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A Small Victory for Justice

Is it justifiable to make custodial workers take a “basic common-knowledge test,” factor it into performance reviews, and even use it as grounds for dismissal? This is the subject of Episodes 5–6 of the drama Labor Attorney Noh Moo-jin. The storyline is based on a real incident: in 2021, a custodial worker at Seoul National University dormitories—Ms. Lee—was forced to take written tests in English and Chinese characters, and the combined stress of the exams and excessive workload contributed to her death from acute myocardial infarction.

In June 2021, Ms. Lee (59), who worked as a dormitory custodian at Seoul National University, died with excessive physical labor and stress identified as primary causes. The Ministry of Employment and Labor recognized the situation as workplace harassment, and the university’s Human Rights Center interpreted it as a human rights violation. The Korea Workers’ Compensation & Welfare Service recognized the death as an industrial accident, and in 2024 the bereaved family won approximately 86 million KRW in damages through a civil lawsuit. What the drama portrayed did happen in reality, and it was legally interpreted as a problematic situation.

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Does Justice Come From Enlightenment?

Let’s return to the drama. In the story, the labor attorney’s mother works as a custodian, and his team becomes involved after hearing what is happening. Because the test could be framed as an internal performance-evaluation policy, the attorney struggles to find a clear legal countermeasure. Eventually, he decides to lead an anti-test campaign.

He gathers the custodial workers, treats them to a meal, and asks them to join the movement. But many push back.

“This is the best job I can get.”
“I think it helps prevent dementia.”
“It’s a top university—what’s wrong with studying a little?”
“Where else hires us directly?”

Some even express pride: “This job paid my kids’ tuition.” They find meaning in their work and feel a sense of accomplishment. But the attorney is frustrated that they don’t seem to realize their rights. These are people being evaluated—and potentially dismissed—through a test unrelated to their actual duties. Even meals aren’t properly provided; buying a meal ticket at the student cafeteria feels burdensome. The attorney sees their lack of knowledge about labor law and human rights as part of the problem.

Then his mother stands up and speaks.
“Has any student ever greeted you while you worked?”
“Even if we clean, don’t we deserve to be treated like human beings?”

Those emotional words sway the room. The workers join the movement. At the protest site, the people who once voiced pride and satisfaction are gone. What remains are people overwhelmed by frustration, sadness, resentment, and despair. And in the end, through collective action, the problem is resolved.

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Is Enlightenment Always Right?

Many social reforms begin with the discomfort of a few, and later the broader public recognizes the benefit. The French Revolution is a classic example: the bourgeoisie’s attempt to strengthen their own power contributed to the birth of “human rights,” reshaping the world. In a society where access to information, ability to express oneself, and capacity for understanding are uneven, the majority can end up mistaking injustice for fate—or even for virtue and diligence.

But can we really guarantee that unconditional enlightenment leads people to happiness?

In the drama, the labor attorney and his mother may have forced their worldview onto everyone. It’s possible that, rather than liberating people, they disrupted the peaceful lives of those who had been making autonomous choices—those who lived with pride and quiet stability. Yes, a test can become a lethal stressor for someone. But for others, it might have functioned as motivation, even as a source of meaning.

If that’s the case, did their “enlightenment” make these workers happier—or less happy?

A happy life without enlightenment, or an unhappy life with enlightenment—
which is more desirable? And who has the right to decide?

By what authority did the attorney and his mother restructure other people’s lives? Is it right not only to support those who raised concerns, but also to push even the satisfied into internalizing the idea that they are trapped in an unfair, unhappy system? Why must those who once took pride in paying their children’s tuition through honest work come to see themselves as victims of unreasonable exploitation?

Is truth always right?
Is speaking truth always right?
Is knowing liberation—or a new form of captivity?

Is knowledge power? Or is ignorance bliss?

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After My CPTSD Diagnosis

I used to live with chronic depression and lethargy. Even when I made close friends and spent time with people, I couldn’t erase the emptiness that lingered in one corner of my heart. I used to call myself a “firefly”—a dim little thing—and joke that I had no friends. I lived like that for so long it didn’t even feel strange.

Then, out of curiosity, I took a simple test and realized I was in a depressive state that required urgent counseling. I visited hospitals and community health centers a few times, but either the evaluations weren’t completed or everything ended after a single visit. I still didn’t know what was truly going on.

