Even Without Me: An Overdue Conversation with ESAE

She is back to tell her story and released her single “Even Without Me’”which is available on all streaming platforms. Giving a refreshingly open and honest account, ESAE marks her return to music on her own terms.

It’s taken a while to even consider even being ESAE again. It’s symbolic, it’s weird, it’s bittersweet.

In 2018, you were in a good place with different opportunities to look forward to. Did those pan out as you expected, or were there factors back then that became reasons for your eventual hiatus?

I really wanted them to work out because of my upbringing and how hard I fought to do music. Back then I believed that if I’m not doing everything I can, throwing myself at every opportunity, then I’m not going to make it. In some ways, my identity made me feel really lacking and I felt that I had to work so much harder. A true core belief.

Until the age of 21, I had spent a majority of my life isolated in a bubble of academia and cut-throat competitiveness. I only experienced one type of thing. When I last spoke to you, I was very hopeful. It felt like jumping into an alternate dream reality, especially when I woke up to “A Car Going Nowhere” playlisted by Spotify out of absolutely nowhere.

But I was also threatened, manipulated, and treated in ways that I couldn’t fathom. No matter how well-meaning I was, I was still a defiant cog in a huge system. There were things that I did not agree with and made me deeply angry. Not just in the way I feel about its exploitation of creatives but also my definition of truth.

There were two instances where men who committed sexual assault should have been brought to accountability in 2019. Both were swept under the rug with no restoration. Seeing that level of apathy so closely and repeatedly be not only excused but encouraged by so many who outwardly presented themselves in the opposite way altered me fundamentally.

Having driven yourself through many negative aspects of the industry, what then led to you taking extended time out from music?

At first, I was in complete denial because I loved music so much and had sacrificed everything to do it. Even when I started to not love it, I could not accept that. Then I began to get really, really, sick.

I was vomiting uncontrollably for up to 10 hours at a time and it came out of nowhere. I couldn’t even keep water down; my body kept wanting to expel something from it to the point that I would throw up bile. When I became physically incapacitated – that was the biggest sign that something was deeply wrong and that I needed to address it.

By the end of 2020, I had experienced double the number of hospitalizations and ER visits than birthdays. The doctors were saying that it was manifested by stress. I was prescribed medication after medication that gave me lots of side effects and no relief. My hair was falling out. I was sleeping every 48 hours. I lost a third of my body weight and was unrecognizable.

Music, work…there was none of that. I had no quality of life.

That is essentially what started my hiatus. I believed that I would get better with treatment but then things took a different turn.

What happened next?

I had enough and started pursuing more holistic routes. I found a sports massage therapist that I thought could help me with my pain.  When asked me what I did for a living and what my ethnicity was, I told him that I was Korean American and a songwriter. His reply was something along the lines of: “When I was stationed in Korea, I saw these beautiful Korean bar singers and I fell in love with them.”

Unfortunately, instead of helping, this man sexually assaulted me.

I learned later that day he was born the same year as my dad. It didn’t matter logically that I knew it wasn’t my fault. My body didn’t believe it and it became an incredibly different life. My culture, my music, and my language used to be the three things that got me through any hell imposed on me. All of that disappeared in a heartbeat.

Part of me thinks my journey would have looked much differently without having heard those words. That moment spread itself rapidly to every part of my existence. You chose this business. You are a Korean. You are a singer and songwriter. That’s why this happened to you. The same thoughts echoed in my head despite my resistance.

What was your experience reporting the incident to the authorities and trying to get justice?

I did everything correctly. I left witnesses, I called 911, I left text records. I went to the police station that night. It was during the pandemic so they made me go in completely alone and recount what had happened. I naively thought he might be arrested. In fact, the opposite: my detective even tried to dissuade me from filing charges. She even told me that I have three months to open a case, otherwise, nothing is going to happen to him.

“And even if you do, it is likely nothing will happen to him.”

