Not many people know this, but I have a small tattoo.
Even fewer people know that my husband—who is a Wisconsin Caucasian boy (yes, please imagine him wearing a giant cheese hat, sporting a mustache, watching the Packers, and holding a beer)—discovered it during our very first intimate moment. Which already makes this story more embarrassing than it needs to be.
He looked at it.
Paused.
Squinted.
“What… is that?”
“It’s a rose,” I said.
“A rose?”
“Yes.”
“And… it says Julia?”
Fast-forward a few years into marriage, and he now lovingly refers to it as “that stupid, ugly tattoo.” Which is fair. Because honestly? He’s not wrong. The rose is generic. The font is questionable. And the name Julia? That’s not even my name.
So why does it say Julia?
Let me take you back.
The Girl Who Came to America With a Dream
I came to the United States in August of 2004. I was 21 years old, full of hope, and armed with a very clear goal: learn English.
In Korea, we call it eohak-yeonsu—English language training in an English-speaking country. At the time, this was considered a golden ticket. Add “studied English in the U.S.” to your résumé, and suddenly you were employable, impressive, and internationally flavored.
I was in my second year at Sookmyung Women’s University (yes, all women—and yes, I also went to an all-girls high school). Like everyone else, I was collecting “résumé points” the way people now collect Instagram followers. English was the global language, and I was determined to conquer it.
I worked part-time, saved money, received support from my parents, took ELS courses, got the required scores, and applied to five universities. My criteria were simple:
- Fewer Korean students
- Cheaper tuition
- A strong focus on speaking and listening
That’s how I ended up at Eastern Illinois University.
What was supposed to be a one-year English program somehow turned into a full degree program. They accepted my Korean transcripts and—plot twist—offered me a full scholarship.
I wasn’t brilliant.
I was just lucky. Very.
Why Every International Student Suddenly Becomes “Grace”
When I arrived in the U.S., I quickly realized something:
Americans struggled with my name.
Youngchi.
Young… chai?
Yawn-chee?
Yankee?
So I did what many international students did at the time—I decided I needed an English name.
Not because anyone forced me to. But because I thought it would make my life easier. And also… cooler. At least, I thought so.
Somehow, I convinced myself that if people called me by an English name, my English would magically improve faster. Logic? None. Confidence? Maximum.
After much thought (approximately five minutes), I chose Julia.
Why Julia?
Because of Julia Roberts.
At the time, I was convinced she was the most beautiful woman on earth—especially after Mona Lisa Smile (2003), where she played an art history professor inspiring young women. If you haven’t watched it, I highly recommend it—especially if you’re a woman questioning life, society, or why you’re exhausted all the time.
And just like that,
Youngchi became Julia.
I introduced myself as Julia. People called me Julia. I answered to Julia. I became Julia—for about three years.
The Tattoo That Seemed Like a Great Idea at 21
To fully commit to my new identity (because apparently introducing myself wasn’t enough), I decided to get a tattoo.
Enter Jessie—a Chinese American guy I was sort of dating. He mentioned a tattoo shop in Chicago. It was winter break. I had time. I had curiosity. I had absolutely no understanding of what getting a tattoo involved.
If I had known about the pain, the bleeding, the permanence—I might have reconsidered. But ignorance is powerful.
The shop was intimidating. There was a big folder of designs: roses, butterflies, tribal patterns—classic early-2000s choices. For reasons that remain unclear to this day, I chose a rose.
Why a rose?
No idea.
I was 21.
Fresh off the boat
Emotionally dramatic.
And of course, I asked them to write Julia.
Why? Because I wanted to embed this new name into my body—as a symbol of rebirth. A new life. A liberated woman chasing something exotic and different. In Korean, we might call this shin yeo sung—the “new woman.”
I paid about $200 (which now feels outrageous for something that size), endured the pain, and then panicked about placement.
I chose a spot next to my belly button—not because it was meaningful, but because it was hidden. My parents wouldn’t see it. Unlike shoulders, arms, or ankles.
And just like that, Julia was permanently etched into my skin.
I felt reborn.
Living as Julia
My American friends called me Julia.
My non-Korean classmates called me Julia.
My American boyfriend called me Julia.
I lived as Julia for years. And honestly? It felt good.
She was confident.
She was international.
She belonged.
Until she didn’t.
The Moment Julia Quietly Disappeared
Before starting my master’s program, I had a six-month gap to work. I found a job at a small accounting firm in a Chicago suburb, owned by a Korean-American CPA.
There were three CPAs.
All Korean.
All born in Korea.
All primarily speaking Korean.
On my first day, they called me Youngchi-ssi.
Just like that, Julia vanished.
I was back to the name my parents gave me.
The name on my passport.
The name on my visa.
The name my family had used for over twenty years.
And something clicked.
Julia wasn’t fake—but she was constructed. She was a version of me I thought I needed in order to belong. A character I created to escape uncertainty, insecurity, and the fear of being not enough.
What I realized was this:
I didn’t need to be Julia to become who I wanted to be.
What the Tattoo Really Means
I’m not against changing names. People do it for many reasons—personal, cultural, legal. That’s not the point.
The point is this:
Identity doesn’t live in letters.
It lives in how you see yourself.
How you act.
How you grow.
Eventually, I chose to go back to being Youngchi—professionally and personally. My dreams evolved. My goals changed. I worked hard. I built a life.
And this blog?
It’s part of that ongoing journey.
The rose tattoo is still there. Slightly crooked. Slightly embarrassing. Still saying Julia.
But now, instead of regret, it makes me smile.
Because she was brave.
She was young.
And she did the best she could with what she knew.
It’s a fond memory of my younger years—full of dreams, fun, and beautiful stupidity.
And honestly?
That’s not such a stupid tattoo after all.
P.S. The tattoo stretched so much during my pregnancy that it became completely unreadable—it’s incredible how far a belly can expand. At the very least, I’m just glad I didn’t take one of those awkward pregnancy photos wearing a long, white, lingerie-style robe.