LE SSERAFIM “EASY, CRAZY, HOT” Merch Pop Up x Amazon Music

I almost stayed home.

That has been my default for the past year. Leaving the house feels like preparing for battle, and the battleground is my own body. I begin by pacing my kitchen, trying to decide what to eat. The meal must be light enough not to upset my stomach but substantial enough to keep me from getting dizzy later. I take a careful mix of probiotics, ginger chews, anti-nausea tablets, and anxiety medication, hoping it will soothe the pain and quiet the storm brewing under my ribs.

Then comes the planning. I check Google Maps again and again, memorizing the route, calculating exactly how many minutes I will be in transit, rehearsing scenarios for what to do if I need to escape quickly. I scroll through Reddit and medical forums, reading horror stories of people fainting or getting sick in public places, as though bracing myself for the worst could make it hurt less if it happens.

By the time I finish all this, the anxiety has already tightened its grip. My stomach clenches until it feels like a fist. My palms sweat. My heart races, loud enough that I can feel it in my throat. More often than not, I cancel. I cancel minutes before leaving. I have missed close friends’ weddings, canceled my own birthday party just hours before one hundred people were supposed to show up, and let entire seasons of my social life cloister up and slip by unnoticed. There are friends I have not seen in over a year now.

I used to be a proud foodie, eager to explore every new restaurant in town. Now I have not sat down at a restaurant table in months. Even a movie screening has become a logistical equation: a ninety-minute film might be survivable, but a two-and-a-half-hour blockbuster with thirty minutes of previews is a guaranteed no. It feels like a slow retreat from the world, an abeyant anguish, an exile of self-imposed shame.

And the shame runs deep. I do not want my friends to see me sick or anxious. I do not want to be the one who has to say, “Sorry, can we leave early?” or “Can you take me home?” So I stopped going out. I stopped covering concerts and press events, even though they were the work I loved most as a journalist.

Living with Cerebral Palsy feels easy compared to all of that. I know how to navigate my disability, but this chronic pain and agoraphobia feels like a demon that crawled into my life overnight and refused to leave. It has stolen not just my comfort but parts of my identity. It turned me into someone I barely recognized.

So why was today different? Today was the day of LE SSERAFIM’s first-ever merch pop-up in Seattle, a one-day collaboration with Amazon Music held the day before their first-ever Seattle show during the EASY, CRAZY, HOT World Tour. Fans could shop city-exclusive t-shirts, hoodies, tote bags, and photo cards.

On paper, a pop-up might not seem monumental—just a short shopping event for fans. But for me, it felt enormous. My mind immediately began running its checklist: what to eat, which pills to take, how to time the commute so I would not be away from home too long. The familiar heaviness in my stomach pressed down on me, nausea hovered at the edges, and the first flickers of panic crept into my chest. I nearly convinced myself to stay in bed. The temptation was strong, the quiet whisper of relief urging me not to face anything.

And yet, someone I deeply respect in the community had asked me to cover the event. That quiet request lingered in my mind, a subtle nudge that sometimes showing up for someone else can be the first step toward showing up for yourself.

I arrived around noon, the late morning sun spilling across the futuristic glass domes of the Amazon Spheres. A strange mixture of awe and relief washed over me as I stepped into the space. Outside, fans had already been lining up since 6AM, some clutching lightsticks, others comparing city-exclusive merch lists, their excitement palpable even from a distance. Inside the pop-up tent, the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with “EASY, CRAZY, HOT” T-shirts, hoodies, tote bags, and photo cards. The large sign declaring “LE SSERAFIM EASY CRAZY HOT TOUR” glowed warmly at the entrance and became instantly Instagrammable.

Unlike the LA pop-up last week, the LE SSERAFIM members didn’t make a surprise appearance this time, but their presence was felt anyway. The air was filled with their voices as their biggest hits played on loop, from “EASY” to “ANTIFRAGILE.” I felt my anxiety loosen its grip. Without thinking, I found myself quietly singing along under my breath. It was a small, private act of jovialness and reminder of just how salubrious K-pop songs can be sometimes.