From that day on, I became scared that something like that would happen again to another woman. The only solace I got was that they could go back to my police report for the next survivor. I tried so hard to find justice through other avenues. But (with) every single one, I was told that nothing could be done for me.

I found civil lawyers who told me that he didn’t have enough money and that I didn’t have enough money for them to want to go after it. I reached out to an AAPI media outlet and organization through the referral of a former colleague. They turned me away at the first phone call because I didn’t have his confirmed personal phone number and home address.

The last thing I did was go to the California Board of Massage and I started a case there that went on for over a year. They suspended his license and then unsuspended it telling me that I didn’t have enough evidence. He still has a license to touch people, which devastated me.

What I thought was going to be a brief hiatus turned out to be indefinite despite my denial. There were no words to describe what that darkness feels like. I couldn’t speak Korean anymore without wanting to throw up. I couldn’t even listen to any music without feeling like what was little was left of my heart kept disintegrating. That’s why I was gone for a very long time.

Do you think that your experience reflects those of women who you described going through similarly horrific situations in the industry? Do you feel any differently with time?

When I stood by women who went through parallel experiences in the past, I felt very gaslighted by many conversations I had about my decision to be so vocal about it.

Am I being too much?

Am I causing trouble?

Am I doing the wrong thing?

It was ridiculous for me to doubt this in hindsight, but I felt so alone. I realized regardless of the negative impact it left on me in some ways, everything I spoke up about and did was right.

How did you feel in the aftermath of that when you tried to perform again?

At the beginning, I fought very hard. A lot of what I was doing was out of desperation.

Three weeks after that happened to me, I forced myself to go out in public and busk (having not done it in a while). It was by the beach, in the same city that I was assaulted. I remember walking to the pier and seeing two college boys biking my way. One of them looked at me, smiled, and said:

“Hey beautiful.”

For a split second I thought everything was going to be okay. Then he laughed and spat out: 

“Just kidding. You’re ugly as fuck. Fuck you.”

Hearing the echoes of their laughs and self-congratulations as they biked away was my last straw. For the first time in my life, I lost it in public. I ran after them screaming at the top of my lungs:

“I was just sexually assaulted. How could you say that to me?”

As they got smaller in the distance, they swore back at me, their voices booming:

As they got smaller in the distance, they swore back at me, their voices booming: 

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

It felt like hearing God’s final message before leaving me to die. I remember people staring but nobody came up to me. My friends found me screaming on the sand, completely alone. No words. Just incoherent wails.

(After that), I could not go into public spaces alone nor make eye contact with anyone anymore. It was the first time in my life when I was in so much pain that there were no words. For someone whose words are my art, that had never happened to me before.

What helped you eventually?

I tried everything that I could possibly find in the holistic realm to get better. Physical therapy, hypnotherapy, regular therapy, acupuncture, EMDR, somatic exercises… you name it, I’ve probably tried or researched it. Although those things helped temporarily and gradually,

I was nowhere near functional. I tried gratitude practices, journaling, meditation, workbooks, spiritual studies, on and on. It costs zero dollars to write down affirmations so (I thought) I might as well, but I hated myself more because nothing was helping. Ironically, trying to heal was driving me insane. After a year and a half of trying to research my way to health, I knew that something was deeply wrong.

One day my physical therapist asked me to try a neurotechnology called Cereset® offering non-invasive, non-pharmacological, self-directed brain re-correction. You lie in a chair where sensors attached to different parts of your scalp read your brain’s activity in real-time. The software then translates your brainwaves into engineered musical tones played back via headphones.

It was a chance for my brain to listen to itself without medication, person, or outside force telling it what to do. And apparently, it sounded like a little kid practicing piano.

As I looked through the website, I began hysterically laughing because it was so ironic I didn’t want to believe it. It seemed at once too good to be true and like a really twisted joke considering I couldn’t even listen to music then. But at that point, I was so sick that I was on the verge of filing for disability and accepting that this was my life. I took this as my last shot. Despite the doubt, inside, a little shred of hope started to resurrect.

