Rarely do we understand the struggle of Korean players.

Each have equally significant journeys to the LPGA Tour, yet their individual stories are obscured by a curtain of monolithic success.

Last year, In Gee Chun shot a 64 in the first round of the KPMG Women’s PGA Championship, bewildering everyone due to the severely wet, windy and cold conditions at a lengthy Congressional Country Club.

She went on to win the tournament, although many of the headlines focused on Lexi Thompson’s collapse the final day when she lost a two-stroke lead.

If Thompson had won, it would have been her second major victory. For Chun, it was her third.

Eight months after her win, I met Chun at an art gallery in Palm Springs, California.

It wasn’t long ago when the 28-year-old took up painting after visiting an exhibition in Seoul, South Korea. Chun found herself standing in front of a carrot painting by South Korean artist, Sun-mi Park, for over an hour. Eventually, the artist walked over to meet the inquisitive mind. Chun asked Sun-mi if she would teach her how to paint, and a year later, in December 2022, she hosted her own art exhibition alongside her teacher.

On the LPGA Tour, people refer to Chun as a modern Renaissance woman. As a child, she was an autodidact, a math prodigy with a genius level IQ. She graduated from Korean University (Korea’s version of Harvard), to develop skills outside of golf, “just in case.” During her senior year, she created In Gee Chun’s Student Social Responsibility Activities Program, which she donates $100,000 to each year.

Steve Eubanks, the LPGA Tour’s resident writer, described her as “one of the most incredibly talented and fascinating people you’ll ever be around. The kind of person you can talk to about books, music and anything outside of the game.”

Beneath all her accolades, Chun’s past lies in a working-class upbringing in the rural countryside of South Korea. Growing up, Chun’s parents ran a small restaurant, but when she was 15, her mother, who worked as the head chef, broke her ankle. Soon after, the restaurant was forced to shut down.

Seeing her parents lose everything was the moment Chun decided she wanted to pursue golf professionally.

“I thought to myself that I wanted to become a famous golf player, make money and provide for both of my parents,” said Chun.

Her determination led her to become a national athlete in Korea and turn professional at 17. A few years later, she flew to the U.S. for the first time to compete in the 2015 U.S. Women’s Open in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

One of the most profound moments of the week came after the third round when she was driving back to her hotel; outside her window a swarm of fireflies lit up the darkness.

“Seeing that, I thought about wanting to become someone that could shine light in the midst of darkness,” Chun said.

Heading into the final day, Chun trailed the leader by four strokes, but after making seven birdies, she fired a 66 and won the championship by one stroke over Amy Yang, another South Korean.

A year later, Chun won her second major, the Evian Championship, and finished runner-up at the Chevron Championship.

On the outside, Chun was another successful Korean reinforcing the nation’s image of dominance in women’s golf — the type viewed in the West for their machine-like consistency and emotional control. In 2016, six Korean players won on the LPGA Tour, and New Zealand’s Lydia Ko, who was born in South Korea, reigned as world No. 1.

However, on the inside, Chun was struggling.

“All my family and friends were in Korea. I felt lonely instead of thankful. I had to take depression medication while on tour,” said Chun.

Since Se Ri Pak’s victory at the 1998 U.S. Women’s Open, a trickle-down effect had created a golf boom in South Korea. Everyone was taking their daughter to the driving range, and women’s golf became one of the country’s most popular sports.

Chun was 4 years old when Pak won. Twenty years later, she had matched the icon as the only other Korean player to win major championships as her first two LGPA titles.

She was feeling the effects of becoming a superstar.

“When In Gee wins a big tournament and flies into the airport in Seoul, cameras flash everywhere,” said her coach, Dr. Won Park.  “She has to do a lot of interviews at the airport, and she spends about two or three hours until she finally makes it to her car.”

On the streets of Korea, Chun became accustomed to being recognized. As her rockstar status grew, her fans and the Korean media expected results. Chun felt pressure to deliver.

“She grew up from a poor family and needed support from people around her. She knew how precious that help was. She feels all the time that she owes something to everyone,” said Park.

In 2018, Chun won the LPGA KEB Hana Bank Championship in Korea. Fans lined the fairways with photos of her face on posters, chanting her name as she walked by to high five them. In her post-round interview, Chun broke down, relaying that she was finally able to pay back the people who supported her.

“People told me that since I was an athlete, I would feel better if I performed well and succeeded. But I didn’t. I wondered if it was the right choice to quit if I was at a point where I didn’t feel better, even after winning,” said Chun.

She came to the decision that if she could win once more and feel good about it, she would get the personal validation that she truly wanted to pursue professional golf.

Four years later, Chun stepped onto the first tee at Congressional for the KPMG Women’s PGA Championship, not knowing what was about to unfold.

“There’s a saying where if you hit the ball and it sticks to the pin, you’re in the zone. At that time, I was in the zone,” said Chun.

Chun opened with an incredible 64, earning her a five-stroke lead. Records began to be brought up by golf media and whispers began circulating: how could a tournament be lost with such a large lead?

“This is not the golf anymore. This is fight against the pressure,” remembered Coach Park.

Over the next two rounds, her lead shrank to three as she battled through mental stress. On the final day, Chun found herself two down to Thompson at the turn, but after a series of errors by Thompson, Chun had a chance to win if she could sink a 5-foot putt on the 18th green.

"I kept on telling myself, 'In Gee you’ve succeeded in countless of putts before and put in all of my focus to it,'" Chun relayed.

Chun sank the putt, waved to the crowd and broke down as she hugged her caddie. At the trophy ceremony, she thanked her team for never giving up on her.

Back in the Palm Springs art gallery, Chun picked up a brush and began to paint for me. I told her to pick any subject that was important to her.

She dipped her brush into a light blue paint and began outlining the shape of an elephant. An hour later, she presented a colorful interpretation of Dumbo, her nickname on tour because she has great hearing.

“Painting allows me to express my emotions and relieve stress. Through that, I have fun and continue to make artwork,” she said.

As I stand in front of Chun’s painting, I ponder… perhaps Dumbo’s curiosity and heart made him more special than his ability to fly.