Crying in H Mart

In the fluorescent-lit aisles of H Mart, surrounded by the familiar scents of kimchi and sesame oil, a young Korean-American woman finds herself confronting the deepest questions of identity, belonging, and loss. Michelle Zauner's story unfolds against the backdrop of small-town Oregon, bustling Seoul, and the sterile corridors of hospital rooms, where a daughter watches her mother battle terminal cancer while struggling to bridge the cultural divide that has long existed between them.

This is a story that speaks to anyone who has ever felt caught between worlds, anyone who has experienced the profound grief of losing a parent, and anyone who has searched for connection through the universal language of food. Through Zauner's journey, readers will discover how food becomes a bridge between generations and cultures, how the process of caregiving can transform relationships in unexpected ways, and how creativity and art can emerge from the deepest wells of human suffering. Her experience reveals the complex layers of immigrant family dynamics and the unique challenges faced by second-generation Americans trying to preserve their cultural heritage while forging their own path in life.

Growing up in Eugene, Oregon, Michelle Zauner lived in the space between two distinct worlds. Her Korean mother, Chongmi, had immigrated to America after meeting her Caucasian father through a chance encounter in Seoul, bringing with her the weight of Korean traditions, expectations, and an unwavering commitment to excellence. The Zauner household operated by Korean standards of discipline and achievement, where every aspect of Michelle's appearance, behavior, and future was subject to intense scrutiny and correction.

The cultural divide manifested most clearly in their relationship with food. While other American families might grab fast food or prepare simple meals, the Zauner kitchen was a shrine to Korean culinary traditions. Chongmi would spend hours preparing elaborate banchan, perfectly seasoned stews, and homemade kimchi, using food as her primary language of love and cultural transmission. For Michelle, these meals were both a source of comfort and a reminder of her otherness in a predominantly white community where her packed lunches drew curious stares and questions about her heritage.

As Michelle entered her teenage years, the tension between her American environment and Korean home life intensified. She found herself rejecting aspects of her Korean identity, embarrassed by her mother's accent, her insistence on traditional values, and the cultural expectations that felt suffocating in the context of American individualism. The generational and cultural gaps created a battlefield where every interaction carried the weight of larger questions about assimilation, preservation, and identity.

Music became Michelle's escape and rebellion, a way to assert her American identity and independence from her mother's plans. This pursuit led to explosive conflicts that revealed the deeper fears and love underlying their relationship. Chongmi's harsh criticism and seemingly impossible standards masked a profound anxiety about her daughter's future in a country where she herself had never felt entirely at home.

The complexity of their relationship reflected the broader immigrant experience, where parents sacrifice familiar worlds for their children's opportunities, while those children struggle to honor their heritage without being constrained by it. Michelle's journey through adolescence was simultaneously a rejection of and a desperate search for her Korean identity, setting the stage for the deeper understanding that would only come through loss.

The phone call that changed everything came on a warm May evening in 2014, as Michelle was pursuing her music career in Philadelphia, still trying to make sense of her place in the world. Her mother's diagnosis of stage IV cancer arrived like a sudden storm, transforming every assumption about the future and forcing Michelle to confront the possibility of losing the person who had been both her greatest source of frustration and her strongest connection to her Korean heritage.

The medical terminology felt foreign and terrifying. Stage IV squamous-cell carcinoma carried statistics that no family wants to hear, but Chongmi approached her diagnosis with characteristic Korean stoicism and pragmatism. She had watched her sister Eunmi battle the same disease just two years earlier, and this experience had given her clear ideas about what she was and wasn't willing to endure in the name of prolonging life.

The diagnosis forced Michelle to make an immediate choice between the life she was building for herself and the daughter she needed to become. Without hesitation, she quit her jobs, put her band on hiatus, and moved home to Oregon to become her mother's primary caregiver. This decision marked the beginning of a profound transformation in their relationship, as the roles they had played for twenty-five years began to shift and evolve.

The initial shock gave way to a desperate hope that modern medicine could provide a miracle. The family rallied around treatment options, second opinions, and the possibility that aggressive chemotherapy might beat the odds. Michelle threw herself into the role of caregiver with the same intensity she had once brought to music, determined to perfect this new responsibility and somehow earn redemption for all the years of teenage rebellion and cultural rejection.

The diagnosis also brought unexpected clarity about what truly mattered. The petty conflicts and cultural tensions that had defined their relationship suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the precious time they had left together. Michelle began to see her mother not just as the strict Korean parent who had shaped her childhood, but as a woman facing her own mortality with remarkable grace and courage.

The months of caregiving revealed depths of love and strength that Michelle had never imagined she possessed. The woman who had once rebelled against her mother's every instruction now devoted herself entirely to learning the complex protocols of cancer treatment, managing medications, monitoring symptoms, and advocating fiercely for the best possible care. The hospital became a second home, and Michelle discovered that love could manifest as changing bedpans, crushing pills into ice cream, and sleeping on uncomfortable chairs night after night.

The chemotherapy treatments brought brutal side effects that stripped away every vestige of vanity and privacy. Michelle watched her mother lose her beautiful hair, struggle with nausea and pain, and gradually become dependent on others for the most basic human needs. These experiences dissolved the barriers between them in ways that years of therapy or heart-to-heart conversations never could have achieved. In caring for her mother's most vulnerable moments, Michelle finally understood the depth of sacrifice that had defined Chongmi's entire approach to motherhood.

