Jason Lim
I often think about 임경무—my official Korean name, the name given to me by a Buddhist monk, the name that defined me for my first 13 years—and how it has slowly faded from my life. Countless people butchered the pronunciation of Keong Mu in first grade, and after returning to America in the seventh, I decided to go by Jason. Why? The Bourne movies were my favorite. It was that simple.
Jason Lim
Since then, I’ve lived as both Jason and 임경무 in the borderlands—a territory full of uncertainty and limitless definition—between Korea and America. It’s this uncertainty that’s shaped who I am today and, consequently, the work I want to do.
During the winter of my sophomore year in college, my mentor at the lab where I was working asked me, “Are you going by Jason or Keong Mu for the WormBot paper?” I froze. This was my first publication and the moment where I chose what to be identified as throughout my career. People called me Jason, but that wasn’t my official name; it didn’t fully encompass me. I felt a tinge of guilt—as though I was betraying my past for not immediately answering Keong Mu.
For many, names are simple projections of identity. For me, it is an attempt to define myself and who I can be. To define who I am, I pieced together my experiences.
All through high school, I lived with the Jennings, my conservative, Caucasian, Christian host family. Learning to fly-fish, hunt, and respect and handle a gun, I became integrated into “white” America. Yet, with my Korean parents—my mom a feminist scholar; my dad a neurosurgeon—I was immersed in a very different culture. As Jason, I skinned a deer. As 임경무, I reconstructed the spine from the pot of pork backbone stew with my dad and talked about neural pathways over dinner.
I learned health uncertainty and treatment costs impacted patients no matter where they came from. Shadowing my father in Korea, I witnessed a middle-aged father suffering from severely compressed spinal nerves tear up while talking about being unable to work. In the US, I was staggered by the five-figure price of my ER bill and wondered how I would’ve paid without insurance. I only saw my dad a few weeks every year, but his work lingered with me. I imagined myself, both Jason and 임경무, as a physician tackling medical needs and inequities—both biological and economic.
In college, economic instability became personal when Korea’s political climate shifted and pushed my family to the brink of bankruptcy. My mom was politically targeted, and new healthcare laws significantly affected my dad’s income. I began working multiple jobs while attending school full-time to support myself. Then, I broke my wrist. Without insurance, I struggled to schedule surgery and was only able to do so with the help of a charity. I—Jason—experienced firsthand how the cost of treatment and the structure of US healthcare disproportionately affects those who are socioeconomically unstable.
Embracing this challenge, I began social welfare policy research with Dr. Kim in Korea. As Keong Mu, I interviewed unemployed and sick seniors in my hometown, where enduring pain was commonplace and hospitals were often a luxury. I helped create an employment program for local seniors, which rejuvenated them physically and spiritually. However, I realized social programs alone couldn't overcome all treatment cost barriers.
This insight led me to conduct basic science research. During my time at the basic science research lab in college, I met Alan, a cancer research professor battling lung cancer for over seven years. We bonded over our love for nature and our outlook on faith, but as my senior year progressed, his condition worsened. Chemo, radiation, and immunotherapy proved futile against his elusive oncogenic mutation.
Alan never saw me graduate. I decided to dedicate my gap years to studying functional genomics in cancer at the Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard, developing a novel technique to image morphological changes in genetically perturbed cells. This work constantly challenges me to think critically and creatively, motivated by the hope that it will someday serve patients like Alan.
I eventually told my mentor that I would use Keong Mu for the publication, but I've continued my journey to define myself somewhere between Jason and 임경무. Piecing my past together, I am filled with gratitude. Living in the borderlands forced me to adapt while being financially vulnerable necessitated a deeper understanding of socioeconomic structures in medical inequity.
But more importantly, the dichotomy between Jason and Keong Mu has slowly faded. I requested to change my legal name to Jason Keong Mu Lim when I got naturalized, fully embracing both identities. The coexistence of my identity shaped my vision of the work I want to do: bringing quality and holistic care to marginalized groups through compassionate practice, policy interventions, and novel technology.
The WCI scholarship, like the charity that helped me get surgery and other scholarships that supported my academic journey, represents more than just financial assistance. It's an opportunity to further this vision, deepening my understanding of healthcare economics and policy while connecting me with like-minded individuals dedicated to improving healthcare accessibility and quality.
As I progress through my medical education at Georgetown, I'm committed to preparing for a career as a physician-scientist and advocate, with the goal of paying forward the support I've received. I—both Jason and Keong Mu—am determined to become a physician who can bridge cultural gaps and heal both the human spirit and body, connecting with patients and colleagues from all walks of life.