profile

dossier.

biography.
“ ˈzəʊi: “ to give life ” or “ to breathe. ”
the girl was found left in a woven basket just beyond the crumbling gates of the saint ines convent, nestled on the mist-stilled cliffs of ganghwa island. she was impossibly small — her breathing a fragile wheeze, skin the color of snow. the nuns who discovered her whispered prayers over her, believing she wouldn’t last the night.but she did. and her lungs, tiny but fierce, earned her the name zoey — to breath, to give life.from the beginning, she was a child stitched together with curiosity and wonder. a little hurricane of warmth, drifting barefoot from kitchens, to gardens, and to book-lined halls. the girl collected stories and made them her own, pouring herself into every quiet act of magic she believed to be kindness, whispering lullabies to wilting flowers, telling bedtime tales to any child who’d listen.while the convent was meant to be still, zoey never was. her feet seemed to dance to a melody all her own, her eyes always chasing the horizon. she climbed trees to see what lay beyond, snuck out to map stars, imagined entire kingdoms blooming beneath the earth. her sense of adventure wasn’t rebellion — it was yearning. for something more, something hers.but the world outside the convent was less forgiving. when she turned sixteen and had to leave, reality arrived like winter; biting, cruel, indifferent. she found work where she could, including bakeries, bookshops, backrooms of forgotten theaters. people underestimated her softness. called her too gentle, too strange. but the girl didn’t break. she bent like willow branches, found beauty in crumbs and quiet corners.a jack of many trades, she flitted from city to city, program to program — culinary, creative writing, performing arts. she paid for classes with tips, sleep, and sheer belief in herself. she painted alley murals, wrote lullabies on napkins, performed for passing strangers. she was many things: a chef, a caretaker, a ghost. always observing, always becoming, always wandering.the wind always seemed to call her somewhere new. following new skies, yearning to hear unfamiliar songs. she lived for the thrill of catching her reflection in a place that didn’t know her name yet. wherever she went, she kept moving by the ache to belong to something that wasn’t just memory, until she found herself in seoul, where she has planted roots; perhaps weak ones, but roots all the same. and there, between old ghosts and the blooming flowers of her greenhouse, she began to write.what began as scribbles on menus and letters she never sent became full stories... aching, gentle things about girls who believed in impossible love, quiet bravery, and the persistence of magic. her words found readers, the readers sent letters, and zoey found herself, suddenly, finally, perhaps impossibly, seen.and still, she drifts. from coastlines to cafés, train stations to rented attics. she writes not to anchor herself, but to remind the world — and herself — of the things worth believing in.because somewhere between faith and foolishness, whimsy and longing, she still wanders. she writes to remember the girl she once was, and to remind herself of the magic that still exists, even in bruised — but not broken — places.

'where i bloom', journal entry. . .

i wasn’t made of magic, not really.
no fairy dust, no blessings at birth, no ancient star marking me for wonder.but maybe — just maybe — i’ve been gathering it all along.
a little from bedtime stories shared under blankets.
a little from the way the sun hit a cracked window just right.
a little from strangers who smiled at me for no reason at all.i think i learned wendy’s faith the night i told a story so sweet it made a crying girl laugh.
thumbelina’s romanticism came quietly, folded in between pressed flowers and love letters i never sent.
giselle’s music lives in my throat on quiet mornings, when i hum just to prove the world is still good.
rapunzel’s curiosity... well, that one came from boredom, and solitude, and needing to fill the silence with something.
and the little mermaid's ache… well. that’s the one i never had to learn. it’s always been there.no one enchanted me.
i just chose, again and again, to have faith. to believe we can be good. people have called me soft, like it's a weakness, and i have stayed soft anyway.and i think that counts for something.