Journey, JH Park

Think, Write, Invest, Optimize.

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Husband and father. Seoul‑based tax attorney & CPA. Into reading, innovation, efficiency, and deep work. Credentials Attorney at Law (Korea), admitted 2015 Certified Public Accountant (Korea), 2011 Education Doctoral Program in Tax Law, Seoul National University School of Law (2023–present) LL.M. in International Taxation, NYU School of Law (2022) J.D., Seoul National University School of Law (2015) B.B.A., Seoul National University (2011)

    • On Reading and Writing as a Lawyer

      The Lawyer’s Life in Words

      By trade, I am a lawyer. For eleven years now, that has been the fact of the matter. In that time, I have waded through an ocean of text: countless legal statutes, judicial precedents, textbooks, briefs, and opinions, day after day. There was a unique misery to the day when the necessary text could not be found; a different, but no less potent, anguish accompanied the day when the words that had to be written refused to form.

      As a lawyer, I believe that the essence of my profession lies in taking abstract legal principles and transforming them into concrete reality through the printed word. This process carries with it two fundamental promises. One is the promise of language—our shared medium of communication. The other is the promise of law—the consensus among members of society that governs human relationships.

      From an evolutionary perspective, it is language—that mysterious, binding medium—that allowed humans to dominate the planet. In this light, the lawyer’s craft, so deeply rooted in the manipulation and mastery of this medium, seems to stand at the apex of a uniquely human characteristic. It is, I have often thought, a fascinating line of work.

      There is a particular, rarefied thrill when, after a fierce battle of arguments, a judge—a figure of intellectual authority—ultimately sides with my written words. There is a distinct pleasure in drafting a text that cuts cleanly through the complexities of facts, statutes, and regulations, driving straight to the core of the matter. In those fleeting moments, at least, I have felt a sense of relief, a quiet affirmation that I was right to choose this path, even amidst the punishing workload of a major law firm.

      Burnout and the Solace of Writing

      But lately I find myself growing weary—not just of reading and writing, but of the entire existence of a big-firm lawyer. The truth is that I’m essentially a highly paid worker, trading my time for money. Everything I do ends up distilled into a quarterly performance review measured in billable hours. There is the tension and anger that arise from the disparate levels of responsibility among those involved in a case. And there’s a tragic paradox: life is ultimately made of time, yet to become a successful lawyer one must be busy around the clock.

      It has been a very long time since I last felt a deep sense of happiness from writing as a lawyer. When I seek to comfort my exhausted heart, I turn not to the arid, barren pages of legal documents but to writing out the stories in my heart, in whatever way I can—just as I am doing now. It’s ironic: the pain I’ve endured from reading and writing is being sublimated back into writing.

      What remains certain is that words have power. They have resonance. And for that reason, I love to read and to write. The joy of discovering a magnificent sentence is akin to stumbling upon a piece of music that perfectly suits my taste while walking down the street. It is in anticipation of such small joys that I ordered four new essay collections online today.

      I hope that the coming autumn and winter will see me once again writing with fierce intensity as a lawyer.

    • The Weight of the Given

      Some Seasons of life arrive without knocking, yet rearrange the entire house.

      There were years when I wanted nothing more than to live inside each passing moment – to feel it with the full weight of my body, the far reach of my mind. Even if it became an unbroken struggle, one with no horizon in sight, I believed that to inhabit my life completely was to leave no space for regret.

      That conviction did not grow from youthful optimism. It came instead from a quieter, more unsettling truth: that much of what shape us – perhaps the most defining turns-uninvited, untouched by our will.

      And So I learned to care less about what might happen, and more about what I would make of the given: this slender thread of time, this body I carry, this restless mind. What would I do with them, and in what manner? I kept that question close, like a small stone in my pocket-warmed by the touch of my own hand-and I acted as though the answer mattered.

      The hours I shaped in that spirit now look back at me with a certain clarity: Then, That was my best. Whatever other roads may have existed, whatever choices might have been offered, I would still choose the life I have walked.

      Perhaps this was never certainty, but rather a private benediction-a quiet hand laid upon my own shoulder. I came to lean on it, especially on days when the outline of my life felt unfamiliar, almost foreign.

      And on such nights, when that small mercy slipped from reach, the absence of it pressed hard enough to keep sleep at a distance.