When I was pursuing my studies at a small writing program in an art school in New York, a pivotal conversation occurred during my sophomore year. One of my instructors shared a profound insight that has lingered with me ever since. Although the details of the discussion — including the professor's identity — have faded over time, I recall the essence of what was conveyed: rather than striving to discover your unique voice as a writer, focus on identifying your core question. The most adept writers often dedicate their careers to unraveling a singular question, and once you unearth yours, your writing will gain newfound clarity and purpose.

Identifying my own question has remained elusive, likely due to its inherently ambiguous nature. Frankly, I cannot articulate it with precision. It relates to the unspoken connections between individuals, the nuanced spaces that exist between language and meaning, and the gaps that we can never completely bridge. To express my question with complete clarity would be to misrepresent its true essence. Nevertheless, that ambivalence feels sufficient. While it may not be a definitive answer, it is the most authentic one I can offer.

Two years later, during a private discussion with another professor regarding my thesis, he paused thoughtfully before remarking, "You don't trust absolutes. You shy away from them." Initially taken aback, I pondered his observation before admitting, "You're right. They lack honesty."

In poetry, one can navigate around absolutes with relative ease. The genre is not constrained by the rigid parameters that govern other forms of writing, allowing for exploration within the spaces of ambiguity, where language can be deconstructed to embrace the grey areas. This is precisely why I am drawn to poetry. It embodies the underlying language that communicates beyond mere clarity and efficiency, fostering interpretations that embrace intuition and emotion — facets we often apply in our daily interactions yet seldom acknowledge, which, to me, renders it more genuine.

This affinity for nuance complicates my current writing endeavors. My desire is to convey the truth — yet, the nature of truth is inherently non-absolute. Objectivity, I believe, is a fallacy, and those who insist on their objectivity are often deceiving themselves as well.

Even what we consider facts are subjective, and failing to recognize this can lead to manipulation. For instance, if I claim you are 90 times more likely to die in a car accident than in a plane crash, it certainly presents cars in a negative light. However, that conclusion shifts dramatically when one factors in the less than 1 percent chance of dying in a car accident, or the reality that individuals spend far more time in cars than planes. Thus, while the fact remains, its presentation and interpretation can vary significantly. Are planes genuinely safer than cars, or are cars merely more frequently associated with fatality due to usage patterns unrelated to their safety?

Navigating the complexities of how to convey information is one of the foremost responsibilities of a writer, especially in today’s landscape. However, what I aim to express moving forward cannot be presented as objective truth, as doing so would be the greatest falsehood I could propagate. I cannot provide you with the absolute truth; I can only share my truth, accompanied by the respect this lengthy, contemplative preamble demands.

I find myself at a juncture where discussing my present circumstances necessitates shedding light on my recent past. I am weary of feeling paralyzed, hesitant to speak out of a desire to shield others, even when they have shown no inclination to protect me. I am fatigued by the futility of trying to be objective and accommodate every perspective. While I do not wish to expose anyone, nor do I claim my narrative to be the sole truth, I feel compelled to articulate my experiences from my viewpoint.

With that context in mind, here are some facts:

• Fact: I will not be returning to the U.S. with my husband; he will remain in Korea, and we are in the process of divorce.
• Fact: We have effectively been separated since early 2017. He left for approximately two years, but circumstances led us to cohabitate again at the end of 2018. While we currently share a living space, we have not been in a relationship since 2017.

His interpretation of our situation varies frequently. On some days, he believes we have remained together all along; on others, he acknowledges our separation. Ultimately, since mutual consent is essential for a relationship, my lack of consent since 2017 allows me to assert that we have not been together during that time. However, because we continue to live and communicate with one another, some of the events I will recount occurred after our official separation.

• Fact: He has cheated on multiple occasions with sex workers, threatened my life on numerous occasions, including brandishing a knife against me at least three times, and forcibly entered locked doors to reach me. He has hurled countless objects at me, most notably my laptop, and has physically threatened me more times than I can count, only following through on one occasion.
• Fact: I believe the only reason he did not inflict more physical harm was my unwavering stance. I made it abundantly clear that any confrontation would not end in a beating, but rather a fight, and I suspect he backed down out of uncertainty about his ability to overpower me.
• Fact: He has prevented me from leaving our home for prolonged periods when I attempted to escape during or after these violent episodes. Often, sheer exhaustion would lead to my capitulation, and upon waking the following day, once the immediate adrenaline and fear had subsided, I would lose sight of the urgency to escape, becoming preoccupied with practical concerns — where I would reside, the welfare of our pets, and the potential loss of my visa and right to live and work in Korea. This became a favored