Learning for the love of it

There is something striking about how learning is approached in Korea. Whether it’s sports, art or even casual reading, the question is not “do you enjoy it” but rather “how good are you at it?”

Take tennis for example. When my daughter was looking for tennis lessons, it was surprisingly difficult to find a “normal” instructor. For someone picking up a racket for the very first time, the idea was to try it out, experiment and improve gradually. Yet in Korea, there is often immediate expectation to learn “properly” — from a certified coach, a former national-level player or someone with formal credentials. The idea of casual, imperfect learning can feel almost insufficient.

At first glance, this emphasis on quality and expertise seems admirable. After all, Korea is known globally for its high standards and discipline. Yet, somewhere along the way, something important got lost: the joy of learning itself.

Learning is inherently a process. It’s messy, inefficient and deeply personal. But in environments that prioritize “elite” standards from the very beginning, learning risks becoming a performance. The focus quickly shifts from exploration to achievement. This mindset can subtly discourage participation. If excellence is the expectation from day one, beginners may hesitate to start at all. When a former national athlete or coach is watching you, who wants to appear incompetent in a culture that places such strong value on proficiency?

Perhaps this is not that surprising. According to the Korean Educational Development Institute, there were more than 15,000 private academies, or “hagwon,” in Seoul alone in 2025. This is a country where learning is taken very seriously.

This pattern extends far beyond tennis. Hiking, cycling and the current running boom — activities traditionally associated with simplicity — are increasingly accompanied by a push toward professionalization. A casual runner may feel compelled to invest in high-end shoes, performance apparel and tracking devices before even building the habit of running. Seeing fellow runners equipped with even more advanced gear only reinforces the pressure.

There’s nothing wrong with quality equipment or genuine enthusiasm. The problem arises when these external markers begin to define participation. When appearing serious becomes as important as, or even more important than, the experience itself. And for children especially, this is much more damaging in the long run.

Part of the phenomenon can be understood as a form of social signaling. Demonstrating commitment and competence carries weight. Being seen as “serious” about something — even a hobby — can reinforce one’s identity, social standing and credibility.

But if everyone appears highly equipped, highly trained and highly committed, it becomes difficult to embrace a more relaxed, fun and playful approach. What are you doing with your time and effort if you’re not learning from the best, achieving the best results or winning awards? The fear of appearing unprepared or unskilled can overshadow the simple desire to enjoy.

The word “amateur” originally comes from the Latin word “amare” — to love. An amateur is someone who does something for the love of it, not necessarily for the mastery, recognition or financial gain. Perhaps this is what’s missing from hobbies here: the freedom to be an amateur without apology. Not every tennis player needs to train like a future Wimbledon champion. Not every runner needs to optimize performance metrics and wear gear designed for Olympic athletes. There is joy in participating without turning every interest into a project of self-improvement.

Abandoning excellence is not the point. Korea’s commitment to high standards has driven remarkable achievements across many fields both here and abroad. It has built industries, strengthened education and helped create one of the most advanced societies in the world.

But Koreans are also known to overdo things.

Take marathons, for example. What was once a niche activity has become a national phenomenon. According to reports by the Korean National Police Agency, there were 19 marathon events held in Korea in 2020. Last year, there were 250. There were around 9,000 participants a mere six years ago. In 2025, it grew to one million. Such a rapid growth has created a gap between ambition and reality, bringing challenges ranging from logistics, safety concerns to environmental impacts and public inconvenience.

Korea is a country that values doing things right and that has long been one of its greatest strengths. But this “right way” expanded into areas where it was never meant to dominate: hobbies, leisure and personal exploration. Today, everything seems to come with a benchmark. Tennis, drawing, running or cooking — every activity has its experts, its rankings and its standards. Structured learning has become the norm and performance is visible, measured and compared.

Instead of producing more experts, Korea needs more beginners. People willing to try something without the fear of judgement. People willing to be imperfect. The brave beginners who are willing to put their time and effort on something they love: true amateurs, the lovers of doing.

Han Sang-hee is a former staff reporter at The Korea Times and former editor at CNN Travel. She was previously based in Stuttgart, Germany but now lives in Seoul with her Italian husband and two daughters and shares stories on her instagram @rachelsanghee.