The Beauty of Nuances

By Terry Mera

The Beauty of Nuances: The Little Things That Weren't So Little
 By Terry Mera

What if the life-changing moments weren't the loud ones? What if truth lived in the quiet in-betweens—beneath the laughter, inside the heartbreak, and between the questions and the pause?

In The Beauty of Nuances, Terry Mera shares deeply personal, soulful, and often humorous reflections on identity, growth, relationships, and healing. As a Korean-born immigrant, single mother, and creative, Terry brings a raw honesty to each chapter that invites readers to see themselves more clearly.
This isn't a how-to guide.
It's a lived-through, told-true invitation to remember your own resilience.

Through stories of navigating work, family, love, judgment, and personal transformation, Terry reminds us that our feelings aren't flaws—they're evidence of our aliveness. Her voice is equal parts fierce and tender, sharp with wit and soft with heart.

For the woman who's survived herself.
For the man still questioning what he was told to be.
For anyone who senses that life isn't black or white—it's layered, and it's real.

Each chapter is a moment.
A mirror.
A nudge back to yourself.
Because the beauty?
It's in the nuance.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Mera, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231790678

Book preview

1

TERRY WITH Y (WHY)

W hat’s your name?

Terry—with a Y.

Y?

Because I always ask why. beaming face with smiling eyes

Curiosity has been my compass since childhood. It led me into trouble, out of trouble, into adventure, danger, laughter, heartbreak, and even more questions. It was my secret engine—quietly driving me toward discovery, even when I didn’t realize it.

Now, as a woman approaching 50 (Wait—did I say that out loud?), I finally feel ready to give that voice its proper microphone.

So, who am I?

I’m Terry. With a Y.

I’m a single mom. A fashion designer, product designer, brand consultant—and, apparently, according to persistent friends, a life coach. (Still not used to that title, but okay…)

I’m a Korean-born immigrant, proud to be a citizen of the country that gave me space to build a life, raise a daughter, chase dreams—and occasionally scream into the NYC skyline when things get too real. (Because let’s be honest: New York is not for the faint of heart. But she’s worth it.)

Living in this chaotic, culture-clashing city, I’ve learned the beauty of adapting, observing, asking, listening—and still, always, asking why? even when people give me that look. You know the one.

Here’s the thing: after nearly half a century on this planet, I’ve realized it’s the little moments—the quick glances, awkward silences, unexpected laughter—that change everything. And now? I want to talk about them.

I used to ask, Who am I to inspire others?

Now I ask, Who am I not to?

So here I am. Typing. Sharing. Hoping these words might reach someone—maybe even spark something.

I’m not here to say, Well, when you get to my age… Ugh. Hated it then. Hate it now. I’ve met plenty of people old enough to know better—and still don’t.

(Yes, I said it. Don’t @ me.)

Truth is, I’m still a kid at heart. A curious, creative, slightly chaotic soul trapped in an adult’s to-do list. I’ve been dancing between duty and freedom my whole life: the grown-up who pays the bills vs. the child who just wants to play, create, be silly, and love big.

So this book? It’s not just a story. It’s a mirror. A flashlight. A hug. A playful slap in the face (the good kind). A whisper that says, You’re not alone. And you’re definitely not done.

Wherever you are in life, I hope something here tickles your spirit, shakes your soul, or just makes you laugh and nod.

Let’s get curious.

Let’s get honest.

Let’s get started.

With love and mischief,

Terry (with a Y dizzy )

2

SITCOM

My grandmother is a character—to say the absolute least.

A full-blown, no-apologies, unfiltered human sitcom. Plot twist every five minutes. No commercial breaks.

Funny enough, I learned to set boundaries with her long before I could with my mom. Maybe that skipped generation gave me just enough emotional distance—or maybe the pure chaos that is Grandma forced me to build a shield. Survival mode, but make it spiritual.