When asked why I came in, I said I wanted to sing without crying.

After my first session, I slept without nightmares for the first time in two years. In one month, I was able to work again. I was able to go out in public. I was able to busk at the same beach and pier I lost my mind at a year ago.

It saved my life. Ten months after I walked in with nothing but despair, I became the owner of Cereset Mission Viejo.

What were the circumstances that led you to own the neurotechnology business you sought help from?

I offered a trade with the previous owner where I would get free Cereset sessions in return for copywriting and marketing services. Four months after I first walked in, she asked me if I wanted to buy the business from her because she was moving away.

The timing and the nature of the deal were so good I knew it was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. I had no idea how I was going to do it but I knew that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I said no, similarly to how I would have felt if I never decided to become ESAE.

I stepped into another dream reality through this, with incredible resources to help people now that I didn’t have access to before. I don’t think I’d be able to help to the degree I am right now without these experiences.

What do you aspire to do next with your work to help more people?

There are so many stories of women who live through similar things and receive little to no effective help. I want to see change and, in the short time that I’ve been an owner, I’ve been able to witness it with my own two eyes. The most basic level I can affect is within myself.

If I want to make sure that what I’ve survived doesn’t happen anymore, my voice needs to be strong. Back then I was loud but did not have the strength to sustain or channel my voice in effective ways. When you are supported, that’s when you can really make the art that you want.

Have your feelings changed over the years in terms of your cultural identity? You felt foreign when you moved over to the US from Korea initially.

Immigrating back was the first time I distinctly recognized that I didn’t belong, even though I was born here. Clinging to “being Korean” was one of the few ways that helped me feel like I still had a home.

Being unable to access that changed me. A deep struggle I had was with the way the Korean church treated me after what happened. One pastor couple I was referred to for support exposed me to some ideas that nearly drove me insane at an already vulnerable time, including one suggestion that my suffering was a result of one of my ancestors being a comfort woman.

When I texted them that awful night, they completely stopped talking to me. After personal backlash, they told me that they thought I was doing fine. That there must have been some miscommunication.

I felt so abandoned to the point where I started asking people to use only English with me because hearing Korean would only remind me of how alone I was. Protecting discomfort and shame was more important to them than my humanity.

That’s not my reality anymore but in order to get here, I grieved that I can’t undo the past. But I can make room for a worldview and timeline that is fully my own. Finding identity is not as harsh of a process as it used to be. It is driven by choice now, not desperation.

How did you overcome the disappointment to the response of certain people in your life to what you had been through? Did you take a path of acceptance or distance yourself from them?

A lot of people I cared about never talked to me again after I dropped off the face of the earth. Maybe that’s why it was the perfect time to learn that lesson. The way I see the world now changed what comes into my perspective. I try to focus on making my cup bigger instead of feeling the weight it is holding.

Why did you choose “Even Without Me” as a release this year?

“Even Without Me” is one of the first songs that I ever wrote, and it took so long to come out because I had to make sure that it was everything that I wanted it to be. It existed before I even knew what a condenser microphone was. Grief and trauma are ugly things but this song was the first time I was able to express it in a way that was beautiful to me.

A version of it was released in 2021 with Andy Caldwell, my mentor when I was at IO Music Academy in Los Angeles. I was singing the song while shooting some social media ad photos for the academy when Andy stopped and asked me if he could put it on his next album. It made my entire year to be honest. I still didn’t believe that it was good enough to release but if Andy-freaking-Caldwell said it was good enough for his album, then it was. No questions asked. 

It was really rewarding and symbolic to release the song with someone I deeply respected. But I knew I had a very specific sound in mind for my version. So I kept working on it until I was 100% satisfied.

What is different from the version released this time compared to the previous one?  What is the meaning behind the song?

The song (had) the same lyrics I wrote but this time, I was part of the production process from beginning to end. I needed help and support this time otherwise it was not going to happen. I tried time and time again to recreate what I heard in my head by myself or with other producers but it was never right. Until I started working with Abe Song.