Only after obsessive symptoms caused severe toothaches and headaches—so intense that daily life became impossible—did I begin treatment in earnest. And only three years later did I finally receive a CPTSD diagnosis.

I realized how distorted my life had been from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. I realized, at last, that my life was not the same as other people’s. And I internalized myself as a patient, a victim, a survivor.

Then my symptoms intensified.

My social avoidance grew worse. I couldn’t sleep without medication. Even a simple walk outside quickly made my neck and shoulders tighten; headaches and dizziness became constant companions. Under severe stress, I lose control of my body. I experience dissociation—like my soul separates from my body—and intense nausea follows. Sometimes, even sitting still or lying down, I feel so motion-sick I can’t breathe properly.

And sometimes—maybe often—I think this:

What if I hadn’t known my symptoms so clearly?
What if I had just lived as a chronically depressed, chronically lethargic person and carried on? Maybe I would have cracked a tooth or two from compulsions. But perhaps I wouldn’t have ended up scratching myself until I bled, or becoming so incapacitated that daily life itself collapses.

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Enlightenment Without Responsibility

I’m told this feeling is common early in treatment: you finally understand your condition, and that very clarity triggers negative emotions. As treatment continues and symptoms begin to ease, people often change more than they expect.

But mental illness is also an area where there is only so much a doctor can do. Medication and therapy are supportive tools; fundamentally, the patient must restructure their environment and change the inertia of their behaviors and thoughts. The doctor gives a diagnosis—an enlightenment—but the shock that follows is mine to endure.

And some doctors do little more than repeat:
“You can do it.”
“You know you can—so why aren’t you?”
“You can.”

But not being able to is the symptom. I came because I can’t. Repeating “you can” feels like going to an ENT doctor for uncontrollable coughing and hearing, again and again, “You can just stop coughing.”

So I decided to call it “enlightenment without responsibility.” And in the chaos of early recovery, cases of people making extreme choices are not rare.

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The Aftercare of Enlightenment

My recovery—and social issues—share the same structure. People often use their expertise, sometimes becoming intoxicated by it, to “enlighten” others. Enlightenment is treated as something inherently noble. Those who enlighten are praised as pioneers.

But no one takes responsibility for the identity crisis that can follow. Enlightenment requires ethical responsibility and philosophical caution—yet few “enlighteners” seem to fear the consequences.

Healing does not come from truth itself.

Truth gains meaning only when there is a safe relationship in which it can be spoken, inner readiness to receive it, and a support structure that allows life to continue after the truth is revealed.

Any attempt to enlighten someone must first ask:
Will this lead their life toward rebuilding—or toward ruin?

#Thought_No_20250616

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Walking has become part of my daily life.
It’s been over three weeks since I started walking every day. I walk for about one to two hours daily, taking anywhere from 12,000 to 20,000 steps—roughly 13 to 15 kilometers a day. I walk at a slightly brisk pace, work up a sweat, watch people pass by, and jot down or organize the thoughts that come to mind along the way. There’s a certain enjoyment in that. There’s also a sense of accomplishment in the act of walking itself.

I believe that to get better, I need exposure training to external stimuli, and nothing works quite like walking. Entering enclosed spaces like libraries or cafés still feels overwhelming, so I decided that walking outdoors was the most appropriate choice for now. As I kept walking, I also discovered the simple pleasure of walking itself. I kept thinking, “Just a little more,” and before I knew it, 20,000 steps no longer felt like a big deal. It’s not the same as weight training, but I like the mild muscle soreness and the feeling that I’m building some muscle. Of course, my weight hasn’t dropped, and I haven’t visibly lost fat yet. That part is a bit disappointing. You’d think walking this much would lead to weight loss, but I suspect my habit of eating to cope with dissociation or insomnia plays a role.

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Signs of War

But when I walk, my neck quickly stiffens and my shoulders tighten. Soon after, pain spreads to my neck, shoulders, back, and lower back, followed by headaches and a foggy feeling in my head. These are major symptoms of CPTSD.

