I have always loved food. Not just for the taste or the nourishment, but for what it represents—comfort, love, and survival. I grew up hungry, not just in the way a child might be before dinner, but in a way that leaves an imprint, that teaches you to savor every bite because you don’t know when the next one will come. Food wasn’t just sustenance; it was an offering, a gesture, a rare and precious thing that could be shared or withheld.
It’s why, to this day, no one leaves my house hungry. There is always more than enough. Because for so long, there wasn’t.
I wasn’t allowed to go to school until I was eight years old. Before that, I spent my childhood at home, watching both of my older sisters leave for school while I stayed behind, knowing I was missing out on something important. I didn’t know how to write. I didn’t know how to add or subtract. I knew nothing of traditional learning. It wasn’t until we were sent to live at an orphanage that I was finally given the chance to go to school. I was thrilled. I was finally going to learn.
That morning, my sister Julie met me with a steamed bun filled with sweet red bean paste. The warmth of it in my hands felt like encouragement, like she was saying, You can do this. I bit into the soft dough, the sweetness lingering on my tongue, and for a moment, I forgot to be afraid. It reminded me of the way she used to tell us about stopping for duk bo gee on her walks to school—how she would describe the way the sauce clung to the rice cakes, the way it filled her up. She had been so lucky, I had thought back then. My sister, so cool, so grown-up, getting to have those kinds of moments.
And now, it was finally my turn.
But once I stepped into the classroom, my excitement quickly faded.
The room smelled of wood and chalk dust. Rows of worn wooden desks filled the space, each occupied by a child who had spent years in school, already fluent in the rhythms of learning. Their pencil cases—neatly packed with rulers, erasers, and sharpened pencils—lay in front of them, small but obvious signs of their experience. I had only a single pencil.
I shrank into my seat, hoping to disappear. I knew I was behind. I just didn’t know how badly.
Then the teacher called me to the front of the class. Maybe she thought she was giving me a chance. Maybe she simply didn’t know. But as I stood there, staring at the blank chalkboard, my mind stayed just as blank. I had no answers to give.
Laughter erupted behind me. Loud, unkind. My face burned. I was just the stupid girl who didn’t belong. A pencil flew through the air and hit me, but the sting of humiliation was sharper.
That was my first—and last—day of school in Korea.
I walked home in silence. I had never felt smaller. But then, my sister Theresa, the one who sometimes frowned at my bratty antics, handed me her milk. She had saved it for me from her lunch. A simple, quiet offering. A reminder that no matter how much I got on her nerves, she loved me. That we had each other.
Many years later, I learned something else about that milk. It hadn’t been hers to give. That day, a kind girl at school had noticed Theresa never had lunch and shared her milk with her. And on that same day, Theresa passed it on to me. It was a small act of kindness, but it rippled outward. I never got to thank that girl. But I will never forget her. Neither will Theresa.
That’s how it always was. When we had nothing, we shared what little we did have.
I remember being no more than three years old, watching as Theresa cracked a banana popsicle in half, pressing one sticky piece into my hand. She never kept the whole thing for herself.
Food, especially when you grow up with so little, becomes more than just food. It’s an unspoken bond, a way of saying I love you when words feel too much or not enough. Even our stepmother, who could be cruel, understood the power of it—though she used it to divide us. She would single one of us out, offer a small bite of something delicious while the others looked on. Never a full meal, just a taste of what could be. But she underestimated us. That bite was never just for one. We always shared.
Even now, my sisters and I talk about those days. The hunger. The way we learned to stretch a single bite between us. Julie once admitted that there was a day she was so hungry she didn’t share. She carried the weight of that moment for years—a burden no child should have to bear.
After moving to the U.S., we were adopted into a family who always loved and shared food. In our new home, there was always more than enough. No one left a meal hungry. Food was never a weapon, never a fleeting moment of generosity—it was constant, abundant, freely given. Family gatherings were filled with warmth, laughter, and full plates. Everyone had seconds. Everyone took home leftovers.
It has been a long journey. But we are finally full.
For us, food has always been about connection, about sharing what we have, no matter how little. But we also know that food isn’t always easy to enjoy. So many people struggle with digestion, and no one should have to feel bad about that.
That’s why DIGEST is so important. It’s not about “fixing” anything—it’s about making sure you can fully enjoy the meals you love, without fear, without discomfort. Because food should be something that brings people together, not something that holds you back.
This love of food is universal. It’s why we gather. It’s how we show we care. It’s a reminder of where we’ve been and where we are now.
With Love & Gratitude,
Anne and Julie
