Throughout my childhood, and even now, I don't think I've heard my mother say "I love you" to me. Whether it was in Korean (Sa-rang-hae) or English, "I love you" was never a phrase that was commonly spoken in my house.

I remember resenting that. I remember wondering, why doesn't my mom say "I love you" as naturally as my friends' moms do? I remember overhearing my friends on the phone, and every time before they said goodbye, an "I love you" was never forgotten.

I remember wanting to ask my mom, "Why don't you ever say you love me? I know you do, but why don't you ever say it?" I remember holding back each time, embarrassed to ask and afraid she might say something I didn't want to hear.

But as I grew older, I think I began to understand. I learned that love didn't need to be so literal because, in fact, love isn't literal at all. I recently watched a Wong Fu Productions video that covered this exact question that I pondered over for so many years. Phillip Wang, one of the founders of Wong Fu, explained how his parents expressed their love for him.

"Did you eat dinner yet?" "How are you doing?" "Is the food OK?"

Those same questions that my mom always asks me, whether it being now or back when I was in high school, played over in my head. I remember pulling all-nighters in high school studying for my AP Calculus exams. I would be rubbing my eyes around 2 a.m., so tempted to sleep, when my mom would come into my room with a plate of apples and a cup of ginger tea.

"Work hard, Hannah, keep going," she would say, "you'll do well if you work hard."

Unfortunately, Calculus never seemed to be my subject of excellence, but my mom never stopped having faith in me. Every night before any exam, while I was studying, she would stay up with me somehow, making sure I didn't fall asleep on my books or get distracted and browse my social media accounts. She always told me to "work hard" and that if I continued to study, I would improve.

I remember getting frustrated with the same comments. I remember there were times I would get annoyed. Actually, I got annoyed all the time. I wondered why my mom couldn't just leave me alone like my friends' parents, why she couldn't be happy with me just trying my best, and why my mom never said she was proud of me.

I remember when I first started playing the violin. But more so, I remember how much my mom pushed me. From the young age of five, I would burst out into tears every time I had to pick up my violin and practice. My mom would sit next to me, clap her hands to imitate a metronome, count out loud, and play the corresponding notes on the piano, while I would draw the bow across the strings, tears streaming down my cheeks.

However, through every competition won, through every orchestra I achieved Concertmaster, my mother never told me that she was proud of me. I used to think that I received more compliments from my peers' mothers than my own and remember feeling a sense of bitterness.

I remember the first time I didn't place within the top two. In seventh grade, I was 11th chair in All-State Orchestra, and I remember how much my mom criticized me for not practicing enough. I remember yelling back, upset.

It's funny as I reflect on how bitter and how sorrowful I was in the past. I always believed that my mom was never proud of my accomplishments and that she was always vocal when it came to my mistakes. I wouldn't be where I am now with my musical aptitude if it wasn't for my mother.

The one who pushed me to practice every day, the one who pointed out everything that was wrong instead of glossing over to everything that went right, the one who gave me ambition to be the best I could be—I can only attribute it to my mom.

As I am miles away from home, sometimes, I just sit back to reflect on the past. I began to see things I didn't see before. When I became Concertmaster of the Delaware Honors Orchestra Festival, my mom interrupted my TV show to ask how she can share the announcement on Facebook. I remember how irritated I was to be interrupted during a time I could finally relax. But looking back, I realized how proud she must have been that she, a dormant figure on Facebook, wanted to share my concert information with her colleagues and friends.

I remember when I first started my non-profit organization, my mom was the first to support me. She became the backbone, asking the questions I was afraid to ask, throwing so many different ideas to advertise—I remember how exasperated I was at the time, almost embarrassed at how blunt and open she was. Now, I just see that she was simply so excited for the new adventure and experience that I was launching.

Yes, my mother still doesn't explicitly say "I love you." Yes, she still has to tell me to practice violin (sometimes). Yes, she always asks me about food, then proceeds to tell me to go on a diet. But I think the only words that I can say are "thank you."

I'm thankful for the critiques instead of the compliments. I'm thankful for all those late nights. I'm thankful for the love she poured out so willingly and all the great sacrifices she made. Through my mom, I learned that love doesn't have to be said. Love is an action; it's something that is expressed and something so innate.

Thanks for everything, Mom. And Happy Mother's Day.