Kang Hyemin was born on July 17, 1998, in the quiet town of Hakone, nestled in the mountainous region of Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan. As the only child of Kang Junho, a Korean, and Katsuki, a Japanese woman, she grew up surrounded by the warmth of her parents' love. Even as a child, she had a vivid imagination, often crafting little songs and stories to entertain herself.
When she was two, her family moved to Tokyo, a city she quickly grew attached to. The bustling streets, the neon lights, the rhythm of life—it all fascinated her. She thought Tokyo would always be her home, but when she turned five, her father’s job forced them to relocate to Jeonju, South Korea. The move was a shock. The unfamiliar language, the new culture, and the struggle to fit in left her feeling like an outsider. Making friends was difficult, and she grew more introverted, relying on herself for comfort.
Life in Korea wasn’t easy. Money was always tight, and Hyemin quickly learned the weight of financial struggles. While her mother pushed her to excel in academics, her father was her safe space, always encouraging her to chase her dreams, no matter how uncertain they seemed. To build her confidence, he taught her martial arts—a bond they shared, something that made her feel strong.
But at twelve, everything changed. Her father died in an accident, and the world she knew collapsed. The laughter, the warmth, the sense of security—gone in an instant. The pain was unbearable. The once lively, curious girl became quiet, retreating into herself. Smiles became rare, and her words fewer.
Amidst the grief, she found solace in the guitar her father had gifted her when she was eleven. Music became her refuge, a way to feel close to him, a way to express the emotions she couldn’t put into words. Her mother, still firm in her belief that education was the key to a better life, urged her to focus on school. And so, Hyemin lived between two worlds—excelling in academics by day, losing herself in music by night.
Though fluent in both Korean and Japanese, she had struggled with the language barrier when she first moved, making school life even harder. She was never the type to blend in easily, and friendships never came effortlessly. But she was strong. Even if she didn’t always believe it, she had to be.
Now, at fourteen/fifteen, she stands at a crossroads, uncertain of what the future holds. She carries the weight of her past, the echoes of her father’s voice telling her to dream, and the silent pressure from her mother to succeed. Music is the one thing that keeps her grounded, but in a world that demands practicality, she wonders—will it ever be enough?