Abe is so good at playing but his production is even better. I immediately fall in love with nearly everything he makes and I truly believe his deep jazz and classical background is what makes him one of the best. He crafted this production into reality with incredible nuance and skill.

ESAE back then was just me alone in a tiny closet. The lyrics are sad because I was working through the feeling that I had disappointed everyone in my life when I wrote it. It was coming from deep grief, isolation and wanting, a cry of “no matter what I do is not enough.” It was about me being scared that my family didn’t love me anymore because I was doing music instead of going to medical school, but (it) has now taken a completely different meaning.

Humanity is so tiny in this whole scope of the universe, but at the same time we mean so much. The sun is going to set even though I’m not asleep but that doesn’t mean living isn’t beautiful. For the longest time, I could not reconcile the two ends of the spectrum, but I realized that it doesn’t matter if I can because that is what life is. The sunset is beautiful, regardless of whether I can recognize the beauty of it at that moment. I have faith that those moments make a mountain.

Do you still find collaborations difficult?

I was not very good at standing up for myself because my default was to assume I was wrong, always. So a lot of my work felt like compromises with time and circumstances. The only way I could reconcile that was with complete control. I am better at advocating for what I want and surround myself with people whose work that I believe in too.

You like listening to songs in other languages – will you try writing in other languages?

I see it as another portal to understanding people better and learning more about other worlds that are not mine. I hope that one day, I can release a bachata song in Spanish.

Will you stick with this kind of sound in the future?

I don’t know but everything I write will be what I want to make. I will no longer be limited by having to be a certain way, because I’m Korean or indie, or because someone else took a direction that was successful; I have that freedom now. But it still feels unfamiliar to really think about what I want.

What do you choose to sing when you busk? Your own material? Covers? A mix?

I sing my own material and covers of what I love. City pop with acoustic arrangements. “La Gata Bajo La Lluvia.” Adele. Songs with “California” in the title.

During this time, you have picked up more skills, and become more accomplished. What is the most useful thing that you have learned for making music?

When I sent (my mom) the lyrics of a rap feature I did, she told me that it was beautiful and that it was more like poetry. It’s one of the compliments from her that I will always remember. So I started writing poetry in Korean and English because that’s the closest thing I can get to that’s a song right now.

Music production-wise I haven’t touched anything in a long time because of how tense my body gets. It takes time to rebalance after world turning events but I’m getting there. Those temporarily closed paths led me to others I didn’t even know could be open to me.

The inability to express myself through writing or music was painful so I focused my energy on finishing a vocational film internship. That gave me the confidence to apply for an educational production accelerator hosted by A24, which I was accepted to! Both experiences gave me enough insight into filmmaking that I think I can start making projects on my own when I’m ready.

I decided to add my mom’s last name, Hyun, to my writer’s name when I heard they were going to publish the acceptance list so that I could mark her presence in my name as well. The E and S of ESAE mirror the beginning syllables of my dad’s Korean name and I always loved that so much. My mom’s Korean name also starts with a E so I thought it was perfect but adding Hyun made it feel even more complete. Esae Hyun.

Do you feel that opportunities are more plentiful compared to years ago? Or are you still having to hustle a lot?

I think my definition of hustle has changed (laughs) because that caused me to drive my body to deep sickness. For a very long time, even when I was very young. I just didn’t know it.

I have built up a basis where there are people who know who I am and what I stand by. Working in an effective way that does not drive my body into the ground, will reap abundance within not only my life but the people and community around me.

Could you see yourself doing music alone, in a financial sense?

If you are skillful, you can make anything happen, especially with the advent of TikTok and increased accessibility to indie musicians. Do you want to play the game though? There is always a game to play in that world based on factors having nothing to do with the quality of your work.

That is true for any industry to some degree but entertainment is one of the industries where it is blatantly accepted as an incorrigible part of the system.

