There’s really something about watching and finishing a movie on a Sunday afternoon. House of Hummingbird had been sitting in my Letterboxd watchlist for quite some time. Like many other films—and like the usual excuse I give whenever I can’t find time to watch something—life happened. Sure, it did. But life happens every day, so deep down, I knew I was just making excuses. I recently shared that I’ve been trying to live with more slowness, softness, and stillness. And yet, there I was again, spiraling into another round of doom scrolling. It usually takes me days to convince myself that it’s okay to slip up now and then—but really, I was just tolerating my own indolence. So, a few days ago, I made a conscious effort to get back on track: starting the day with a 10-minute stretching routine before shifting into work mode, eating meals on time, and taking my vitamins to jumpstart the day. When work gets too intense, I make sure to take small breaks: breathing deeply, stepping away from my desk, playing with Pino. Since summer’s been especially harsh and unforgiving in the afternoons, I’ve made it a habit to shower during my lunch break and again before bed. It helps cool down the lingering heat clinging to my skin. After clocking out (and if I’m in a decent mood) I’ll clean the floor downstairs and wash whatever dishes are left in the sink. I have a rule: no lying down until I actually intend to nap. So maybe I come off like a clean freak, but really, I’m not. I just like having a rhythm. I spend the rest of the afternoon on things I enjoy: picking up The Goldfinch from where I last left off, checking a film off my watchlist, and making sure to squeeze in a bit of Duolingo time learning Japanese.

I usually take a nap for an hour or so, then get myself ready to take Pino out for a late-afternoon walk. After we return home, everything flows naturally into our evening routine. Before ending the day, I always do another round of stretching, followed by a journal entry.

Sounds hectic?

Of course, I know life is unpredictable, and it’s important to leave space for spontaneity. Still, ever since I started practicing slow living, I’ve felt more grounded and focused. I no longer spend so much time on activities that don’t add value to my day. This shift has brought clarity and I’ve realized I’m not actually busy; I’ve just been managing my time poorly. In the span of a week or so, I managed to finish two movies—Everything Everywhere All at Once and The Life List. And today, just earlier, House of Hummingbird. House of Hummingbird is the kind of film I’d place beside Perfect Days and Paterson. It portrays the quiet, imperfect life of a family—one that feels real. They cry awkwardly at the dinner table, bicker and fight, and secretly wish they had the freedom to live apart. It captures the messiness of living under the same roof, where love and tension quietly coexist.

One of the most relatable and remarkable scenes for me is when Dae-Hoon, the second child and only son, breaks down near the end of the film. It happens on the same day the Seongsu Bridge collapses. Soo-Hee, the eldest, had taken the route where the bus involved in the accident passed through. To the family’s immense relief, she survived...only because she was running late that day. At dinner, their father casually brings up the incident, trying to downplay the tension and lighten the mood, even as everyone remains visibly shaken. I didn’t expect Dae-Hoon to be the one to break. He reveals how deeply affected he was by the accident, despite how emotionally distant the family had seemed from one another. It reminded me of a similar moment with their father. When he took Eun-Hee, the youngest, to the hospital and learned she needed surgery for a lump behind her right ear. Both were stunned, but it was the father who appeared more shaken. Like Dae-Hoon, it was unexpected to see him cry. These rare cracks in their stoic family dynamic made the emotional undercurrent of the film feel all the more powerful.

I would say that their family is very much like ours. I grew up in a home where it felt more natural not to talk things out—where we let things pass until they faded from memory. We were awkward when faced with moments that called for visible vulnerability. We often fled from opportunities to show our real and raw emotions. When someone cried, it made everyone uncomfortable, simply because we never learned how to handle those moments. I still remember the night I broke down in tears. It was during pandemic and my work started at 7 a.m., and by the time it reached 9 p.m. (which is well past my eight working hours) I was still pushing through, trying to meet my quota. I was exhausted, hopeless, desperate for rest, but couldn’t stop. In the middle of my frustration, I accidentally broke my eyeglasses. The lenses popped out of the frame, and I couldn’t see anymore. I hated my life in that moment. Instead of forcing myself to keep working, I decided to take a shower and clear my mind. But even that didn’t go right. The towel I needed was hanging from the ceiling, and I couldn’t find the hook I use to grab it. Frustrated all over again, I gave up, slumped to the floor, and cried hard. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. And as expected, they just watched me. No one handed me a towel. No one offered comfort. No one even asked what was wrong. They just whispered among themselves in the background, then quietly went downstairs to eat dinner. I didn’t get mad. Of course not. Why would I? We simply weren’t raised to cry in front of each other. It was never part of our home.

So, I found that scene deeply relatable. I guess, at that moment, Dae-Hoon just couldn’t hold it in any longer. It had become too heavy, too much to suppress even if he didn’t want to let it show.

