me,
“Do you like meat that much?”
I said,
“Yeah, it gives me energy.”
But that wasn’t true.
Vegetables give me energy.
I wasn’t cooking meat
because I loved it.
I was cooking it
because it was easier.
He liked it.
He ate well.
There were no complaints.
Even today,
I thought,
I should buy pork
and make dinner easier.
And then I realized—
Why am I still adjusting like this?
No one asked me to.
Nothing would happen if I didn’t.
And yet—
it was still there.
Mid-point
It wasn’t one big sacrifice.
It wasn’t one dramatic choice.
It was constant, unconscious adjusting.
So I Stopped
As my daughter and I
were getting ready to leave,
I said to my husband,
“The food is ready.
Just serve yourself some rice.
We’re going out to a café.”
He said,
“Okay.”
Brightly.
Nothing broke.
Nothing went wrong.
Closing
I thought I was just helping.
But I wasn’t.
I was adjusting.
All the time.
And that’s what was making me tired.
So I stopped.
Not everything.
Just… that.
And something shifted.
A Simple Reset
Sometimes,
you don’t need to fix the situation.
You just need to notice
what you’ve been quietly adjusting—
and stop.
Sometimes,
that’s the reset.
