Case No. R07-11-10
It was the second Monday of November—dark grey-skied and rain-slicked—when I arrived at Brett & Lee in the River Market District just a minute before the agreed-upon time of 4:00 in the afternoon. My client, Esther—not her real name, as my clients typically prefer anonymity—had initially indicated a meeting in the Power & Light District, but at the last minute messaged me with a new meeting time and location, to which I happily agreed.
Upon entering the pub, I scanned the room for my client, whom I had yet to meet, and had told me she would be seated at a booth toward the front. I found her almost immediately through the atmosphere of 1920s nostalgia with modern sensibilities. She was seated with her back to the street-facing window, looking down at her water glass, turning it slowly in her perfectly manicured fingers, like a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball, lost deep in thought.
I moved to sit across from her, and we exchanged pleasantries. The server arrived quickly and we ordered our drinks. Hers, a Pinot Grigio, and mine, the usual Hennessy and Coke. I then placed my notebook on the table, my pen on top, and waited.
There was a moment of long silence where she seemed unable or unwilling to speak. During that moment, I took her in.
She was dressed fashionably yet modestly, almost conservatively. Her clothing and accessories were color-coordinated in beige and white with black and gold accents. Her matching Coach handbag suggested means and comfort, but not wealth. Her entire appearance indicated stylish ambiguity, as she could have been dressed for a business meeting, church, or even a night out. That was the first clue.
“Shouldn’t you say something?” she said, taking a sip of her wine.
“I did not come here for idle talk or to share in the local gossip. I came here for you, Esther. The burden of speech is yours. Mine is to listen.”
She seemed a bit taken aback by my directness.
“Wow,” she backhanded. “Jenny told me you were direct.”
“Jenny? Jenny…” I repeated to myself, looking up at the ceiling while scrolling through my mental index, skimming the faces of clients, since it was clear that Jenny had referred her to me. “Ah! I remember. Seattle. A complicated affair. That was several years ago. Pre-pandemic.”
“Yes, she said you could help me.” Her voice betrayed her with a note of doubt.
“I shall try my best. But in my line of work, there are no guarantees, particularly when clients are uncooperative.” I said, raising my right eyebrow to test her reaction.
“Jenny also said you’re very perceptive,” she grinned. “Show me.”
“I’m a thought partner and strategist, Esther. Not a psychic.” I paused to consider her again for a moment and relented.
“Alright. Let me summarize what I see so far, and perhaps you can enlighten me further.”
She gestured for me to proceed.
“You’re Korean-American, forty-ish, and of modest, but not wealthy, means. You're the child or grandchild of immigrants, likely the child, but I need more time to observe you to know for certain. The fact that you’ve contacted me means that you’re struggling with something deeply important yet unconventional, both socially and personally. Is it spiritual? No, for if it were, you’d have spoken with a priest, not me. Is it physical? Not likely, that’s what your physician is for. Is it criminal? I should hope not, but if it were, you’d see your attorney and certainly wouldn’t be telling me, a complete stranger. Is it psychological? Possibly, but you’d have spoken to your therapist by now. So this is something else. Something that has very recently changed in your life, likely for the worse. Something deeply important to you, but you’re either unable to admit to yourself or reveal it. What it is, I do not know. I do know that whatever it is, it runs to the core of who you are. Your very soul, even.”
I paused, re-calculated, then said, “Your identity, perhaps?”
Her eyes jumped to meet mine. It was a mixture of surprise and fear. Her mask had, just for a brief moment, slipped ever so slightly.
“Impressive,” she remarked, her mask returning. Her snarkiness was defensive, not combative. “What do you want to know?”
“Ideally, the problem you’re experiencing. Otherwise, let’s work our way to it,” I said, opening my notebook. “Perhaps you could give me a bit of background?”
She let out a loud sigh, took another sip from her glass, and proceeded to tell me some of her story. She began methodically, as if reciting facts she’d organized and refined over hundreds, if not thousands, of retellings.
Esther was the eldest daughter of Korean immigrants who arrived in America in the early 1980s with almost nothing. They built a small import business in California that eventually failed. They then moved to Kansas City on an acquaintance’s recommendation, and now lead a tight-knit community through their local community church. There, her mother organizes the women’s group, her father leads Bible study, and the church essentially becomes their entire livelihood, social world, and identity.
She grew up straddling two worlds, conversationally fluent in Korean at home and natively so in English at school, always translating not just language but entire value systems, and she internalized early that her purpose in life was to validate her parents’ sacrifice by being successful, stable, and above all, respectable in the eyes of their community. For her, disappointing them meant feeling a kind of personal, cultural, and spiritual betrayal, all at once. A second clue.
