I Took the Long Way

I am not built like a runner. Skinny doesn't mean fit -- ask the Army PT test I failed at nineteen in front of everyone at boot camp. That failure filed itself somewhere in the back of my brain and did not let go. What followed was years of proving something to myself -- running twice a day in the Arizona heat during interrogation training, still smoking half a pack of cigarettes a day, somehow getting faster anyway. I broke twelve minutes on that two-mile run and immediately threw up at the finish line. It felt incredible. But marathons didn't happen until my 40s. My 20s and 30s were a different chapter entirely -- one that involved losing my license twice and riding a bike everywhere in LA because that was the consequence. I didn't understand marathoners back then. I thought they were running from something. I was wrong. In March 2018, I stood at Dodger Stadium with twenty thousand other people and ran 26.2 miles to Santa Monica. I saw an older man with thirty LA Marathon finish dates printed on the back of his t-shirt and thought -- that's the most boss thing I've ever seen in a parking lot. I trained alone, at night, through the streets of West LA. I almost got hit by cars more times than I can count. And then mile 20 happened. I'd been holding onto it for miles -- knowing they'd be there. My wife and daughter, on the sidewalk near our old street, holding a sign they made together. Cheering for their husband. Their dad. A middle-aged guy running 26.2 miles for no practical reason. I was wearing sunglasses. I am so glad I was wearing sunglasses. I ran five marathons total -- four LA, one San Francisco on a knee that was already talking to me. The knee eventually won. Four years passed. A lot happened in those four years: faith, sobriety, a new life slowly coming into focus. Now I'm lacing back up. March 2027. LA Marathon. I'll be 52 by race day. And when I cross that finish line -- they'll be there on the sidewalk. I already know it.

A Wednesday night Korean BBQ dinner with old friends. Drinks that kept coming. A server who quietly mentioned she'd been sober for a year — and a table that kept going anyway. By Thursday morning, I was hungover, calling in sick, and my daughter walked in and said — matter-of-factly, like she was checking the weather — "you drank too much." She's twelve. And she's said it before. That's what finally moved me. Not a dramatic bottom. Not a crisis. Just a kid who's been quietly filing things away — and a dad who finally looked at what she'd been keeping. This episode is about the week that followed: the text I sent my wife on Good Friday, the afternoon alone with a decision I wasn't sure I'd keep, and the Easter Sunday sermon that landed like a dagger in a packed room where nobody around me had any idea why. I didn't go looking for a turning point. It found me at a BBQ joint on a Tuesday night. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about faith, fatherhood, identity, and the long road to figuring it out.

I was eight years old, home alone, and the toilet had a history. I knew what it was capable of. And when the rumbles in the jungle arrived, I did what any reasonable kid would do — I grabbed the Charmin and I went outside. This is a story about being a latchkey kid, making calls with no manual and no backup, and what happens when the wind picks up right after you think you've handled something. It's also about what my parents did when they came home and found the evidence scattered across the backyard — and why that moment taught me something about self-reliance that I'm still carrying as a dad. No experts. No advice. Just a story about a broken toilet, a bad decision, and the inheritance nobody talks about — the one where you figure it out with whatever's in front of you, and that turns out to be enough. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about life, detours, and somehow still being here to talk about it.

I was nineteen years old, fresh out of basic training, and I had just volunteered for Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia — because I thought it would be cool. That was the whole reason. No deeper thesis. Just a kid who wanted wings on his chest. What followed was three weeks of Georgia summer heat, mosquitoes that had no fear of me, sand pits, combat boots, and a Sergeant Airborne who made sure you never walked anywhere. And then Jump Week — five jumps, real stakes, and a Major who froze at the door and got kicked out by a Sergeant Airborne before I ever had a chance to think too hard about what I was about to do. I'm still afraid of heights. I was afraid then. I jumped anyway. Five times. I hit the ground wrong once and fell over like a tree. I got back up and got back in line. At the end of it, they pressed Airborne wings directly into my chest — no backing, just pin through fabric and skin. Blood wings. And then I got my orders. Non-airborne post. Those five jumps were the first and last jumps of my military career. In airborne culture, they have a name for that: five jump chump. Which is accurate. But the jumps still happened. The fear was real. Nobody can take that back. Not even the Army. This episode is about what courage actually looks like when the ending isn't perfect and the fear never leaves.

When I was a kid, I'd come home to an empty house in the suburbs of San Francisco, grab my snacks, and flip on the TV. What I found was Bo and Luke Duke tearing through Hazzard County in a bright orange Dodge Charger. What I didn't realize until decades later was why it never left me. This episode is about family loyalty, cultural identity, and what it looks like to inherit something from your parents — even when they're half a world away. It's about four people building something from scratch in a country that wasn't theirs yet. And it's about what a latchkey kid was really learning in that empty house after school. Turns out I wasn't just killing time. I was learning how to hold the house when they were gone. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about faith, family, identity, and the detours that shape us.

What happens when a full day of small frustrations — bad traffic, a stolen phone moment at the Korean market, a valet, and a gummy bear bag — leads to a blowup you didn't see coming? This week I'm talking about anger. My anger. Where it really comes from, what it did to my marriage last weekend, and what I'm trying to do about it. In this episode of I Took the Long Way, I walk through a Saturday that started at 3:30pm in LA traffic and ended with me raising my voice at my wife over a gummy bear bag at 10 o'clock at night. And the next morning, I sat alone in a pew and asked God for wisdom — right before my pastor preached an entire sermon on anger. Of course he did. We talk about: Why small criticisms stack up and how they lead to blowups bigger than the moment warrants Growing up in a home where anger was explosive and scary — and how that wiring follows you into your marriage and your parenting What a real apology actually looks like versus "sorry you felt that way" The pastor's point that stayed with me: the person who caused the wound is the one who has to move first What it means to break a generational pattern — and whether deciding to be different is actually enough This one got personal. If you grew up around anger that was never modeled in a healthy way, or if you've ever reacted bigger than the situation warranted and wondered where that came from — this episode is for you. I Took the Long Way is a podcast about life, detours, bad decisions, and somehow still being here to talk about it.

There's a tree near Monterey, California that's been standing alone on a cliff for over 250 years — misshapen, weathered, and still standing. It's also the perfect metaphor for growing up Korean American in Los Angeles. In this first episode, the host shares the origin story: immigrant parents, a familiar childhood, a detour that changed everything, and why taking the long way around isn't the same as being lost. If you've ever felt out of place, behind schedule, or like you were riding a bike while everyone else was in a car — this one's for you. Topics: Korean American identity, first-generation immigrant experience, growing up in LA, latchkey kids, GenX, finding your way