Finding Identity, Family, and Healing: A Conversation with Huey Choi About Who Stole My Pork Belly?

Family stories often carry as much silence as they do memories. In her powerful memoir, Who Stole My Pork Belly?, author Huey Choi invites readers on an intimate journey through family history, cultural identity, loss, resilience, and the complicated relationships that shape who we become. Through vivid storytelling and deeply personal reflections, Choi explores what it means to reconcile the past while forging a path toward healing.

More than a memoir, Who Stole My Pork Belly? is a thoughtful examination of belonging, generational expectations, and the enduring influence of family. With honesty, humor, and heart, Choi shares the experiences that inspired her story and the lessons she learned along the way.

We sat down with Huey Choi to discuss the inspiration behind the book, the significance of its unforgettable title, and the powerful message she hopes readers will carry with them long after turning the final page.

The title Who Stole My Pork Belly? is both intriguing and memorable. What does the pork belly symbolize in your story, and how did you know it was the perfect title for this memoir?

In my memoir, the pork belly is both a nod to my Korean heritage and a metaphor for my sense of home, childhood stability and security, family legacy, cultural identity, notions of family fortune, inheritance, and social status, and lost opportunities.

I chose the title for two reasons:  my love of one of Korea’s most beloved comfort foods and the symbolism associated with my Chinese zodiac sign.   

Samgyeopsal— literally translated to “three-layered flesh”— is a classic Korean dish consisting of grilled, unseasoned pork belly served with garlic, onions, and kimchi, then wrapped in fresh perilla leaves or green lettuce and enjoyed with savory dipping sauces.  Rich, comforting, and deeply satisfying, samgyeopsal invokes feelings of warmth, familiarity, and home.

The pig, the twelfth and final sign of the Chinese zodiac, generally symbolizes wealth, abundance, and good fortune.  Yet, my difficult life stood in stark contrast to these qualities.     

Between the comfort of samgyeopsal and the symbolism of the pig, the title of the book revealed itself.  More than a favorite meal or a zodiac sign, the pork belly reflects the tension between cultural expectations and lived experiences, and the journey toward finding myself.

One of the book's central questions is whether we can protect the people who failed to protect us. What inspired you to explore that difficult emotional tension, and what did writing about it teach you?

One of the questions at the heart of my memoir is whether we can protect those who failed to protect us.  That question emerged from my own experience of growing up in a family marked by neglect, sacrifice, and profound shortcomings.  As an adult, I found myself assuming roles of a caretaker, mediator, and protector—roles no child should ever have to assume.

I wanted to explore this emotional tension because family relationships are complicated. Love, loyalty, disappointment, and resentment can coexist.  Writing about it taught me that compassion does not require burying the past or sacrificing oneself.  You can love people, understand their struggles, and still acknowledge the pain they’ve caused.  I learned that healing begins when we become the source of the love, care, and protection we once needed from others.

Ultimately, the memoir is less about blame and more about confronting inherited pain, breaking cycles, and asking whether we can love our families without losing ourselves in the process.

Food plays a significant role throughout the memoir. How did meals, traditions, and Korean customs help you reconnect with your identity and family history?

Even as a child, food was more than just something to eat—it has always been a source of comfort and healing for me.  Meals and traditions become a powerful bridge between my past and present.

Preparing and sharing traditional Korean dishes have helped preserve my family history and pass down cultural values.  Food also serves as a connection to my Korean heritage, family memories, and Korean customs.  Traditional dishes, such as samgyeopsal, and other Korean dishes remind me of my roots and the traditional customs that shaped my family.  Through cooking and consuming Korean food, I’ve learned to appreciate and embrace my Korean heritage rather than feel disconnected from it.

Rather than viewing my Korean traditions and customs as a burden, I view them as a source of identity, resilience, and a source of healing.  Through all of these experiences, I’ve developed a stronger sense of belonging and appreciation for my roots.

You built a highly successful legal career before sharing this deeply personal story. Was there a specific moment when you realized you were ready to tell it publicly?

Having endured more losses than I could count, I realized early on that I had a “story” to share.  However, it was only after experiencing yet another profound loss—one described in the final chapter of my memoir—that I felt ready to break the silence that had long surrounded my family and to share my story publicly.

The memoir explores themes of silence, duty, and reputation within families. What do you hope readers take away about breaking generational patterns while still honoring their heritage?

I hope my readers see that we can appreciate the wisdom of the past, including the things that ultimately shaped us—the people, the sacrifices, lessons, and even the painful experiences—without feeling imprisoned by it.  We can acknowledge where we came from without giving up control of our future.  

After writing about loss, resilience, forgiveness, and belonging, what does "healing" mean to you today, and how has your definition evolved since you began this book?

When I originally began writing “Who Stole My Pork Belly?”, my definition of healing was tied to a resolution.  I carried the weight of trying to make sense of painful family history and deeply personal losses, believing that healing meant finding answers or achieving some form of closure.

Today, “healing” means honoring where I came from, acknowledging what hurt me, and permitting myself to stop carrying burdens that were never mine to bear.  The memoir is about finding your peace—not by erasing the past—but by choosing your own path.  Rather than dwelling on blame, I have learned to lead with compassion. For me, healing has become an act of self-discovery rather than an act of perfect closure.

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