After graduating from Kansas City University, she worked at a local hospital. She married at twenty-six, much at her mother’s strong behest, to a man whom both families and the local community approved, someone from a good Korean family. And, for over ten years, she performed the role of good wife and daughter-in-law, in addition to her lifelong role as the dutiful daughter to her parents.
But around thirty-eight, something changed in her. She couldn’t quite explain it, or rather, she didn’t explain it. She simply said the marriage “wasn’t working” and she needed to be alone. The divorce came as a shock to both families, but it was eventually accepted as an American or generational aberration—a failure of will or character on her part—and she threw herself into her work, where she continues to earn professional accolades and respect. She visits her parents on Sundays, participates in church functions, and helps them financially, even when they refuse her help, which is almost always.
She has a roommate now, Sarah, with whom she shares a house in a nice suburb not far from where her parents live. Sarah also works in healthcare and, by Esther’s account, is her best friend for life.
“I think I’m just exhausted with everything going on in my life,” she pouted, resting her head on one hand, spinning her wine glass in the other.
“Really, Esther,” I replied. “You must do better than that.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You have told me everything and nothing all at once.” I retorted, finishing a new line in my notebook, then swiftly shutting it.
She fell back into her seat, silent, sipping her wine, considering me. Her eyes seemed to be debating whether I was for real, whether I could be trusted. This was not uncommon among new clients, but my time is important to me, and I began to lose patience.
“Esther, I am here to help you the best I can, but I first must know what it is that troubles you. Your exhaustion is merely a symptom—not a cause. You know this.”
She sat for a moment, staring into her glass on the table, then grabbed her handbag. Something in her eyes had changed. Had I glimpsed a tear in the bottom corner of her eye just at the moment?
“This was a mistake. You shouldn’t have come,” she volleyed.
“But you reached out to me.” I returned.
“No, I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I’m just not ready.”
She rose to leave.
“Just a moment”, I interrupted her as I made a quick note and tore the page from my notebook. “I am in town through Friday. If you should change your mind, you can find me here at five tomorrow.”
She hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgement, took the note, and left.
I returned to my hotel room and immediately brewed a soothing cup of genmaicha. I reviewed the notes in my notebook, not knowing if I had gained or lost a client just an hour earlier. Either way, there was still value in the analysis and, to the best of my ability, diagnosing what ailed Esther.
In every case, I have doubt—not in the client, but in myself. Every case is a test of my career and methods. No two clients are alike, just as no two people are alike, no matter how similar they may appear or may feel. People are all on different journeys, different timelines. Their ability to process and understand what is happening to them can take time. And human will is such a fickle, temperamental thing.
With Esther, I suspected it wasn’t a matter of self-deception, but of internal division. Both parts of her were true, but each served different goals: one pursued her true feelings, and the other remained filial, dutifully ensuring her parents’ expectations were met. Or at least her assumptions about their expectations.
In the notes from my encounter with Esther, I drew a vertical line down the center of a fresh page in my notebook, labelling “Korean” on the left and “American” on the right. What was driving her? What was behind her resistance to reveal, or to even hint at her underlying trouble? Embarrassment? Probably. Fear? Certainly.
I reflected on the parallels between Korean and Japanese values, especially hyo (효, filial piety) and chemyeon (체면, family/community shame) in traditional Korean culture, which then made me ponder the lifelong conflict in Japanese culture between giri (義理, duty) and ninjo (人情, true feelings), honne (本音, true self) and tatemae (建前, public face). I considered, in my own vernacular, that Esther had perhaps lost touch with her honne, resulting in a pathological tatemae—a performance so complete she herself had forgotten her own true self underneath, who was now probably fighting to escape, no longer able to balance her sense of duty with her true feelings.
Of course, these values exist on a spectrum—not all Korean families respond the same way, and many Korean-American parents have evolved beyond traditional expectations. But Esther doesn’t know where her parents fall on that spectrum. And I’m certain that uncertainty is terribly paralyzing.
But there was something else. Something she had yet to reveal. Something she fought to protect.
I contemplated these things for a while, turning them over and over in my head, watching the steam from my cup of tea dissipate. I then drew a second axis, horizontally, and wrote “gender identity or sexual orientation?” along it, weighing whether my hypothesis was likely true in the absence of direct evidence. I paused there with a mix of curiosity, worry, and hope for her. This second dimension doubled, if not quadrupled, the complexity and danger for her.
