Can school teach a child to feel? Not to solve equations, not to memorize dates — but to feel? To feel another person, to feel oneself, to feel a connection?
We are used to measuring education by marks, rankings, and test results. But today, when one in three teenagers complains of loneliness, and anxiety disorders are becoming more common among younger children every year, it is becoming clear: something is missing from this system. Something important that no textbook can provide. That which the Korean philosophical tradition calls 교육 [gyoyuk] — learning that begins not in the head, but in the heart.
The very word 교육 consists of two characters: 敎 [gyo] — to teach, to impart, and 育 [yuk] — to nurture, to cultivate. Take note: not ‘loading information’, but ‘nurturing’. The Korean language has preserved what modern pedagogy often forgets: education is not about filling a vessel, but about nurturing life.
Now let’s think more broadly. The Korean tradition speaks of 교육의 역할 [gyoyuk-ui yohal] — the role of education, where 役割 [yohal] means ‘role’ or ‘purpose’. And this role extends far beyond the classroom. Education is not merely learning from books or from a lectern. Every word and deed of ours is already education. Just as what we wear is a reflection of our character, so too is our body a reflection of our mind. When our whole life is connected to the realm of education, when we realise that we are teaching one another every moment, this has the power to inspire everyone around us.
And here we touch upon simjeong — 심정 心情 — that deep emotional foundation without which any ‘cultivation’ remains mechanical. For you can grow a plant in a greenhouse — under artificial light, on a watering schedule, with the perfect soil composition — and it will grow. It will produce leaves, perhaps even blossom. But there is a difference between a plant that has grown under a lamp and one that has grown under the real sun, felt the wind, and put down roots in living soil. The first survives. The second — lives. The first bears fruit on schedule. The second — bears fruit out of love.
It is the same with a child. You can give them the best textbooks, the most modern technology, and the most experienced tutors. But if the classroom lacks what the Koreans call 정 [jeong] — that warm emotional connection between teacher and pupil, and amongst pupils — learning remains a greenhouse. Beautiful, effective, but artificial.
Interestingly, educators across a wide variety of cultures intuitively sense this truth. In Daegu, several schools have launched a pilot program in which the principles of simjeong are woven directly into daily teaching. A maths teacher would begin a lesson with a simple question: ‘How are you feeling right now?’ And this wasn’t surprising — it had become the norm. The results impressed even the sceptics: conflicts decreased, and emotional awareness increased.
On the other side of the world, Waldorf schools build their teaching around empathy and connection — even though they have never heard the word ‘shimjeong’. In Finland, emotional well-being and collaboration have become a priority. The American ‘Mindful Schools’ programme teaches children to be present in the here and now. Different names, different cultures — but the same roots: the understanding that true learning is impossible without a genuine connection.
This is no coincidence. It confirms that shimjeong is not an exotic Korean concept, but something fundamentally human. A child’s need to be heard, understood and emotionally connected is the same in Seoul, Helsinki and Kyiv.
From my own experience, I know that the moment when a teacher sincerely asks a pupil for the first time, ‘How do you feel?’ — and genuinely waits for an answer, without rushing on to the next topic — changes everything. The classroom ceases to be a place where one person speaks and the others listen. It becomes a space of trust. And when we meet people, we must encourage and inspire them — motivating them to be determined to achieve a better tomorrow. This is precisely how education is strengthened — not through control, but through love.
Confucius said: ‘Tell me, and I shall forget. Show me, and I shall remember. Let me feel, and I shall understand.’ This wisdom, which is over two and a half thousand years old, sounds more relevant today than ever. Because we have created educational systems that are excellent at ‘telling’ and quite good at ‘showing’, but rarely allow us to ‘feel’.
Shimjeong in education is not an after-school programme or a passing trend. It is a return to what has always been at the heart of true learning: a living connection between people. Just as a tree cannot grow without roots in the ground, so a child cannot truly learn without roots in relationships — with a teacher, with peers, and with themselves.
Education requires constant nurturing — constant investment of heart, time and attention, regardless of the resistance or difficulties that arise along the way. From Tegu to Helsinki, from Confucius to modern neuroscience — everything points in one direction: strengthening the role of education in our lives is the beginning of social development and a source of new hope for the world. And each of us — parent, teacher, mentor — can become that sun under which not just a pupil grows, but a person capable of feeling, loving and building genuine relationships.
Education can be different. One where heart and mind go hand in hand.
