Narrator: A young woman stands in the fluorescent-lit aisle of an Asian supermarket, surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of her childhood. She sees a Korean mother scolding her adult son for how he eats his soup, and suddenly, she begins to weep uncontrollably. This is not a fleeting moment of sadness, but a profound, recurring ritual of grief. What is it about this specific place—this H Mart—that unleashes such a powerful wave of sorrow? And how can the simple act of shopping for food become a painful, yet necessary, pilgrimage into the heart of memory and loss?

In her searingly candid memoir, Crying in H Mart, author and musician Michelle Zauner unpacks this very question. The book is a deeply moving exploration of her mother’s battle with cancer, but it is also a story about the complex, often unspoken, ways that food, family, and cultural heritage intertwine to shape our identities. It reveals how, in the wake of devastating loss, we search for connection and find healing in the most unexpected of places.

Narrator: For Michelle Zauner, the aisles of H Mart are more than just a place to buy groceries; they are a sanctuary of grief. It is here, among the jars of kimchi and packages of seaweed, that the loss of her Korean mother feels most acute. This is because, in her family, food was the primary language of love. Her mother, Chongmi, wasn't one for overt verbal affirmations. Instead, her affection was communicated through meticulously prepared meals, through remembering which side dishes her daughter loved, and through a shared, distinctly Korean appetite.

This connection makes the experience of food after her mother's death both a source of comfort and a trigger for profound pain. Zauner recounts observing a Korean mother and her adult son in an H Mart food court. The mother continuously instructs her son on how to eat, placing pieces of beef from her own bowl onto his. While this "nagging" once annoyed Zauner, she now recognizes it as "the ultimate display of a Korean woman’s tenderness" and is overwhelmed with a longing for her own mother. The loss is not just emotional but practical. Without her mother, Zauner is left with a paralyzing question that echoes through the aisles: "Am I even Korean anymore if there’s no one left to call and ask which brand of seaweed we used to buy?" Food becomes the tangible link to a heritage that feels like it's slipping away, and H Mart is the sacred, sorrowful ground where she fights to hold onto it.

Narrator: The relationship between Zauner and her mother was never simple. It was defined by what Zauner calls a "brutal, industrial-strength" love—a love that was demanding, critical, and relentlessly focused on molding her into a "perfect" version of herself. This tough love was a constant source of friction during Zauner's adolescence in Eugene, Oregon. A vivid memory illustrates this dynamic: after falling from a tree and injuring herself, Zauner was met not with comfort, but with her mother’s furious screaming about the permanent scar she would now have.

This intense pressure, combined with the isolation of being one of the few mixed-race kids in her town, fueled a deep rebellion. Zauner found her escape and identity in music, inspired by artists like Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, a fellow biracial Korean-American who "obliterated the docile Asian stereotype." This passion, however, became another battleground. Her mother saw music as a "weird thing," a distraction from the real work of getting into college. The conflict culminated in an explosive argument at a Korean restaurant, where her mother, enraged by Zauner's artistic ambitions, effectively disowned her, shouting, "You want to be a starving musician? Then go live like one." This painful rupture set the stage for years of emotional distance, all underscored by a household proverb that would become tragically literal: "Save your tears for when your mother dies."

Narrator: When her mother is diagnosed with stage IV cancer, Zauner’s life as a struggling artist in Philadelphia comes to an abrupt halt. She returns home, vowing to atone for her rebellious past and become the "perfect daughter." This return, however, plunges her into the brutal reality of caregiving. She witnesses her mother’s rapid physical and mental decline, a harrowing experience that forces her to confront the raw, undignified, and painful side of illness.

Her role as caregiver is further complicated by the arrival of Kye, an older Korean friend who comes to help. Kye’s presence is initially a relief, as her culturally specific care—preparing traditional dishes like jatjuk (pine nut porridge) that her mother can stomach—provides a unique comfort. But this effectiveness soon becomes a source of intense jealousy and alienation for Zauner. She feels "edged out," unable to provide the same level of authentic Korean care. This feeling comes to a head during a simple breakfast. When Kye prepares a soft-boiled egg, Zauner expresses concern about food safety for her mother’s compromised immune system. Kye scoffs, "This is how we eat this one in Korea," and Zauner's mother says nothing. In that moment of silence, Zauner feels a profound rejection, as if she is not "one of us." The experience crystallizes her lifelong struggle with her bicultural identity, feeling neither fully American nor fully Korean, but forever "half in and half out."