I remembered her well-rehearsed exterior, her tatemae, if I may—carefully constructed to convince and to hide. But hide what? Her heritage? Not likely, at least not entirely. Certainly, her performative Whiteness was a learned necessity for fitting in and belonging early on. And that in itself can be extremely exhausting to perform, but there was something deeper. Something more than just that “Korean-American” or “inside-outside” dichotomy.
I also remembered how she spoke of Sarah, her roommate. How happy she was. There was a gleam in her eye in sharing it, until that gleam became the smallest hint of a tear. Until her fear and mask returned.
Then my mind began to wander, my thoughts turning to my own memories—my own bicultural, liminal existence. I quickly shunned them, not wanting to conflate my reasoning with my own lived experience—not wanting to project my own story onto hers.
I shut my notebook for the evening, fetched my well-thumbed volume of Soseki from my suitcase, and proceeded to sit up in bed, following Botchan to Matsuyama until I fell asleep well after midnight.
It was late afternoon Tuesday when I returned to my hotel after a full day of project meetings and stopped at the hotel restaurant, as planned, to enjoy dinner and wind down. I debated as I ate whether or not Esther would show. And then, about half an hour into my sitting, I saw a familiar face appear at the entrance. She spoke briefly with the server, then looked towards me and moved to my table. Esther had returned.
“Hi,” she said casually, different from her tone the day before. “I’m back.”
“Please,” I said, motioning for her to take the seat across from me.
“I wasn’t sure I would. I bet you weren’t sure either.”
“True. I gave it a 50/50 chance.”
After she settled in and the server cleared the table, I asked, “So, what brought you back?”
“I’ve decided I need to move forward somehow.”
“Yes, but move forward from where to where?” I asked.
“Let me start with a confession.” Esther then explained that she and Sarah were more than just roommates—they were in a deeply romantic, monogamous relationship. The only person outside Esther and Sarah who knew was her long-time friend Jenny, who had subsequently referred her to me.
“We want to get married soon and live openly as a couple,” she continued. “But my parents don’t know yet. They think Sarah is just a friend who also happens to live in the same house as me. I know my parents expect me to remarry. My mom can’t stop going on about wanting to see grandchildren. They expect so much. I just don’t want to let them down.”
“I see. So your challenge really is more about keeping your relationship with your parents by meeting their expectations, while, at the same time, building a relationship with Sarah in a way where neither shall meet, yes?”
“Yes. Basically.”
“Then this explains your exhaustion, having to maintain two personas at once, both parts are you, but neither is completely true. One, the dutiful daughter who strives to always meet her parents’ expectations, and the other, the friend and partner who wants love and commitment.”
She nodded. “I’m just so tired of all of this. It’s too hard to keep things separate. It’s getting confusing, and I hate lying to Sarah and my parents,” she said, massaging her right temple with her fingers. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”
I let the silence hold for a moment. “That’s a very difficult way to live,” I said gently. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
I paused again, allowing her to gather her thoughts.
“If I may pry a bit more, what exactly do Sarah and your parents know about one another?”
“Well, Sarah knows I’m close to my parents and that they live in the area, but she doesn’t know that they are very traditional in the Korean sense, and so very religious. My parents know I live with Sarah, but they see her as my friend and housemate. I’m sure they don’t suspect anything.”
“I see. Thank you for clarifying. This paints a much more complete picture.” I paused to ponder for a moment.
“Imagine your ideal life a year from now. What would it look like?”
“Hmm. Sarah and I would be married. My parents would accept her as she is, and me as I am. And we would all get along and be happy. But I know that’s impossible.”
“Not necessarily, Esther. At this point, you know neither how Sarah will react to your parents nor how they will react to her. Let me suggest this. What if we discuss both scenarios and see what happens?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Okay.”
“First, let’s take a look at your parents’ side, as that seems to hold the majority of stress for you. What if you were to go to them this weekend and tell them the truth? The whole truth. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well, they could completely disown me, making me the center of gossip and suspicion in my community.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t that be equally bad for them?” I suggested. “They would potentially have to live with no longer having contact with you and also the potential shame in their community.”
“I know. That’s why this is a lose-lose situation,” she sighed. “No matter what I do, they get hurt.”
“Let’s back up for a moment. How certain are you that they wouldn’t accept you as you are, and Sarah, for the wonderful person I’m sure she is?”
“I’m not totally sure. But I don’t want to risk it.”
“Okay. Let’s pause there and turn to Sarah for a moment. I suspect you’ve avoided telling her details about your family, especially that of your parents, because you’re afraid that you’ll lose her if she discovers that their traditional values may cause friction with her own more progressive ones, yes?”
“Exactly. Sarah is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I hate the thought of living my life without her.”