Seattle’s K-pop scene has been quietly growing over the past few years. International tours now regularly stop here, with groups like SEVENTEEN, TXT, ITZY, TWICE, and ENHYPEN having performed in recent years and new acts like KATSEYE set to arrive soon. Dedicated K-pop stores have begun to take root, from the cozy shelves of K-pop Nara Seattle to other specialty shops offering albums, merch, and fan essentials that once required a flight to Los Angeles or an international order. A few years ago, the only albums I could find in Seattle were the small, sad displays at Barnes & Noble, just a handful of titles tucked away on a single shelf.

This pop-up felt like a milestone, and a harbinger of what Amazon Music is building to make K-pop more accessible to fans everywhere. Just weeks earlier, they had brought the KCON LA 2025 concert to homes across the world via a livestream, allowing fans like me to experience the excitement from the safety and comfort of our own spaces. Events like the LE SSERAFIM pop-up are another step in that mission, offering a chance to engage with merch and the fandom without the usual hurdles. For many fans, buying albums, lightsticks, or exclusive gear meant scrambling on concert night.

Sam Fu, a Seattle photographer and longtime K-pop fan, arrived at 10AM for the pop-up to take full advantage of its offerings. Fu was able to use Amazon’s Just Walk Out technology. “The pop-up itself was pretty cool inside. They had big displays of each member. And all the merch was out for you to touch and check out before buying. Compared to your normal way of getting merch, this was more interactive, and I think a quicker way to get merch as you could just grab what you want, tap to pay, then leave” he said.

Creating new events and cultivating a community is always a risk. There’s no guarantee of success, yet Amazon Music’s team has been fearless in bringing K-pop to fans in bold, innovative ways. In that sense, it felt fitting: both Amazon Music and I were taking a leap of faith because of LE SSERAFIM. So much of the group’s identity is anchored in courage. Their name is literally an anagram for “I’M FEARLESS,” and their fans are called FEARNOT. It felt poetic that this would be the first event I’d attend alone since my health took such a dramatic turn.

I thought of the members. Let me tell you about LE SSERAFIM: Chaewon and Sakura, both veterans of IZ*ONE, with Sakura rebuilding her career multiple times across different stages of the industry; Yunjin, whose vulnerability is matched by relentless perseverance, navigating challenges to reach idolhood not once but repeatedly; Kazuha, who left a world-class ballet career behind to become an idol; and Eunchae, the youngest, growing up under the global spotlight while learning to navigate the pressures of fame. LE SSERAFIM has faced their share of netizen hate—common in the modern K-pop era, but especially intense after high-profile moments like Coachella and during stan wars between even groups on the same label. It is their resolve that fuels a fire in the belly rather than pain.

I stayed for two full hours. That is my longest time out of the house by myself for work in over a year. I smiled and made small talk with Amazon Music and HYBE staff, who welcomed me kindly even though every cell in my body wanted to shrink back into invisibility.

I think of Yunjin’s words from a few months ago on Weverse: “Pain means I am changing. What a beautiful, exciting thing. And whoever I’m becoming, I’m sure I’ll learn to love her too.” Her reflection on growth through struggle resonated deeply with me, echoing my own tentative steps out of the house, into the pop-up, and toward learning to love this messier version of myself, impurities and all.

K-pop has always been that refuge for me, and for so many others. In moments of otherness, loneliness, or trepidation, the music, the performances, and the community can instill perseverance. LE SSERAFIM’s b-side track “FEARNOT (Between you, me, & lamppost)” encapsulates that beautifully: “In truth, she’s not all fearless. But you, you help her fear less” and “I can't stand without your light.”

Showing up, I realized, is like turning the light on, not just for yourself, but for anyone who needs to see that stepping into the world is possible, even when it hurts. Facing fear is an undulant rhythm—sometimes retreating, sometimes advancing, but always moving forward with others beside you.

Surrounded by the warmth of K-pop’s energy and community, I could fear less than I had the day before.