I begin Ryeo Labs in the solitude of a hospital room. I think of nothing like the usual— you know, the fire. The spark. None of that. It’s an impulse under pretenses of silence.

This was originally an idea I believed could shape my own future. Though currently small—daresay, insignificant—I believe this will become something larger over time. I want to document my journey into a safe, yet professional space. A place where I won’t be afraid to share what I’ve found even if it is incomplete. Where I can share concepts, even if I don’t have all parts of the map discovered. All without being muddled deeply into whatever algorithm for exposure, or for content adjustment per platform.

Deeper into the future, Ryeo Labs will serve not only me.

At first, I thought the word ‘Ryeo’ was uniquely mine. In usernames, it was always available. In searches, only my own profiles surfaced. Since 2019, it felt like I’d found a word that belonged to me alone. But soon I found out as I officially began building Ryeo Labs, that it’s quite known originally in Korea and China; though still sparse. I was leaning on to the thought that maybe I’ve made something completely mine, and that was exciting. But finding out its meaning from its origins helped in better solidifying the identity I wanted to attach to the name. It is bright, beautiful, and strong.

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Writing this, preparing it for publication, I find myself sitting in solace beside my mother in the hospital. It’s been the most difficult week of my life. And this project, Ryeo Labs, is helping me see myself beyond the shiny parts. I hope, one day, others can understand too. One day, they’ll see too.

On June 30, my family survived a car accident. And in the same week, I’m facing my midterms, building my thesis, managing Clinivue, and trying to generate income to stay afloat. I’m exploring remote internship opportunities—something that could allow me to earn, learn, and grow in ways that feel aligned with my values.

Alongside that, I’m performing tasks I never imagined doing—helping care for my parents in ways that feel both intimate and unfamiliar. It’s hard. And yet, in all of this, I am learning. About responsibility. About quiet strength. You’ll have to find the time to be vulnerable in the dark and still be able to hold on to that fire inside, to keep it burning, even if it feels like a fleeting candle; and all you can do is hunch— deeply, desperately— hoping it doesn’t run out as the hot wax runs over your fingers.

Sometimes I believe I am Atlas. But I’m luckier than him, I suppose—because I don’t carry the weight alone. My siblings share it. Our big family behind our backs. And maybe that’s the quiet truth: no one is built to bear everything. You just have to find someone, or something, that can be there when life is beating you left and right. Sometimes, it’ll be the people closest to you, sometimes it’ll be your dog, or cat, and sometimes it’ll just be.. you.

Soon, I will enter my third and last year of college.

I will have hard times. Maybe even harder ones. But what are humans if not proof of evolution? Of growth, adaptation, and resilience. Things—like us—are meant to change.

Ryeo Labs will evolve as I do. It may begin as scattered notes and unfinished thoughts—but over time, I hope it becomes its own constellation of insights. Sometimes I’ll write about breakthroughs. Sometimes about breakdowns.

If you're here, welcome to the first layer. It won't always be clear, but it will always be mine.

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An inspiration:

“How do you write like you’re running out of time? How do you write like you need it to survive?” (4:48, Non-Stop. Hamilton, 2015)

Because I do need it to survive, and I want history to have its eyes on me.

In Stillness,

Ryeo

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