“So let’s weigh two very real potentialities in Sarah’s case. One is you tell her the truth, and she may respond favorably or unfavorably. But if she deeply cares for you, she will likely be open to discussion and influence, regardless of her opinion of your parents. The second is that you don’t tell her, and she later discovers your dishonesty, which breaks her trust in you and could lead her to leave. Or she completely loses patience as things drag on endlessly and eventually leaves. Yes, there are multiple risks with both paths.”
Esther thought for a moment. “Now that we’re talking about it, it looks like it’s easier to open up to Sarah than it is to my parents.”
“I agree. And I’d also suggest you consider the idea that your happiness with Sarah and your relationship with your parents may not be mutually exclusive. That you might be able to have both, though your situation is likely to affect your relationship with your parents. But if they truly love and care for you, then that’s an adjustment they’ll have to make. You cannot do that for them.”
Esther sat silent, lost in thought.
I opened my notebook and slid it across the table, showing her the page with the two axes: Korean ↔ American (vertical), Hidden ↔ Visible (horizontal).
“You’re facing crises along two major axes—one about cultural identity, one about sexual orientation and family acceptance.” I point to the center of the axes. “It sounds like you’re asking yourself: Can I be both Korean and gay? Both a good daughter and a woman who loves Sarah?”
“That’s oversimplifying it.”
“No, no, no.” I said firmly, leaning in. “There’s nothing simple about it. This may be one of the most complex challenges you’ll ever face. It runs to the core of your being—it’s an existential crisis, whether you choose to see it that way or not.”
Esther stared at the page.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, leaning back. “What does being a ‘good daughter’ mean to you?”
“It means honoring my parents’ sacrifice so that I can have a better life than they had. Respecting their values and my own. Making them proud. Basically, not embarrassing them or bringing shame to the family.”
“And do you believe your relationship with Sarah brings shame?”
“In traditional Korean culture, yes. Absolutely. It’s not just about me. It’s about them. Their reputation in our community, their standing at church. If I come out, I don’t just hurt myself. I dishonor them.”
“So you’re not just afraid they’ll reject you. You’re afraid you’ll crush them.”
Esther stared at me for a moment—pupils widening slightly. She nodded, letting out a hard sigh. “That’s exactly it.”
“Esther, may I make one more observation?”
“Yes, please,” she said, shaking her head. “Anything at this point helps.”
“You’ve been asking the wrong questions. You’ve been asking: ‘How do I tell my parents without hurting them?’ But the real question is: ‘Can I become a whole person, regardless of whether they know or accept me?’”
“What’s the difference?”
“Everything. Right now, you’ve compartmentalized your identity—ideal Korean daughter over here, gay American woman over there. These parts don’t speak to each other. You perform one persona with your parents, another with Sarah, and maybe countless others with whoever else you encounter. You’ve built a life where no one—not even you—can be whole or happy because no one sees the real you.”
I drew two overlapping circles in my notebook and pointed to them.
“Bringing these two parts together doesn’t mean erasing your Korean heritage or your American one. Those two things are a part of you, whether you accept them or not. What you’re looking for is where they overlap, where they can coexist. It’s about seeing them as part of a whole, but you have to see this first before anyone else can. You have to know what the complete picture looks like before you can share it.”
I leaned forward and quietly said, “It’s about deciding who you really are and who you’re becoming.”
Esther paused, recognition spreading across her face.
“If you’re up to it,” I suggested, “let’s think through your potential options.”
She agreed—eyes wide with curiosity, and I proceeded to lay out three options for her to consider, walking carefully through the consequences of each: 1.) continuing the compartmentalization until it inevitably collapsed; 2.) full disclosure to her parents with all its risks and potential for freedom; or 3.) internal integration first—becoming whole in herself and open with Sarah before deciding whether, and how, to include her parents in that wholeness.
She listened attentively, her expression changing as we discussed each one.
“The third option... I prefer that one,” she chimed in. “But, how do I even start?”
“Maybe start by being honest with Sarah. Completely honest. Let her see the whole you. The Korean daughter part, the fear, the shame about hiding who you are inside, the split and separation you feel. Right now, she only gets part of you. If you can’t integrate yourself with her, you’ll never integrate yourself anywhere else.”
“What if she doesn’t understand?”
“Then you’ll know for sure. But I suspect she will understand, if given the chance, because love—real love—doesn’t require pretense. It requires truth.”
Esther nodded, and tears began to well in her eyes.
“I need to talk to Sarah. Really talk to her.” She dabbed at her tear ducts with the tip of her forefinger.
