Beyond Translation: 힘 (Him) The Korean Concept of Strength Amidst Weakness

Written by Lizzy Y.

What is the best way to comfort someone? Some people are naturally gifted at this. We call them ‘emotionally intelligent’ or a ‘people-person’ and that’s because knowing how to approach what is often an overwhelming situation is no easy feat. There is no magic phrase that works for everyone in every scenario, at least in English. When comforting a grieving person, we might say ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Other times, we avoid saying ‘I’m sorry’ to evade the accidental expression of pity. What rarely fails, however, is when we recognize the strength amidst someone’s weakness. In English, we say something like ‘You’re the strongest person I know.’ There is no direct translation for this in Korean, but similar phrases contain a common denominator. Evolved from the word 強 (gang), the hanja for ‘strength’,  ‘him’ denotes some measure of your strength, or conversely, your weakness. The Korean language clarifies this ambiguity with suffixes: ‘Him-ssae-dah,’ you are strong, or ‘him-deul-dah,’ I am weak. Koreans use this word to recognize strength but also lack thereof. The duality of him is best exemplified in a phrase that is arguably one of the most impactful in the language: 많이 힘들었지.” (man-hee him-dul-ut-ji).

‘Man-hee him-dul-ut-ji’ directly translates to ‘it must’ve taken a lot of your strength.’ The phrase emulates tremendous empathy and is a line powerful enough that when a mother says it to their child, tears inevitably follow. To recognize the strength one has versus how tough a situation is after a moment of weakness essentially applauds the strength it took to be weak. And yes, it takes tremendous strength to be weak: to wake up the next morning and plaster a smile on your face even when circumstances are just as dire as the day before. The phrase returns power to a person who feels as though they have used every last ounce of it, recognizing that enduring their current state takes strength, and if they did it once, they can do it again. The phrase empathizes; it embraces; it empowers. The way him is used here is a gesture far from just a pat on the shoulder. By that, I mean the phrase feels more like an embrace, the kind of hug that squeezes your rib cage, the kind that lets you sink into the other person knowing you won’t fall.

Phrases like this are needed in Korean households because growing up in one takes him. Korean households, much like mine, function off of chugging along and never looking back. The longer you pause to catch your breath, the more breath you’re wasting that could be spent on pursuing your goals. My mother describes life like a mountain — like climbing Everest. When oxygen becomes scarce, and the winds relentlessly sweep you off your feet, you can’t break; otherwise, you’ll become just another corpse on the grueling trail to the summit. ‘조금만 더 힘내자.’ (jo-gum-man duh him-neh-ja) she says, meaning ‘put in a little more strength.’ My parents grew up this way. They attribute their success and the opportunities they get to give me having never looked back. I grew up in Singapore because my dad never looked back. He braced his core against the bitter icy winds that threatened to buckle his knees and kept trudging forward. When comparing the benefits my dad and his beloved family reaped to the sacrifices they made, what good would weakness do? Here, my father’s him is the opposite of a warm embrace; rather, it’s a slap on the back as though someone is telling him to ‘giddy up’. He can’t afford to rest, because ‘아빠는 절대 힘들지 않으니까.’ (appa neun jul-dae-him-deul-jee ah-neu-nee-kah) because Dad is never weak; he is always strong. 

Korean culture’s aversion to weakness often stems from our hunger for success, which is rarely ever exempt from sacrifice. A standard Asian household consists of a gifted yet burnt-out kid, a tiger Mom, and a Dad who maintains a prestigious — but not an executive — position in his field. There’s always someone just better: younger, fresher, more creative, or simply more fluent in English. To be successful as an Asian parent means to have struggled, but not too loudly. Perhaps they enforce the habit of muffling your struggles in their households in hopes that the starting line they set is closer to that executive position they always seemed to miss by a hair. But when my Dad wakes up drenched in cold sweats after working until his eyes are bloodshot, I know he’s struggling. I know he feels weak; but as his daughter, I know more than anybody else that his weakness is the last thing he’d ever want acknowledged. My father always made it clear that what goes on ‘behind the scenes’ of his life is not my business. If I probed, he would feel attacked, taking it as a hit to his success as a father. So when I hear him jerk awake in a frenzy to grab a glass of water, I pretend to be asleep. My father carries the same two burdens most Korean fathers do on his shoulders: the external burden of providing for his family and the internal burden of never showing that it is in fact, a burden. 

