In the stillness of dawn, I awaken to an umami aroma that weaves its way into my room, pulling me from my slumber like an enchanting spell. With every inhale, I am drawn downstairs to a table adorned with a feast of flavors: kimchi, minari, gyeran mari, and my main reason for waking up so early, miyeok guk with a side of galbi. I snap out of my sleepy haze and realize it’s my birthday, which is why my halmi (AKA my grandmother) had cooked this welcoming buffet. My halmi is a true representation of loyalty and love. And it pains me to see the distasteful looks or pure discrimination she faces due to the fact she is Asian American and has trouble pronouncing English words. I would often see fast food workers act as if they don’t understand what my grandma is trying to order. “One fries, and uhh… ten pieceuh chicken nugget, prease.” To me, I understand every word that leaves her mouth, but the McDonald's worker just looks at her flabbergasted. Seeing all her long nights of watching YouTube videos practicing English get blown off by this comment breaks my heart. It also shows the huge wall she still must overcome as an immigrant in the US. Being a foreigner with little understanding of the English language is a challenge. When you come to America, everybody preaches about the “American Dream,” but forgets to mention the loneliness and anxiety you will most likely face as America moves fast, and it will not be kind to someone who won’t conform to their language, culture, and appearance to America’s standards. My family was one of the more fortunate immigrant families, as my umma went to high school in America, and was able to adapt to the English language early. My halmi on the other hand, who had plans to leave the US, was interrupted when my umma had me because she knew family came first. My halmi brought it upon herself to raise me as her own while my umma went to work, taking the place of my absent father. My umma’s overworking reaps itself, and she announces that she suddenly lost her vision. Next thing I know, I’m holding on for dear life in the backseat of my halmi’s car, watching the street lights blur against the contrasting midnight skies due to the unprecedented speeds my halmi was driving. We arrived at the ER in a record time of 5 minutes, and umma was rushed into a room where we waited for the doctor. Holding my halmi's trembling hand, we watched as my mom lay in the hospital bed, a stark contrast to her usual resilient self. As the doctor spoke to my umma, I translated the conversation for my halmi, hoping to ease her anguish. It was then that a haunting question surfaced: how many Asian-Americans silently endure their struggles alone in hospitals? While they care for others, who is there to care for them? Hospitals, intended symbols of health and well-being, become sources of additional distress. Fueled by this eye-opening experience I hope to honor my Korean heritage and the spirit of my halmi by joining the healthcare system in order to spread positivity and relief of stress that builds up in the Korean community. Being able to speak and understand the language can close the communication barrier, and create that sense of support and understanding which may be exactly what someone needs when they are in the hospital, whether that be as a patient or visitor.