“Esther, you’re hiding in plain sight, living a double life. You’re incredibly strong, that’s clear. But the path you’ve been walking is painfully difficult, if not impossible, for anyone, including you. By keeping yourself hidden—from Sarah, from your parents, from yourself—you’re not just protecting them, but you’re hurting them and yourself.. By controlling them, you’re removing their agency.”
Esther sniffled. Her voice, weak. “What do you mean?” I passed her a handkerchief.
“Your parents can’t choose to love the real you because you’ve never given them the chance. Sarah can’t fully choose you because she doesn’t fully know you. You’ve decided for everyone what they should see and know about you. What they’re capable of knowing. That’s fear disguised as protection—not love.”
We sat silently for a moment, and the weight of the room seemed to have shifted.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. If you still need me, I’m here through Friday.”
Esther stood, still dabbing her eyes. “Thank you.”
She quietly turned and left.
Wednesday and much of Thursday had passed without a word from Esther.
It was mid-afternoon Thursday that I received a message from her asking if we could meet briefly tomorrow, Friday, before I leave. I agreed, and we set a time. Whatever had happened between Tuesday and now, she’d trusted me enough to return. She trusted me with something precious and fragile. That trust demanded my best effort, for her and for me.
It was Friday, a little after one, when I exited the hotel elevator and entered the lobby, where I found Esther together with another woman, waiting for me. The other woman, whom I soon learned was Sarah, was a few inches taller than Esther and had blonde, shoulder-length hair. Esther cheerfully waved at me, smiling in an unusually giddy way, far different from what I’ve seen of her until now.
“I see you’ve brought company,” I said.
“Dean, this is Sarah,” Esther said, making the introduction. We shook hands. Sarah’s hand was confident, graceful.
“Thank you,” Sarah said. “She told me everything—about your conversations, about what you helped her see.”
“Not really. I only helped remind her of what was already there. The effort was entirely her own.”
“I told Sarah everything,” Esther chimed in. “About my being divided, the fear, the shame about hiding who I really am. About who I thought I had to be.” Esther’s face glowed.
“And,” Sarah dovetailed, “I told her I’ve been waiting for years to connect with who she really is, for better or worse.”
“And your decision?” I asked, looking at Esther.
“We’re going to tell my parents. Together. Not right away—I need to become whole in myself first, like you said. But soon. We’re working on how to approach them. What to say. How to honor them without sacrificing me.”
“That’s brave,” I noted.
“It’s terrifying. But it’s also... freeing. Just deciding feels like I can breathe again.”
“Congratulations, by the way. On your engagement.”
“Thank you,” said Sarah, smiling at Esther.
After several minutes of delightful conversation with Esther and Sarah, I moved to bring our meeting to a close so as not to risk missing my flight home.
“I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you, Dean. For everything.” Esther’s voice was steady, but her eyes glistened. She and Sarah began to leave. Then she stopped, turning back.
“Grace,” she blurted out.
“Grace?” I echoed, tilting my head in confusion.
“My name,” she said softly. “My real name is Grace.”
I smiled, extended my hand, and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Grace.”
She gently shook my hand and nodded in recognition—a hint of a tear sparkled in the corner of her eye. One of joy this time, I should think.
I looked at Sarah and said, “Take good care of her.” Sarah smiled, nodded firmly, turned to Grace, took her hand, and, together, they stepped back out into the world.
Later, I opened my notebook, turned back to the page with the x and y axes, and drew a circle at the nexus, labeling it “Grace.”
On the rideshare back to the airport, I reflected on my week in Kansas City. A productive result at work. A positive result at consulting. A successful week overall. Quite happy to have witnessed the start of Grace’s metamorphosis. And that knowledge is my reward, the only kind I’ll ever need.
I watched the blur of the passing highway traffic through the car window. My mind wandered to Botchan, who couldn’t integrate Tokyo and Matsuyama. He tried briefly, failed, and returned to Tokyo—defeated but intact. But unlike Botchan, I have no Tokyo to return to. And yet, I still have this emergent world within me—bruised but intact.
I thought of Grace and Sarah and their promising future. Integrating and growing. Setting off to co-create a new world all their own—the crucial conversation with her parents still ahead, the outcome uncertain, but no longer alone in it—undefeated and intact.
We are, in our short lifetimes, lucky to find love, real love that asks for truth, unlike the life Esther built on hiding. Real love is the kind that’s uniquely reciprocal, unconditional—bringing joy and pain in ways that nothing else can. And if we find it, when we find it, we must hold onto it with every fiber of our being. Never take it for granted. Never neglect it. And never let it go.
Love found is a debt owed—to be cherished with the full weight of life itself. All else is decoration.
Dean Bowman
Dean Bowman
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