Narrator: As her mother’s condition deteriorates, hope seems to vanish. A planned family trip to Korea becomes an extended hospital stay in Seoul after her mother goes into septic shock. Faced with the grim reality of her mother's impending death, the family is steeped in despair. Yet, in this darkest moment, a fragile glimmer of hope appears. Her mother makes a small, unexpected recovery, becoming alert and responsive.

Seizing this moment, Zauner makes an impulsive, life-altering decision. Standing on a hospital fire escape, she calls her boyfriend, Peter, and proposes. She explains her desperate need for her mother to be present at her wedding, fearing she would be a "joyless bride" without her. The family immediately pivots from despair to action, planning a full wedding in just three weeks. This new goal provides a powerful psychological escape and a tangible reason for her mother to fight. As Zauner reflects, it was a way to change the conversation. Instead of "bedsores and catheters," they could now discuss "color schemes and updos and shrimp cocktail." The wedding becomes a manufactured, yet deeply meaningful, celebration to look forward to—a conscious choice to create light and life in the face of certain death.

Narrator: After her mother’s death, Zauner moves to New York City to start a new life, but she is haunted by flashbacks of her mother's illness. Finding traditional therapy unhelpful, she turns to a more personal form of healing. She begins meticulously recreating Korean dishes from the YouTube videos of a vlogger named Maangchi. This act of cooking becomes her new therapy. Each recipe—from knife-cut noodles to fried chicken—evokes powerful memories of her mother and their shared culinary traditions.

The most profound of these experiences is making kimchi. She drives to an H Mart in Flushing, buys a traditional earthenware pot called an onggi, and spends hours preparing the cabbage and paste. The physical labor is soothing, and the process connects her directly to her mother's spirit. At the same time, she channels her grief into her music. The songs she writes to process the trauma of the past year become the album Psychopomp, released under her band name, Japanese Breakfast. Through the twin acts of cooking and songwriting, Zauner finds a way to tend to her grief, transforming her pain into nourishment and art.

Narrator: A year after her mother's death, while helping to clear out her childhood home, Zauner makes a profound discovery. Her mother’s kimchi fridge, shipped to her in-laws' house, is not empty. Instead of fermented food, it is filled with hundreds of old family photographs. As she sifts through the images, she sees her life meticulously documented, from infancy to adulthood, and realizes her mother was always behind the lens. In that moment, her mother is transformed from a simple parent into "my champion, she was my archive."

This discovery reveals the immense, often invisible, labor of her mother's love. With her mother gone, Zauner feels the weight of this legacy, realizing it is now up to her to make sense of her own identity through the "signs she left behind." This leads her to a powerful metaphor: fermentation. Just as kimchi transforms through a controlled process, she realizes her memories must be actively tended to, so that trauma does not spoil them. They must be fostered to become an active, "effervescent" part of her, ensuring her mother’s lessons and love live on. The kimchi fridge, a symbol of Korean heritage, becomes a literal and figurative archive of a mother’s devotion, a legacy that will continue to ferment and nourish her for the rest of her life.

Narrator: Ultimately, Crying in H Mart is a testament to the fact that grieving is not a process of letting go, but of learning how to hold on in a new way. For Michelle Zauner, the path to understanding her profound loss—and her own identity—was paved with food. Cooking her mother’s recipes was not just an act of remembrance; it was an act of resurrection, a way to embody her mother’s love and keep her spirit alive in a tangible, sensory way. The book reveals that our connection to those we’ve lost is not severed by death but is instead transformed, living on in the traditions we uphold, the meals we share, and the stories we choose to tell.

Zauner’s journey challenges us to look at our own family histories as living archives, often stored in the most unassuming places. It prompts a vital question: What are the "kimchi fridges" in our own lives, filled with the unspoken evidence of love? And what will we do to tend to that legacy, ensuring it continues to nourish us long after its archivist is gone?