I never expected that my brother’s passing would become the silent turning point of my life. Years of unpredictability, comparison, judgment, and relentless pressure in the entertainment industry—and having just overcome a decade-long eating disorder—had already eroded my mental well-being.
From the day I was born, change was a constant. With my dad in the military, moving every couple of years became our way of life—new countries, new schools, new beginnings. My strong-willed Korean mother taught me that emotions were a sign of weakness and self-control was a virtue. When we settled in South Korea—a society that often equates composure with strength—those values only deepened. I learned early how to hold it all together: to smile, to perform, to never let the cracks show.
My brother helped me see beyond that. He had a way of bringing me out of my shell, showing me a side of myself I was too shy or insecure to reveal—the part that was curious and expressive. So when I lost him, that quiet confidence I had slowly started building began to unravel. The tight grip I had on everything became harder and harder to hold.
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At first, I thought I was coping. I pushed myself to extremes—two marathons in one year, obsessing over health and fitness, being hyper-critical of my looks, my body, my work, and micromanaging every inch of my life. On the outside, it looked like discipline. But looking back, I realise I was ignoring something much bigger: I was slowly slipping into depression without knowing it.
During this downward spiral, I decided it was time to shift from being an “artiste” to becoming a mother; to embrace another label. My husband and I tried and tried, and when the tests kept turning up negative, the voices in my head grew cruel: If I can’t be a mother, then who am I? Am I truly fulfilled as a woman if I’m not a mom? Am I enough? One thing piled onto another until I hit a very dark place. That’s when I decided I had to step away to give myself space to heal and grow.
At first, stepping away felt like failure. In an industry where visibility is everything, disappearing felt like erasure. And when I returned, I felt so behind and forgotten. New platforms, new rhythms, new ways of being seen... it was all so overwhelming. I wondered: Am I too late? Did everything I worked for vanish? Am I too old? Is it even worth it?
But the truth is, no one is keeping score. Everyone is too busy navigating their own battles. No one is tracking whether you’re “ahead” or “behind.” That break, which once felt like a setback, became my reset. It gave me a new perspective, and more importantly, a new mindset. I realised it’s never too late—to begin again, to rewrite your story, and to love your life differently. That change in mindset was liberating, and the work I was doing became enjoyable again.
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Not many know that I actually trained in acting back in Korea before becoming a model. But as my hosting career developed, I tucked that part of me away. When I returned, I decided to stop hiding that side of me and pursued acting again. My mindset around social media also shifted: Instead of feeling pressured or overwhelmed, I started approaching it with curiosity, as another creative outlet. I’m learning something new every day, and the best part is being able to connect with so many different people. That shift from pressure to passion changed everything.
In the past, I realised that much of what I pushed myself to do came from a place of needing validation—to prove myself, to be seen, to quiet the fear of being forgotten or not enough. Somewhere in all that striving, the joy got lost.
Now, it’s different. I choose projects that resonate, and I try to show up online as myself, without overthinking. I genuinely enjoy my hosting and acting work, creating content, attending events, and connecting with people. These days, I measure success less by comparison and more by how aligned I feel; by how true I’m being to myself.
Healing didn’t happen overnight, and it definitely didn’t happen alone. I reached a point where I knew I couldn’t do it all by myself, so I decided to get therapy. Having someone guide me to see things I hadn’t been able to recognise for years was life-changing. Outside those sessions, I began building small habits that helped me reconnect with myself. I started reading more, and even while cooking or doing things around the house, I’d listen to audiobooks—the words became gentle reminders of how much mindset matters.
I learned to check in with myself regularly. Sometimes that means literally taking a time-out from everything, and carving out quiet alone time, whether it’s a walk, sitting in a café, spending a moment in the park, or one of my favourites—playing and spending time with Cobey, our 17-year-old furkid. Those pauses helped me understand what I’m feeling and why, so I can figure out how to better be there for myself.
Recently, we said goodbye to Cobey, who had been by my side through almost every chapter of my life in Singapore—the highs, the lows, and my healing journey. The pain of losing him is indescribable. His passing broke me open again, but this time, I met the pain differently. Instead of punishing myself for feeling shattered, I gave myself grace. I allowed myself to feel the pain, but didn’t let it drown me. That compassion helps me process, to keep moving, and to remember that healing and forward motion can coexist; that you can feel the ache and still move toward the light.
I still catch myself sometimes: Old habits of comparison, overthinking, and perfectionism creep in. But I’ve learned to notice them sooner, to circle back and rebalance, and to remind myself that the loudest voice cheering me on has to be my own. Our bodies hear our thoughts. Our spirits respond to how we speak to ourselves. We have to be our own biggest supporters. Once I started having more compassion and being kinder to myself, I didn’t just feel different—you could literally see it in my energy, my work, even in how I connected with others. Opportunities began to flow again, including acting roles that reignited a spark I had once tucked away.
The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that most people carry similar fears and doubts. Once I let go of the need to hide mine and began to share openly, the more connected and less alone I felt. There’s something deeply healing about honesty, both with yourself and with others.
So yes, returning was daunting. I had doubts about my place and the path I was on. But today, I love that I’m still learning and evolving. Because the truth is: You are not behind. You’re not too late. If you don’t know now or don’t have it all figured out, that’s okay. No one is keeping tabs. Your passions don’t have expiry dates, and your dreams don’t have deadlines. It’s okay to take a break to heal and find yourself. It’s okay to return with new energy, a new vision, and a new appreciation for yourself and others. The joy of creating, connecting, and pursuing what you love is available at any age, at any stage. And it’s perfectly okay if your path doesn’t look like anyone else’s.
Grief changed me. Depression humbled me. Stepping away saved me. But returning with a new mindset has been the most empowering chapter yet. Because reinvention isn’t about erasing who you were—it’s about growing into who you can be. And in that sense, I feel like I’m just getting started.
For more glimpses into my work, my world, and the creativity that keeps me moving, you can find me on Instagram @stephcarrington.