Whenever I meet someone who has been studying philosophy much longer than I have, I always ask the same question: How has your love for philosophy changed over time? What motivates you to continue your philosophical work?

I want to reflect on my journey in understanding my relationship with philosophy—a journey of love and hate. After starting my Ph.D. program, these questions became my primary focus—especially after I lost my interest in philosophy and wanted to rekindle it. It felt incredibly absurd to me: I had just landed a (sort of) dream job after a year of preparation and moved to a new country to pursue my career, yet I had lost my appetite and motivation to work. How could this be? I was desperate to reignite my love for philosophy. So, my life in the graduate program became a journey to find motivation.

For a long time, I had an almost obsessive affection for philosophy. I’m not sure how exactly this passion started, but ever since my teenage years, I believed I had to be a philosopher.

Growing up in Korea, I was immersed in an education system marked by intense competition and academic pressure. As depicted in TV series and news reports, my experiences weren’t too different from those portrayals. The belief that getting into the most prestigious university was key to a successful life was deeply ingrained in Korean society and its educational system. The system forced everyone to strive for top-tier universities as if that were the only thing that mattered. I always thought this attitude was inevitably violent toward students because it didn’t ask what kind of life an individual student wanted to live or what kind of person they aspired to be. I believed society was ill and that many people, including myself, were suffocating under this oppressive system.

These beliefs led me to choose philosophy as my major in college because I believed philosophy could fix the world.

As I began my undergraduate studies in philosophy, I learned how to think philosophically: how to objectively analyze situations, list the beliefs shaping my understanding of them, identify logical contradictions, and work out alternative beliefs or solutions to resolve inconsistencies. This approach became my way of doing philosophy—and living my life.

In fact, this method of reasoning helped me resolve many challenges, especially in my relationships with myself and others. When faced with difficulties, rather than being overwhelmed by emotions or external circumstances, I would observe the situation, identify contradictions, find solutions, and put them into practice. My life seemed to improve, and I felt like I was becoming a better person. This sense of progress likely led me to identify myself as a philosopher.

However, after completing my master’s thesis and starting my first semester in the Ph.D. program in Korea, I began to sense something was wrong. Due to COVID-19, grad seminars were held via Zoom. One day, while presenting, I suddenly couldn’t stop crying. Perhaps the professor’s rigorous questions triggered this moment, but that kind of questioning was something I had dealt with for years. Yet, at that moment, a flood of emotions overwhelmed me, and I burst into tears.

That day, I scheduled a therapy session for the first time. In my first meeting with my therapist, I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety, marking the beginning of my healing journey. Over the years, I worked with therapists, read books and research on mental health, observed my own condition, and made an effort to build better habits.

Through this process, I came to a crucial realization: my intense passion and ambition to become an excellent philosopher had actually been driven by my anxiety. While depression and anxiety had made my life difficult, they had also pushed me to work tirelessly. For a long time, I believed the suffering I experienced in life was inevitable. Since I saw no way to escape it, I thought I needed to help others instead of focusing on myself and philosophy. I believed my passion for philosophy was about helping others.

But eventually, I realized that this mindset itself was a symptom of my depression and anxiety. The reason I adhered so strictly to deadlines, worked obsessively to perfect my presentations, and poured all my time into writing wasn’t simply because I loved philosophy—it was because I couldn’t bear the anxiety that came with doing anything less. In other words, what I thought was “love for philosophy” was really just a manifestation of my anxiety.

Once I reached this realization and decided to stop living a life consumed by anxiety, my subconscious, and perhaps even my conscious mind, began to push away my old ways of being. Having been deeply immersed in philosophical thinking for so long, I started to reject the life of a philosopher. I began to see philosophy as the root of my anxiety, resenting and avoiding it. Ironically, even though I had been admitted to a philosophy PhD program in the United States and was following a crucial career path toward becoming a professional philosopher, I found myself hating philosophy. I was stuck in a frustrating dilemma.

Nonetheless, I didn’t want to force myself to embrace philosophy just because of my circumstances. I wanted to give myself the chance to explore different ways of living. I decided I would no longer let anxiety drive my life. Instead of working out of fear and worry, I wanted to live with a positive motivation.

Finding this new motivation, however, proved incredibly difficult. I had abandoned the force that had propelled me forward for about a decade, but I had no idea what could replace it. How could I live a life driven by something positive rather than anxiety? How could I find the motivation to do philosophy? I continued asking these questions to philosophers, but none of their responses sparked a significant change in me. Conversations with good people and wisdom from books encouraged me to find what I loved and what brought me joy. However, simply enjoying something wasn’t a strong enough motivator for me.

Then, one day, it happened. I recently married my partner, who became the most precious person in my life, and we began planning for a child—who would also become the most precious person to both of us.

Surprisingly, my perspective began to shift—not as an individual, but as a wife, a future mother, and someone responsible for leading a family. Previously, my focus had been on what kind of person I should become. But after marriage, my attention turned to what kind of person I needed to be for my family to live happily. Rather than being driven by anxiety, I started acting out of a sincere desire to care for what is most precious to me. The happiness I felt from being with my husband filled me with energy, and I wanted to use that energy to care for my family. The positive motivation I had been searching for was finally at work within me. It is my desire to care.

Compared to when I obsessively strived to be a great philosopher, my workload is now significantly lighter. But unlike when I resented and avoided philosophy, I can now read papers and write with a much more peaceful heart. I now see philosophy as a powerful tool for protecting and nurturing my people. When conflicts arise with my husband, I’m able to recognize the problem, analyze its causes, and discuss potential solutions in a clear, structured way. This is where the philosophical thinking I’ve practiced over the years truly shines. Through my work in philosophy, I contribute, even if modestly, to my family’s finances; I help my students by teaching and practicing philosophical methods, which I truly value.

Perhaps this sounds a bit cheesy or clichéd, but the “positive force” that has moved me forward is love—love for my family, love for living a better life, and love for those I want to help. The desire to care for the people I love is what has driven me to keep going and to return to philosophy (though perhaps I never truly left it).

My love for philosophy is still an ongoing journey. I still don’t fully understand why I keep contemplating something so complex and why I wonder so much about philosophy. This year marks my 15th year of studying philosophy, and I imagine that on my 30th or 60th anniversary, I will have a different perspective on it. But even after all the challenges, today, I find myself, somewhat absurdly, still curious about how my relationship with philosophy will evolve. I am curious about what my contributions as a philosopher will be. I guess I’ve tentatively made peace with philosophy.

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