Dear My Life

  Header illustration for the review essay of From Up on Poppy Hill (2011) . Illustration created for editorial review purposes. 💭 Short Personal Reflection From Up on Poppy Hill (2011) came to me in the way that old things often do — quietly, without announcing itself. In one corner of my room, an old turntable still remains. A box of cassette tapes. A worn wooden desk. There have been many suggestions to replace them, to move on to something better. But that never quite happens. Because those things carry more than function. They hold traces — of time, of presence, of something that once stayed. Among them, one object lingers more than the rest: an old kitchen spatula once used by my mother. Worn at the edges, slightly discolored. And yet, looking at it brings a quiet heaviness to the chest — not sadness exactly, but something close to it. Because it is no longer just a tool. It has become a small place where a certain time continues to remain. Watching this film feels simi...

Header illustration for the review essay of Whisper of the Heart (1995) . Illustration created for editorial review purposes. 💭 Short Personal Reflection Whisper of the Heart (1995), Yoshifumi Kondō's only Studio Ghibli feature and one of the quietest masterpieces in the studio's history, found me at a moment I recognized deeply. There was a time when life felt so overwhelming that I couldn't see what lay ahead — like being stuck in a deep swamp, ready to let go of everything. In the film, Shizuku rewrites a song that once praised a hometown landscape into something closer to her reality — "Concrete Road." No forests, no hills, just a hard path that stretches forward, demanding that you keep moving. There are moments when our own paths feel just like that: dry, rigid, and endless. We don't know where we're going, or what waits at the end. And yet, Shizuku doesn't stop walking. Watching her, I felt something deeper than admiration — it felt like wit...

  Header illustration for the review essay of A Whisker Away (2020) . Illustration created for editorial review purposes. 💭 Short Personal Reflection A Whisker Away (2020), the Japanese animated fantasy film by Studio Colorido directed by Junichi Sato and Tomotaka Shibayama, found me in a feeling I recognized immediately. There are moments in life when you want to let everything go — when the urge to disappear somewhere no one knows you becomes overwhelming. When the reasons to quit feel clearer than the reasons to stay. I once found myself wanting to leave everything behind and live quietly as no one at all. Watching this film, that feeling came back to me — not as pain, but as recognition. Muge transforms into a cat through a mysterious mask and begins living another life. At first, it feels like liberation rather than escape. Behind the mask, no one sees her pain, and she doesn't have to reveal her true feelings. But the film quietly asks: is becoming something else really f...

  Header illustration for the review essay of Moxie (2021) . Illustration created for editorial review purposes. 💭 Short Personal Reflection Moxie (2021), Amy Poehler's Netflix coming-of-age comedy-drama, found me thinking about my daughters. I sometimes tell them that when they make a mistake, they shouldn't avoid it — but face it with honesty and courage. And there are moments when my younger daughter looks at me with steady eyes and says, without hesitation, "It was my fault. Please give me the punishment." In those moments, I find myself at a loss for words. What was the kind of confidence I thought I was teaching? And watching this film, I found that question returning to me. Vivian begins to speak up against the quiet unfairness that has long gone unquestioned in her school. At first, the voice is small. But the moment others begin to recognize it, it grows. The girls draw small marks on their hands — not as decoration, but as a quiet signal: you are not alo...

  Header illustration for the review essay of Toscana (2022) . Illustration created for editorial review purposes. 💭 Short Personal Reflection Toscana (2022), Mehdi Avaz's Netflix Danish romantic drama set in the Tuscan countryside, found me thinking about something I have noticed in my own life. Sometimes, when I am deeply focused on solving a problem, I reach a point where nothing works — and then, almost by accident, someone passing by says a single word, and the answer appears, embarrassingly simple. Why was I holding onto it so tightly? It happens with the smallest things, too. When I cannot find something, I ask someone else to look instead. Because when we become too absorbed, we begin to overlook what is right in front of us. Perhaps life — and even cooking — is the same. In Toscana , the act of cooking is not about control or precision alone, but about knowing when to step back. When to let things breathe. When to allow something else to enter. Because sometimes, it is...