Loneliness, self-love, and the strength to keep going in Lee Hi's "HOLO"

I woke up last Wednesday morning with my left shoulder out-of-place. Unable to sleep the night before, I had wrapped my arms around my pillow, conjuring a warm body in its place. There was nobody left when I opened my eyes - just a phantom throb. A reminder of emptiness.

It is stubborn, this ghost. It has lived with me for most of my life; during those teenage years when I gradually recognized that the same queerness my youth pastors and parents condemned held home in my heart; during the 4 years of college where I struggled with (and ultimately began growing into) my identity as a queer person and a survivor; and even now, when I have filled my life with a job I love and friendships I can't believe I have and hobbies old and new. It returns home when I least expect it, whispering the same shameful messages I've memorized like bad Scripture: How could you be this old and still feel so stuck in the same old family dynamics? Isn't it lonely, being the one to break away from the life your parents would have otherwise chosen for you? How is it that you want to care for others when you can barely care for yourself? And the deeper message, embedded in all of that: Who could ever love somebody as broken as you? 


When I think about these ideas, I imagine nails through young oak. Hammered in by grown-ups - in schools, in churches, in houses - who have one vision for their kids and many ways to ensure none of them grow crooked. No matter how many new rings I grow around that younger version of myself, those rusted shards of doubt and shame cut close to my heart, remain embedded in my body. I have been lonely for a long time. I don't yet know if there will be a time in my life when that won't be true.

I do know, however, that two things that help me are reading books and listening to music. They're the same things I used to do as a high school student, creating my own little bubble under the covers and getting lost in worlds I could explore with the turn of a page or the click of a button. That's how during one particularly rough summer night, I had the fortune to stumble across "Holo" from Lee Hi, a Korean singer who hasn't warranted much of my attention until now:



"Holo" in Korean translates to "alone," but the underlying connotation is closer to "lonely." The way the song opens underlines that emotion, too: all we get in the first verse is Lee Hi's voice and a simple piano melody, almost like a lullaby. "홀로 있는 게 가만히 있는 게 / 어려운 일인가요 (Being alone, staying still / Is that such a hard thing to do?)" she sings. It's such a simple question - so why can't we answer it? Maybe that's why it cuts so deep. We grow up, but even as adults, there are often parts of us still stuck in that childish phase, still unable to handle complex emotions and seeking endless distractions to avoid facing them. Lee Hi lulls us in with this opening verse reminiscent of a nursery ballad, and then she drags us into the deep end with feelings relevant for all of us, no matter how grown we think we are. 

Lee Hi's exploration of loneliness is honest and nuanced. She points out that being lonely is about more than just having people around you, whether friends or lovers: "홀로 있어도 같이 있어도 / 외로운 건 같아요 (Whether you're alone or together / The loneliness is the same)." It's also not something you can easily ~manifest~ away with good vibes, as she dryly asks herself "말하는 대로 생각한 대로 / 되는 것 아닌가요 (Isn't it supposed to turn out / The way you talk and think?)" Later on, she expands her critique to include social expectations and how the acts of comparing ourselves to others often amplify the insecurities we all harbor. But punctuating all of these heavy thoughts is a steadfast mantra, a resolution echoed at the end of each verse: "One day it will stop." She sings this not as a triumphant battle cry but as a firm reminder to us (and maybe even herself). The gravity in her voice took me back to my darkest days in college: I remember the work it took to carve those same words into my heart, a quiet act of self-love when I was at my lowest. There is a lifetime of pain in those words - but there is perspective, too, and wisdom hard-won.

It's the chorus, though, where that stubborn hope explodes into something bigger. It's where the song blooms from a mellow mix of pianos and strings to a Sunday School showdown, complete with gospel choir harmonies and a drum rhythm that echoes Lee Hi's newfound conviction:

"And I’m gonna stop cryin’, stop feelin’
Stop thinkin’ ‘bout you my babe
이제 그만 울 거야 나올 거야 (Now I'm going to stop crying, I'm going to come out)
나를 더 아껴줄 거야 (I'm going to value myself more)
And I’m gonna stop"

Talk about a 180! This chorus is a road-map out of loneliness, a series of steps she names for herself in order to stop living in the place she is now. Of course, when you grow up, you realize that the road isn't a one-way path: we get lost along the way, we stumble back into places we thought we'd long outgrown, and we circle around again after again before we finally find our way out of the dark. Lee Hi doesn't sing the chorus and call it a day: like virtually every pop song, "Holo" goes from verse to chorus to verse to chorus and right back to the verse again. But maybe that's part of the message, too. Lasting change rarely happens in the space of eight measures. Our lives - and our growth - play across a much longer arc. All we can do is repeat these affirmations, follow the road forward one step at a time.

I have been sitting in my loneliness for most of my life, and I am still waiting for the day when I will feel different. But maybe that's the reason I've found such comfort and power in songs like "Holo": they are, in their structures, mirrors for the slow process of healing. Like life, they do not resolve themselves in the space of three neat minutes: they ask us to listen closely and hit replay. We hear their melodies on the radio, sing them in the car, play them in the shower, press repeat until we know the words by heart. They, too, worm their way through the cracks in our broken tree-trunk selves. They become as much a part of us as our wounds do.

-m.o. kng
July 28, 2020

Addendum: if you'd like to see an incredibly wholesome interview (and beautiful performance), here's Lee Hi (age 25) interviewing three girls (ages 8, 12, and 16):


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My name is Mo Kim, I'm a teacher, and I'm not okay.

writer with a lowercase w (on writing in a life full of limitations