In recent years, she’s racked up more ER visits than frequent flyer miles. And my mom? Always the one called in, the eldest daughter, expected to drop everything and play family nurse-slash-emotional-punching-bag.

And me? I’ve been the translator. For all of them.

I didn’t mind. I get how frustrating it is when you can’t find the words—or worse, when your words are heard but not understood. So I stepped in. Became the voice for my mom, my grandma, nurses, and doctors…even DMV clerks. Exhausting, but deeply human work.

Until it became grandma-level exhausting.

Most of her injuries? Self-inflicted by neglect. Years of abusing sleeping pills and painkillers caught up with her. Her coordination slipped, her cognition faded, and suddenly she was on a medical world tour of hospitals and rehab centers.

And the woman has zero grace. Think: Oscar the Grouch if he were Korean and louder. She’s rude to nurses, cusses out aides, yells at doctors like they’re cold callers. Don’t even get me started on how she treats my mom—who, bless her soul, keeps showing up anyway.

Then came the call.

Hi, is this her granddaughter? We’re calling from the rehab center. We’re concerned your grandmother may be… suicidal.

My heart dropped. Then I remembered who we were talking about.

What makes you say that? I asked.

She’s asking for Soju and rat poison. She says she wants to kill herself and f*** everyone. Also, she’s refusing to cooperate with staff.

I took a deep breath and said, Honestly? Get it for her.

Gasp.

Excuse me?!

She’s never touched alcohol in her life. She loves money more than people. As long as that Social Security check hits her account, she’s not going anywhere. This is classic Grandma.

The nurse laughed.

I laughed.

Grandma probably cursed someone for laughing.

This is my normal.

If I’ve managed to survive this, imagine what my mom’s been carrying all these years.

Sometimes when she’s exhausted and venting—on the verge of tears—I gently tell her:

"Ma, treat her like a sitcom character. When she says wild shit, hear a laugh track in your head. Make it a TV episode. Call it Everybody Annoys Grandma."

It might feel delusional in the moment, but when the smoke clears? It’s your window to reframe.

Laugh at it.

Turn pain into plot.

Don’t erase the hardship—just remind yourself you’re not trapped in it.

I use this trick all the time.

One time on the subway, a woman stepped on my shoe. And listen—I don’t play when it comes to shoes. I went full rage-face. But minutes later, I reframed it:

She stepped on my foot… then on dog poop… then on gum… and suddenly, ‘step’ became the theme of the whole episode.

I chuckled. Wrote a mental script. Moved on.

Because life is absurd. People are weird. Families are loud.

And if you don’t turn your chaos into comedy, it might just eat you alive.

So here’s your guide:

When life tests your patience—zoom out.

Hear the laugh track.

Turn your grandma into a sitcom legend.

Turn your subway rage into a sketch.

Turn your drama into dialogue.

Protect your peace with the power of perspective (and a strong boundary or two).

Because laughter isn’t just medicine.

It’s survival gear.

3

CONFIDENCE

I’ve been told that my presence is unapologetic. I walk into a room, and people notice.

Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes with suspicion, or judgment.

And honestly? Most of the time, I’m not comfortable with it.

I’ve learned to carry myself like someone who forgot how to shrink for other people’s comfort.

That doesn’t mean I’m immune to insecurity.

Oh, please—I’ve got plenty.

But my self-doubt? It shows up like a pop-up ad. Random. Annoying. Then poof—gone. (Thanks to my reliable case of CRS: Can’t Remember Shit.)

I’m lucky that way.

For the most part, I’m at ease in my skin—not because I’ve mastered confidence, but because I’ve practiced survival.

Especially in an industry where opinions fly at you like darts with Post-it notes:

Too loud.

Too bold.

Too quiet.

Too much.

I started as a design director at a company with two young designers already on the team. We built brands from the ground up. It was messy. It was magic.

One of them—let’s call her Milo—was merciful, eager, hardworking.

One day, she said, "You have this