Choosing to be Unaware
Korean culture thrives off of perception. Whether it be self-perception, perception of others, or perception of situations, nunchi covers it all. Nunchi is translated directly as “eye power” but is used to describe a very specific kind of emotional intelligence. For Korean people, nunchi is a secret superpower that allows them to assess their position in a situation and understand the emotions and thoughts of others. Every interaction is charged with nunchi – with everyone walking on eggshells so as not to deviate from the delicately written social rulebook.
Nunchi has been a concept repeated and relayed to me throughout childhood. When the GPS took my dad in circles, having nunchi was quieting the game of chopsticks my sister and I were playing in the backseat. When my parents were fighting, having nunchi was sitting in my room pretending like I didn’t know, and doing my homework diligently. A child with nunchi is an intelligent one, knowing what behaviors and actions will reap the best results. I had no choice but to adhere, soaking in the compliments and remarks from adults who praised me as a sweet, obedient girl.
But nunchi can turn sour very quickly. While nunchi is hailed as a vital skill when navigating relationships, its misuse or misallocation can be majorly inhibiting. You can give someone else nunchi, meaning you make them overly aware and conscious of your thoughts and feelings. A person can have too much nunchi, or be a people pleaser, never able to feel truly comfortable around others.
Nunchi is more than just decoding body language or changes in emotion. It’s this invisible web strung from the culture, shared experiences, and unspoken rules. It isn’t just reading a person—It’s reading their history, their context, their entire emotional landscape. I was always told that being more aware and intelligent would be better for me—not learning how to have nunchi was being a fool.
However, I didn't believe this imaginary handbook even existed, let alone that it was something that would help me— I never understood. I watched my relatives tiptoe around each other, bound by an invisible set of rules. I saw my mother maintain friendships with women who didn’t like her. I saw my father hide his visits to Korea from his own sisters. To me, none of this seemed like a good thing at all.
Many arguments between my mother and me stemmed from me feeling that she was giving me too much nunchi, making me constantly worry about her. It was the little looks, the small slumps in her posture, or the way her soft words suddenly had a barely noticeable prickly edge to them. For her, this was love, a way to teach me awareness and understanding. But for me, it became suffocating. How frustrating it was to argue about something intangible. Excessive nunchi becomes an Achilles’ heel—a weakness that clouds your mind with the imagined emotions of others. This has been the bane of my mom and my relationship.
In the weeks leading up to my SAT, my mom expected my full focus. She didn’t expect a perfect score or a merit scholarship but a complete and effortful attempt. Every time I would leave the house, I could feel her eyes on me. Every time I spent my evenings relaxing in my room, I could feel her looming outside my door, disapproving yet unspoken. I gave a good effort, studying for hours each day, and taking practice tests— but she could tell my mind was somewhere else, whether it was the more pressing finals I was studying for or that I knew the SAT would come six more times within that year.
Four days before the test, I chose to spend time with friends, seeing it as a well-earned break after months of preparation. When I got home, my mom was livid. Yelling about how if I had an ounce of nunchi, I would have sensed her suppressed anger from all the times she watched me distract myself. But the problem is, I did know. I knew she was disappointed. I knew she was angry as she watched me step away from what she deemed important. I just chose not to care— if she wanted me to know, she could have told me herself.
I chose to reject the fear that had long been embedded in my understanding of nunchi, even if it led me to a worse fate. My mom’s unspoken grievances had always felt less like a guide and more like a demand I had to cower before. Nunchi wasn’t inherently flawed, but the way it had been weaponized to demand submission was.
I know that not having nunchi should not be something I should be ashamed of. Interestingly, my mom now shares this perspective. She applauds me for my lack of nunchi as she denounces the small box Korean culture placed her in throughout my life.
“It’s better to live without nunchi, Reese. You live how you feel.”
This is a woman who had to call her high school boyfriend through payphones so as not to anger her quick-tempered father. This is a woman who had to let my grandmother berate her to maintain the fragile but necessary balance between a wife and her mother-in-law. In some ways, it’s comical to see what a stereotypical life she has lived; she has ticked every box in a Korean drama plotline. Looking back, she realizes that the reason for all of this is nunchi—the constant expectation to navigate relationships at the cost of her own peace.
Her shift in perspective gave me clarity. I understood that her advocacy for nunchi wasn’t meant to harm me but to protect me from a culture she knew all too well. I am lucky enough to have the choice to denounce nunchi. I live a life unbounded by the confines of this strange collective homogeneity. I choose to leave this toxic aspect of my culture behind me. I choose to keep the empathy and the awareness but I refuse the self-consciousness, the unspoken reminders of my “place,” and the quiet ache that comes from tiptoeing around the people I love. By choosing to loosen Nunchi’s grip on me, I make room to redeem my culture. I reshape it into something that nurtures rather than confines. I choose to use nunchi as a tool, as it was intended, and not a chain that ties me to centuries of social expectations. This is how I choose to honor its essence without carrying its burdens.