When people hear about mental illness, they often assume it can be overcome with sheer willpower. “If it’s mental,” they say, “can’t you just toughen up?” My mother has often told me the same—that I’ll be fine if I just steel my mind. But when a mental illness reaches a moderate or severe level, it’s not just mental anymore. The symptoms manifest physically—what’s known as somatization.

Somatization refers to psychological pain expressing itself through physical symptoms. Psychological stress, trauma, anxiety, and suppressed emotions appear as headaches, dizziness, indigestion, pain, fatigue—physical symptoms that can’t be fully explained medically. My habits of scratching my body, experiencing severe motion sickness, and suffering chronic toothaches, headaches, and dizziness all fall into this category. This isn’t just a matter of feeling emotionally distressed; it becomes physical, and that physical suffering, in turn, makes life even harder.

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It’s a War

In my case especially, walking triggers severe tension in my shoulders and neck, mental fog, and intense headaches.

Chronic tension is likely the main cause. The tension along the “neck–shoulder–scalp” axis becomes fixed. With CPTSD, the body remains in a constant state of alert, and the neural connections involving the parietal lobe, occipital lobe, and amygdala—where traumatic memories are stored—become overactivated. To prepare unconsciously for threat, the body lifts the shoulders, tightens the back of the neck, and bows the head. Over time, the nape of the neck, the trapezius muscles, and the temporalis muscles (at the temples) become chronically tense.

When the neck and shoulders stiffen, they compress the vertebral arteries. This reduces the amount of oxygen reaching the brain and prevents proper release of carbon dioxide. As a result, the brain becomes foggy, and memory and concentration decline. Reduced frontal lobe function makes emotional regulation harder and judgment less clear.

When I’m exposed to unpredictable stimuli during a walk, the sympathetic nervous system activates, causing muscle contraction and peripheral vasoconstriction. This reduces blood flow to the head and triggers headaches, which may appear as tension headaches or migraines.

In short, chronic excessive tension causes the muscles, arteries, and peripheral blood vessels to constrict, reducing blood flow and oxygen to the brain and resulting in pain. The episodes I experienced before—blurred vision and the sensation of being struck by a hammer—are likely related to this mechanism.

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Why the War Exists: Fear of Sudden Change

So why do I experience such chronic, excessive tension while walking?

It stems from overinterpretation—the feeling that others see me as a useless person. This is known as a negative self-schema, associated with a damaged sense of identity. People with CPTSD often grow up internalizing beliefs such as “I have no value” or “I don’t deserve love.” As a result, even a simple exposure situation like walking can lead to the assumption that others are constantly evaluating and judging me.

Another factor is hypervigilance following trauma—the fear of unpredictable human behavior. The amygdala detects threats and sounds alarms, and in CPTSD, this alarm system becomes hypersensitized and fixed. It’s like a fire alarm going off every time you boil ramen, setting off the sprinklers and soaking everything repeatedly.

CPTSD doesn’t just preserve memories of past trauma; it creates a bodily sensation that danger is ongoing in the present. Each passerby can feel like a potential threat. For me, strangely enough, places with many cars feel safer than places with many people. Cars are predictable—their turning radius, distance, speed, acceleration, and signals allow for anticipation, and they follow traffic rules. Pedestrians, on the other hand, don’t follow clear movement rules, and their behavior is harder to predict. So walking through crowded pedestrian areas makes me more anxious and worsens my somatic symptoms.

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A War I Fight Alone

I call this my “war I fight alone.” No one notices, but every day I walk through a battlefield of external stimuli. I avoid crowded places as much as possible. If someone is walking a pet, the unpredictability increases exponentially, so I won’t even take the same path—I’ll change routes or cross to the other side of the street.

I analyze the gait, objects carried, gaze, and clothing of people approaching me, staying alert in case they suddenly attack me or veer into my path. That’s how I fight this war every day.

And yet, I keep walking. Because this is a recovery routine. I believe that with repetition, my amygdala’s reactivity will gradually dull, and the overactivation of my sympathetic nervous system will slowly subside—like people who endure muscle pain while lifting heavy weights.

Right now, walking alone gives me headaches. But I believe the day will come when I can feel affection at the sight of a dog on the street, or freshness in a gentle breeze.

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So today, I walk again.

This war has only one purpose:
to end the war itself.

#Thought_No_20250616

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