When Words Heal More Than Wounds: A Letter, A Friend, A Heartfelt Connection

Humans are uniquely reliant on caregivers. This isn’t a weakness, but a wondrous gift.

We often fancy ourselves as extraordinary creatures in the animal kingdom. But while modern research has been steadily chipping away at our long-standing belief in human superiority, there is one aspect where we stand out: the way we care for one another. Unlike our closest primate cousins, humans spend an extraordinary stretch of time — nearly 15 years at both the beginning and the end of life — in states of vulnerability, wholly dependent on others.

It’s in those tender chapters that we find something essential about ourselves: we survive, and thrive, because we are held.

After my PEG tube operation, I found myself in one of those chapters — a period marked by physical healing but also emotional unmooring. Eating, speaking, hearing, even moving through the day required effort and patience. I felt like a shadow of myself, both grateful for survival and quietly shifting the parts of me that I lost into the present.

Then I met Eunbi again in Chiang Mai.

We first met back in 2016, during a “Monk’s Chat" program in Wat Suan Dok. That encounter sparked a deep and lasting connection — the kind that feels like it was always meant to be. Over the years, the city has become more than just a place on a map for us. It’s a shared memory, a backdrop to moments that shaped our bond.

Earlier this year, I was supposed to visit her in Seoul for the Vesak celebration. It was something we’d both looked forward to — a chance to reconnect, to celebrate, to just be. But life, in its unpredictable way, had other plans. I had to cancel the trip last minute for an urgent operation. It was disappointing — not just physically, but emotionally too.

So when I heard Eunbi was returning to Chiang Mai, I knew — no matter what — I wasn’t going to miss the chance to see her again.

With the help of her husband, I surprised her at her hotel room. The look on her face when she opened the door — a mix of disbelief, joy, and something deeper — will stay with me forever. We didn’t need words at first. That moment said everything. In a way, it felt like life had brought us full circle, right back to the place where it all began.

She looked at me with quiet concern and asked, “Oppa, are you okay?”

That question — so simple, so constant — carried more than care. It was a lifeline.

In my mid-forties, I didn’t expect to feel this kind of attention again — so thoughtful, so nurturing. Eunbi has a way of seeing straight through the bravado, past the polite nods, right into the heart. Her care reminded me that being vulnerable doesn’t make us less. It brings us closer to what makes us human.

Our conversation, like every time before, was meaningful and full of purpose. Eunbi never speaks just to fill silence; her words always land with intention. Whether we were laughing about something silly or exploring the deeper questions of life, I always walked away feeling seen, understood, and gently nudged forward. Her presence reminded me that even the smallest chats — over coffee, under a warm afternoon light or evening — can be quietly life-changing.

She told me stories of her work with children — how she uses her time and talents to help shape young lives with compassion and creativity. Listening to her was like sipping something warm and hopeful. Her passion didn’t just inspire me — it challenged me. It reminded me of the book I had always wanted to write but kept pushing aside.

“You should write it,” she said, without hesitation. “You have something real and amazing to say.”

Her words cut through the haze I’d been stuck in — clear, steady, and full of faith. In that moment, I didn’t just hear her; I felt the truth in what she saw in me. And something shifted. A quiet spark lit up inside me — the kind that says, it’s time. Time to pick myself up and finally step toward the project I’d been putting off for far too long.

Just before she left Chiang Mai, Eunbi gave me something truly rare in this digital age — a handwritten letter. Carefully folded, quietly powerful. Each word seemed to carry the warmth of her presence, as if she had poured a piece of her heart onto the page. I read it slowly, letting each line settle into me like a familiar melody.

I teared up — not out of sadness, but because of the flood of memories it brought back. Moments shared, laughter echoed, the quiet strength of simply being there for each other. That letter reminded me, in the gentlest way, why friendship matters so deeply to me. It’s not about how often we see each other, but how deeply we’re held in each other’s hearts.

Sometimes, healing doesn’t come from medicine or rest. Sometimes, it comes from being truly seen. From a friend asking, “Are you okay?” and meaning it. From a shared history in a city that quietly watches your stories unfold.

Eunbi reminded me of what I had forgotten in my pain — that love, in its quietest forms, can put us back together again.

And now, with her words echoing gently in my heart, I begin to write the next book, The Bat and the Buddha.