I have much respect for those who make music their entire careers because I know how the grind can never stop, even after pinnacle accomplishments. But I have seen enough to know that I want something different than the routes I know about.

Songs are getting shorter in length – there is increasing demand for punchier, instant hype songs. Would that affect your songwriting?

I think length is less important than context in terms of releases today. But if your music doesn’t touch upon a part of humanity that we all share, it doesn’t matter what genre it is or how catchy your lyrics are. I know that there are aspects of musical preference people are drawn to that can be divided infinitely just based on profitability and trends.

To me, the core or essence of art is about making a connection so strong darkness melts away, even if it’s just for a moment. That belief will never change.

Do you think that is true for music superstars that have made it to mainstream success? That good music made them stand out from other artists?

Good art never lies but that’s an increasingly difficult thing to sell on its own. I can’t help but wonder how some entertainers address the line between identity and product. Is that conducive to what you want to make, or are you being dragged along by what you feel like you have to do, consciously or not? The price of pursuing art shouldn’t be your life. If anything your life is your art, not a main marketing funnel for it.

In creative industries, social movements have become more of a topic of discussion in recent years. Do you think that there is greater awareness that this is happening on the back of that, that it has helped, or is it still at a very superficial level? 

People didn’t know what bibimbap was when I had my “lunchbox moments” as a kid and now it’s one of the first things that people think about in reference to my food. If that can happen for South Korea, then my belief is that we should share and uplift that progress with all cultures. There is so much more still left to be done.

It feels dangerous to act like everything is fine because a lot of what we see is a show of what progress should look like, not actual change. It’s hard to help because systems rely on attention to drive profit. Some of the biggest miracles happen quietly, all around us. With more vision, anything is possible.

Although I have fears about the worst possible scenarios regarding myself and the world, I don’t let my grip go on hope. That’s one of the few things I have faith in. Hope in humanity because it is capable of creating beauty by merely existing in all its imperfect glory.

I’m part of that too.

Do you have any last words?

Louisa and I met through an interview she did for another publication years ago. Her insightful questions and genuine support of my work are something I’ve never forgotten. I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone other than her and Korean Indie. Thank you, always.

My last words, the most important ones, are about Albert aka Folded Dragons.

Albert reached out to me first after seeing a Facebook post I made about my journey with no other motives besides kindness and support. Still an undergrad at NYU, he was connecting me to spaces that I wouldn’t have access to otherwise. It seemed like his breakout would happen at any moment in any industry. EDM? K-pop? Genre didn’t matter. To me, his success was not a matter of if. Just when.

At that time, the only thing I hated more than driving to downtown LA was being there, but I knew I would brave the commute when he told me he was here. I picked him up from his friend’s place and headed to a late-night cafe where we shared waffles with two other people I no longer remember.

Driving back in the darkness, I didn’t feel as scared. He talked about his parents and their support of him. His brother, how talented he was, even more so than him, and was a champion swimmer. I don’t even know if we talked about music but I will always remember how much he loves his family. I felt a twinge of pain in my heart wondering if that could be me one day but it was hope, not jealousy.

My brain has blocked out the memories of those years but this is one of the few I still have, a glimpse of the back of his head as I watched him walk away. His hair looked as big as it did in his pictures, like a lion’s mane. I should have asked him what kind of conditioner he used but instead, I silently promised for the future.

“Next time. I’ll buy him something really good. Better than waffles. When I make more money. When I’m really successful.”

Albert passed away in 2019 before my wishes caught up with reality. It took me years to forgive myself for that so I remember him as much as I can. The only reason why I’m grateful for grief is that it is an unforgettable measure of the love that lives on.

“Even Without Me” and ESAE wouldn’t be possible on my own. Every expression of support I received from my music gave me another reason to dream again and I remember all of you, just as I remember Albert, more than you may realize.

Worlds have changed in a matter of years but my heart remains the same. Thank you for being my light on the walk back home.

As always, with all my love,

Esae Hyun

Featured Image Credit: misfortunesoftheliving

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