The next scene takes place the day after their parents had a fight. That night, they argued over their eldest daughter, and in a burst of anger, their mother accidentally hit their father. The night lamp shattered, and shards of glass cut into his forearm. Later, in their shared room, Eun-Hee asked her sister why their family was so messed up. Soo-Hee didn’t answer the question directly, but simply said that maybe they should all live separately. The next morning, Eun-Hee walked out of her room to find her parents laughing together in front of the TV, as if nothing had happened the night before. And just like Eun-Hee, I’ve felt that same strange comfort whenever I saw my own parents make amends after a fight. It warmed my heart, bringing a sense of relief. But at the same time, it left me wondering—is that what being married is like? Do couples argue so intensely that they seem like they want to kill each other, only to laugh together again once the anger has died down? It reminded me of a scene from Marriage Story, starring Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver. There’s a moment where their fight escalates into shouting, cursing, and bitter accusations. Then, in the heat of the moment, Adam’s character breaks down and screams that he wishes she were dead. The words catch even him by surprise. Scarlett’s character is stunned too but there’s something tender in her expression, as if she understood the pain behind his words, and knew he didn’t truly mean it. As Adam collapses into tears, she quietly approaches and embraces him. It was heartbreaking.

Even though it happened a long time ago, I can still hear the sounds of my parents' fights. The crashing of plates hitting the floor. The sharp, painful edge in my mother’s voice. The silence of my father, who would just sit on the bed, eyes fixed on a basketball game on TV, trying to ignore her outburst. My siblings and I, as if by routine, would quietly head downstairs to our cousins’ room, trying to distance ourselves though we could still hear everything. I used to brush it off, but the truth is, those arguments stayed with me. They shaped how I viewed married life, even as a child. And while the impact still lingers, I’ve come to think: maybe it’s better to hear them argue than to watch them ignore each other completely? Just like in the movie scene, I’d see them the next day—talking, laughing, acting as if nothing had happened. I guess... that’s just how some married couples are?

Before the family found out about Eun-Hee’s lump behind her right ear, we saw her quietly going to the doctor on her own. At just fifteen, she took the bus by herself and faced the possibility of bad news...alone. I don’t think I could’ve done that at her age. Commuting by myself, seeing a doctor despite all the worst-case scenarios running through my head? I would’ve needed my mom with me.

What struck me even more was that Eun-Hee didn’t get angry at her parents for not being there. She stayed calm, composed, and brave. Earlier in the film, there was a scene where she approached her mom, who was resting in the living room, and mentioned the discomfort she was feeling in her ear. Her mother acknowledged it, but she didn’t seem too concerned. There was no sense of urgency, instead she quickly shifted the conversation and even asked Eun-Hee to put pain relief patches on her shoulder blades. That moment felt painfully familiar. There were many times when I told my mom I wasn’t feeling well, only for her to brush it off or redirect the conversation. She would often say something like, “I feel that way too. I just drink this or that and I’m fine.” Even now, it still happens. So over time, I stopped telling her when something felt wrong with my body. I learned to keep it to myself.

Watching House of Hummingbird feels like watching your own family reflected in a mirror. It captures the quiet, sometimes suffocating rhythms of a household with an average life status. One where everyone knows each other too well, down to the point of getting irritated by something as small as the way someone breathes. Growing up, I used to wish I had a room of my own. Somewhere I could feel my emotions freely and release them as they came. But we didn’t have rooms. The only privacy we had, if you could even call it that, was the small spot we each occupied on a shared bed. The only safe spaces to be vulnerable were either in the bathroom or somewhere outside the house. There were moments when we hated each other. And many more moments when I wished I came from a different kind of family—one that would let me speak my thoughts without being dismissed. A family that would really listen. One that celebrated small wins, showed care openly, and offered emotional support without hesitation. At home, we were on our own. We fought our own battles in silence, too busy surviving to look after each other emotionally. This movie quietly, yet powerfully, reflects that life. My life. My family. It’s a poem told through visual metaphors, gentle cinematography, and a masterful use of silence. It teaches you how to understand life without the noise.

It’s beautiful, in short.

It carries the color of something vintage and like the faded hue of an old newspaper at times. Its sound is like the rustling of leaves at night, when the streetlights glow in a soft, warm orange, breathing gently into the stillness of the dark, star-dotted sky. Its scent reminds me of coffee, rich and lingering, its steam hanging in midair, suspended in moments of stillness, even amidst the low hum of conversations in a crowded space. Like Eun-Hee, when she sat down to write a letter to her favorite teacher, Young-Ji, she asked—not just her, but perhaps the universe, or maybe simply herself—a question that echoed my own quiet wonderings: “Will my life start to shine someday?”

The same teacher, during a night stroll with Eun-Hee, once shared something about hands. She said: "Whenever you feel sad and tired, just look at your fingers. When you can’t feel anything, move your fingers." That scene hit me deeply. When we’re feeling down, it often feels like there’s no point in continuing. Everything becomes bland, hopeless, and colorless. We can feel stagnant—unable to move, incapable of doing anything. But when she said, “Just move your fingers,” I found myself doing exactly that. Sometimes, when we feel like we can’t do anything, even the simple act of moving a finger can remind us that we can do something. It doesn’t matter if it's something grand or just the tiniest movement. We don’t need to perform something extraordinary to prove our capability. Sometimes, even the smallest action, like moving a finger, takes effort. It requires courage. And that’s enough. Life doesn’t have to be extraordinary. Sometimes, life is found in the simplest, often overlooked moments. Life is life, no matter what.