The process also revealed the inadequacy of Michelle's Korean language skills, a source of deep regret as she realized how much of her mother's inner experience remained inaccessible to her. The presence of Korean friends and caregivers highlighted the cultural knowledge Michelle had rejected in her youth, and she began to understand what she stood to lose if her mother died before these connections could be fully restored.

Their wedding, planned hastily so that Chongmi could witness her daughter's marriage, became a celebration of life in the shadow of death. The event demonstrated how love could triumph over circumstances, how family could rally together to create joy even in the darkest times. For Michelle, walking down the aisle in her mother's presence felt like a gift beyond measure, a moment of pure happiness carved out from months of medical anxiety and uncertainty.

The final weeks brought a kind of grace that transformed suffering into something almost sacred. As Chongmi's condition deteriorated, the focus shifted from fighting the disease to ensuring comfort and dignity. Michelle learned that sometimes the most loving thing a caregiver can do is let go, allowing death to come on its own terms while providing presence, comfort, and the assurance that no one dies alone.

In the months following her mother's death, Michelle discovered that the kitchen had become her sanctuary and her bridge back to the Korean identity she had spent years rejecting. Cooking became both a form of grief therapy and a way of honoring her mother's memory, transforming ingredients into connections across time and culture. Every dish she prepared was an act of remembrance, a way of keeping her mother's presence alive through the sensory memories of taste and smell.

YouTube cooking videos by Maangchi, a Korean grandmother who shared traditional recipes with warmth and wisdom, became Michelle's unexpected teacher and companion. Through her computer screen, Michelle learned to make the dishes her mother had prepared throughout her childhood, finally understanding the complexity and care that went into every meal. The process of learning to cook Korean food properly felt like reclaiming a birthright she had carelessly abandoned.

The preparation of kimchi became almost ritualistic, a monthly practice that connected Michelle to generations of Korean women who had preserved vegetables through fermentation, turning simple ingredients into something that could nourish families through long winters. The physical labor of salting cabbage, mixing red pepper paste, and packing jars felt like meditation, each step bringing her closer to understanding her mother's world and values.

Food also became her primary connection to her aunt Nami, the last living link to her Korean family. During visits to Seoul, sharing meals became their shared language when words failed them. Through restaurant choices and home-cooked dishes, Nami transmitted stories and memories that Michelle's limited Korean couldn't fully access, creating understanding through taste and tradition rather than conversation.

The H Mart grocery store, with its aisles of imported ingredients and familiar brands, transformed from a place of childhood embarrassment into a sacred space of cultural preservation. Michelle's tears in these aisles weren't just expressions of grief, but recognition of how food carries the essence of belonging, how the simple act of preparing a meal can become a form of prayer and remembrance.

The songs Michelle wrote in the small cottage on her family's property became more than just expressions of grief; they became the foundation for an unexpected musical career that honored her mother's memory while fulfilling dreams that had seemed impossible during years of struggling in obscurity. The album "Psychopomp," created under the name Japanese Breakfast, transformed personal loss into art that resonated with audiences far beyond her previous reach.

The success that followed her mother's death carried a complex emotional weight. Michelle found herself in the surreal position of achieving everything she had dreamed of as a musician, but only after losing the person whose approval had mattered most. The irony was not lost on her that her mother's death had somehow unlocked the doors that years of living struggle had kept firmly closed, as if Chongmi's spirit was finally able to advocate for her daughter's dreams from beyond.

Touring the world with her music brought Michelle to stages she had never imagined reaching, from Coachella to venues across Asia. When Japanese Breakfast finally performed in Seoul, the experience felt like completing a circle, bringing her mother's story back to its origins and sharing it with Korean audiences who understood the cultural nuances in ways that American listeners could not.

The band's success also provided Michelle with a platform to explore Asian-American identity and representation in music, becoming a voice for others who had struggled with questions of belonging and cultural authenticity. Her visibility as a Korean-American artist challenged stereotypes and created space for conversations about immigration, family expectations, and the price of assimilation.

Through music, Michelle discovered that grief could be transformed into something that connects rather than isolates. The songs written in her deepest sorrow became bridges to other people's experiences of loss, identity, and family love. The artistic success that emerged from tragedy demonstrated how creative expression can transform pain into purpose, making meaning from the meaningless and finding hope in the darkest places.

Michelle Zauner's journey through grief and identity reveals that love often manifests not in moments of harmony, but in the willingness to show up for each other through conflict, illness, and loss, and that cultural identity can be reclaimed and honored even after it seems lost forever. Her story demonstrates that the immigrant experience creates unique challenges for families trying to preserve tradition while embracing new possibilities, and that food, music, and memory can serve as powerful bridges between worlds that seem impossibly far apart.

From Zauner's experience, readers can learn the importance of recognizing love in its many forms, especially the demanding love that pushes us toward our best selves, and the value of embracing rather than rejecting the cultural heritage that shapes us. Her journey suggests that grief, while devastating, can also become a teacher that reveals what truly matters and a catalyst for creative expression that honors those we've lost while building something meaningful for the living. This story will particularly resonate with anyone navigating questions of cultural identity, dealing with family illness, or seeking to understand how art can emerge from life's most difficult experiences.