Courtesy of SBS Radio

One of the most important things in modern society is to feel seen. We live surrounded by millions but can often feel ignored, unimportant, and worthless as the capitalist machine continues to turn without regard for our well-being. This feeling is exacerbated when you're what society might deem undesirable. Democracy and modernity convinces us that our voices are essential, but we pay undue attention to the young, the beautiful, and the famous. For everyone else, we are left gasping for air.

Francis Fukuyama's utilized Plato's concept of thymos to speak of the human desire for recognition, dignity, and self-worth. The part of the soul that craves respect and acknowledgement; something beyond mere material needs (which are driven by epithymia) and rationality (logos). South Korea's rapid industrialization and global rise (from post-war poverty to a top economy) can be seen as a form of national isothymia — a collective effort to be recognized as equal to Western and advanced nations. On an individual level, thymos also explains much of South Korea's ambition, competitiveness and social anxieties. The drive for recognition — whether in education, pop culture, or politics — has propelled the country's success but also created challenges related to mental health, social pressure and inequality.

The solution

Oh Eun-young, South Korea's "national psychiatrist" and president of children's health, has emerged as a tangible cultural force in modern Korea. Her influence is far-reaching. She's not just a doctor; she's a mirror reflecting the nation's struggles with thymos, recognition and self-worth. In her work, she has normalized the language of emotional validation and mental well-being — something historically absent in a Confucian society where duty often trumps personal fulfillment.

Oh doesn't simply diagnose — she recognizes. She sees people in ways they feel unseen by their families, schools, and workplaces. Her style is firm but empathetic, scientific yet deeply human. She doesn't blame struggling parents; she acknowledges their efforts. She doesn't scold troubled children; she understands their pain.

Oh offers a recognition of worth not based on achievement but on existence itself. This is why she resonates so profoundly across generations. Parents who never received warmth from their own families see in her the recognition they were denied. Young people, exhausted by endless expectations, find in her words the permission to rest.

In this sense, she is reshaping Korean identity. At a time when traditional values clash with modern pressures, she is helping redefine what it means to be a "good" parent, worker, or citizen.

The reality

I had the opportunity to attend one of Dr. Oh's talks last week. Having been to concerts, sports games and everything else in between, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from a live event from a psychiatrist. However, having sat down in the auditorium for nearly three hours, I left astounded.

First, we got our tickets for the event for 25,000 won. Consider the price of punk gigs in Seoul these days. Or basically anything else, from kimbap to taxis. That we could attend something of that stature for that price was wonderful. The tickets also included lots of books, papers, pens, and audience engagement.

This last part was best emphasized by the entrance of Dr. Oh. While we waited, couples in the audience were broadcast on a large screen. They were then asked to kiss or demonstrate their love for each other. While it might have first felt like something out of American sports entertainment, the rest of the event demonstrated it was actually something more than that. It was about making the people the main event rather than the scheduled speaker. It was about seeing people individually and acknowledging their existence.

When Dr. Oh finally entered, she walked down the far aisle of the auditorium shaking hands and hugging people as she passed. She didn't skip anyone, reaching far into the middle of rows to make sure everyone who stood up had the chance to interact with her. My wife leaned over to me and said, "We're unlucky. If we had sat the other side we could have met her." I said nothing. My silence (as is often the case in a successful marriage) proved wise for instead of heading directly toward the stage and the spotlight, Dr. Oh then made her way up the next aisle. She snaked around the auditorium, taking a good 15 minutes to greet everyone individually before she reached the stage. I was dumbfounded. Part of me was screaming inside. "Really? What happened to bballi-bballi? You're meant to start!" But slowly I understood this was intentional. It was making sure that everyone felt seen.

Expressing problems

People wrote down their problems on paper. They stood up and were given time to confess their struggles. Dr. Oh walked into the crowd and hugged people. She smiled. Listened. Looked. She breathed the same air as them. Unmoved by the speaker's age, beauty, or eloquence; everyone was given equal attention. This democratic move inspired people. It made them feel as if they were being seen even if it wasn't them who was being spoken to.

As a father of two children in a local elementary school about to experience the trials of identity when they realize they are in someway different from the vast majority of their peers, I couldn't help but be moved by one of the last speakers. A woman from Vietnam stood up and asked how she could manage her children's anxiety as they entered middle school knowing that their mother was not Korean. She asked this question in near perfect Korean (a quality that should not be ignored nor taken for granted) and then cried silently as Dr. Oh smiled and put her arm around her. The advice itself could have been anything. The most important thing was that everyone in the auditorium saw, heard and recognized the troubles of this person. That was the real lesson.

The advice came as it always did. Like the neighborhood ajjuma speaking the truth that everyone knows but doesn't say. It was about showing love. Being warm. Cutting off those who don't deserve your attention. Our modern world encourages us to speak in careful empty platitudes. Dr. Oh's voice, however, is one of traditional simplicity. The voice we grew up with but don't hear anymore. Her physical interaction with people is also of a time from before MeToo and personal space. Perhaps this is why people are told not to take photos or videos of the event in case anything might be misconstrued.

The religious and the fall

There was almost a religious quality to the event. There was live music. Singing. A person giving advice. People confessing sins. Books and materials handed out. I couldn't help but feel there was something akin to a cult being created. But that's a cynical interpretation that shouldn't be taken seriously. It's more a reflection of how far religion has retreated from our societies. The world's foundational stories held us together for so long and gave us instruction. Now when we experience something similar, there's an immediate worry. A worry that shouldn't probably exist.

Finally, Korea has always elevated people to the position of number one. Kang Hyung-wook became the dog president, Seotaeji the culture president, Baek Jong-won the food president, and Hong Seok-chon the gay president. All of these figures, like their political counterparts, have faced intense scrutiny and falls from grace to differing degrees.

Dr. Oh is the president of children's education and the savior of the low birthrate according to many. The worry now is that, despite all her excellent work and selfless efforts, she will go the way of everyone else like her in Korean society that rises to the top. The wrath of a crowd that demands no-one see themselves as above the other. An equalizing uncontrollable force that thirsts for hyper-morality.

Should that happen, Korean society will be the worse for it. For Dr. Oh doesn't just give advice. And what she says might not always be right. What she does is see people. Gives citizens that little bit of thymos that modern society has always promised us but constantly fails to provide.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.