My father is not the only one who acts strong despite her weakness. On July 11th, 2022, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The next week, she flew out for an emergency surgery in Korea. Three weeks after that, she sat me down and the sight of her broke my heart. She returned home looking unfamiliar. She began by telling me how much time she had spent in her hospital bed thinking about me, attempting to put on a stronger facade as if her posture didn’t betray the weariness that her recovery had settled deep into her bones. The wisps of her hairline had faded white, her fine lines more pronounced, each new crease formed from the winces of pain and fake smiles. The air thickened as exhaustion collided with relief, creating a layer of silence that seemed impenetrable. My mother said the only words that could break the silence: “많이 힘들었지.” (Mah-nee him-dul-ut-ji).  

But the phrase didn’t hit me like it should’ve. It didn’t feel like that incomparable hug, nor did it feel like a slap on the back. My mother used the phrase ‘mah-nee him-dul-ut-ji’ as an apology instead of a phrase of comfort. Here, the phrase felt like accepting a gesture from someone who is not in a position to consider anybody else. You wouldn’t accept an elderly person who offers to carry your groceries, nor would you accept your friend who is short on funds to pay for dinner. We do not accept gestures from disadvantaged or less able people to give what they cannot afford. Likewise, my mother who had just recovered from surgery was not in a position to apologize to me, nor to recognize my strength. So naturally, I refused her gesture. She apologized nonetheless for how we had to survive three weeks without her home-cooked food. She apologized for not being able to send me off for school. She apologized for not being able to deliver a plate of crisp apples or place a bowl of dewy grapes next to me while I spent late nights studying. My mother equated her momentary physical absence to a mother’s failure. Despite it being due to a reason not just valid but entirely out of her control, it didn’t matter. She had shown weakness and therefore, to her, her absence was something I needed to compensate for, which took my strength. I found myself holding the elixir we used only in the most dire of circumstances. No way was I going to drink it. I stuttered as I struggled to dispute her entire apology, unsure how to explain that weakness in this family should not be transactional. I soon realized that no matter what I said, my rejection of her words would be seen as nothing but a courtesy. Her absence was something she needed to apologize for. To her, coping with her absence took more of my strength than it ever took hers. It was here I realized I no longer could appreciate the words ‘mah-nee him-dul-ut-ji’ for their power because this phrase was not always an elixir; sometimes it was poison.  

The word him means strength but it can’t be used without mentioning weakness. The Korean concept of him refers to the strength it takes to pretend and suppress weakness. My dad is strong because he denies his daughters from witnessing his struggle, but it's also what keeps his dreams nightmares, and my mother’s cancer a shortcoming. Even beautiful phrases like ‘mah-nee him-dul-ut-ji’ reinforce Korean culture’s unforgiving aversion to weakness. How seldom we say it,  and the context in which we use it, which is only ever at a breaking point, keeps us trapped in a cycle where we only repair broken pieces instead of taking any preventative measures. We wait until the wound festers and gets infected; we don’t clean and redress the gauze before it does. These phrases merely serve as a temporary band-aid to the necrotizing wound underneath. We use the phrase to applaud the strength it must’ve taken to be weak because it takes the most strength to suffer in silence. 

To me, showing weakness is not something that requires finite grace. The ice you stand on does not get any thinner the longer you struggle. If it feels like you’re in the middle of a blizzard climbing Everest, take a break. Replenish yourself and look out for yourself and others. Tell your peers that you need a break. Wait until the winds calm, only then should you keep trekking. There is no shame in advocating for yourself, at least not in my future household. There is him in reaching out for help, there is him in admitting you’re struggling; there is him in just doing what you can. I claim the beauty of my language, but not the culture that makes my mother invalidate her health, not the culture that makes my dad shelter his exhaustion from me, and not the culture that makes my mother’s weakness transactional. So to my beautiful parents,  ‘엄마아빠도 많이 힘들었겠다. 이제는 좀 기대도 되. 무엇보다 사랑하니까.” Mom and Dad, it must’ve taken a lot of strength for you too. Lean on me a little from now on, I love you always, unconditionally.