For 25 years, Huey Choi built a career in law around ideas of security, stability, and professional achievement — values shaped both by the instability she experienced growing up and by her Korean upbringing. Over time, however, the attorney and author of Who Stole My Pork Belly? began to recognize the difference between a life that looked right to others and one that truly felt right to her.
In an interview with Luca Moreira, Choi reflects on finding the courage to question a definition of success she had already achieved, carrying the lessons of her past forward without allowing them to dictate her future, and using humor to revisit family memories with honesty and compassion. Today, after a life long measured through discipline and professional expectations, she also finds meaning in seemingly small things — a simple meal, a cup of tea, traveling alone, caring for abandoned dogs, or simply sitting still. “My younger self was focused on becoming someone. Today, I think success is being at peace with who I already am.”
Who Stole My Pork Belly? begins with a deeply personal but also universal conflict: the life our families imagine for us versus the one we want to build for ourselves. When did you realize that following the “right” path did not necessarily mean you were living the right life for you?
For me, the realization was not one dramatic moment but a gradual awakening. For years, I believed I was following the “right” path: building financial independence and becoming an attorney. Given the instability I experienced growing up, that path offered something very real —structure, security, and protection. My legal career was not simply about prestige; it was how I created safety for myself.
Eventually, I began to realize the difference between a life that looked right and a life that felt right. For me, it meant taking the traits that I inherited—such as resilience, discipline, and grit—and giving myself permission to decide where they would lead me.
You built a 25-year career in BigLaw, something many people would consider a traditional definition of success. Is it harder to question your own path when, from the outside, everything appears to be going right?
Yes. It takes courage to pursue success, but it takes more courage to question whether the success you’ve achieved aligns with who you are and what you truly want out of life. Sometimes, the most meaningful form of success is having the courage to step away from traditional expectations and create a life that reflects your values, passions, and sense of purpose.
Growing up between cultures can mean carrying different ideas about family, duty, ambition, and achievement. How did your Korean upbringing shape your earliest definition of success, and which parts of that definition did you ultimately choose to keep or leave behind?
My Korean upbringing shaped my earliest definition of success around family honor, financial security, and pursuing professional achievement. These values guided me throughout a 25-year career in the legal profession. However, over time, I began to realize that success is not simply about meeting society’s expectations or achieving professional recognition, but about living a life that reflects my own values and sense of purpose.
I did not abandon my Korean heritage; instead, I chose to embrace the resilience, discipline, and determination instilled in me while letting go of expectations that no longer served me. Ultimately, I redefined success as having the freedom to live authentically, find inner peace, and pursue what gives my life meaning.
Your memoir uses humor to explore experiences that also involve pressure, identity, and family conflict. What did humor allow you to say about your family — and yourself — that might have been harder to express in an entirely serious way?
Humor allowed me to tell the truth about my family while maintaining compassion and humanity. By finding moments of laughter within painful experiences, I was able to confront difficult memories without allowing bitterness or resentment to define my story. Ultimately, I wanted to show that healing does not require pretending that the past was perfect, but rather, finding the courage to embrace it with honesty and even a little bit of humor.
Reinvention is often celebrated once we know how the story turns out, but it can be frightening while it is actually happening. Was there a point when letting go of an old definition of success felt more like a loss than a liberation?
Over time, I came to understand that letting go of an “old definition of success” does not mean that the years spent pursuing it were a waste of time. My legal career gave me discipline, perseverance, and invaluable experiences that remain part of who I am. What initially may have felt like losing my identity gradually became an opportunity to rediscover myself beyond my professional achievements.
Many people remain on paths they no longer want because changing direction can feel like wasting all the years they have already invested. After such a long legal career, what has your own experience taught you about the difference between abandoning the past and allowing it to become part of a new version of yourself?
Personal growth means accepting every part of our lives, even the painful parts, and learning from them. My past will always remain part of my story, but it does not have to define my future.
If success once meant meeting certain expectations, how do you define it today? Is there anything in your current idea of a successful life that your younger self would find difficult to believe?
Today, I define success much less by social status, professional recognition, or financial achievement and much more by peace, freedom, purpose, and the ability to live authentically. I think my younger self would have found it difficult to believe that success could look so quiet. She probably would not have imagined that a simple meal, a cup of tea, traveling alone, caring for abandoned dogs, or simply sitting still could eventually feel as meaningful as professional accomplishment. My memoir describes these seemingly small sources of comfort and compassion as central to the freedom that I ultimately found.
In short, my younger self was focused on becoming someone. Today, I think success is being at peace with who I already am.
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