Seeing the person beyond the label

During my first semester in a social work master’s program, I submitted an assignment for my generalist practice class. Having returned to school after more than a decade, I awaited my professor’s feedback with curiosity and apprehension. Dr. Keva Miller gently drew my attention to something I had not considered: the labels I used to describe people. Instead of terms like “homeless people” or “addicts,” she encouraged me to adopt language that placed the person before the circumstance or condition, such as “an individual experiencing homelessness” or “a person struggling with substance use.” Her message stayed with me: see the person first.

Words do more than describe people; they influence whether we approach someone with compassion or suspicion, respect or disdain. For individuals living with addiction or mental illness, or those experiencing homelessness and other forms of social exclusion, labels shape how they are perceived and treated. Those perceptions and responses can affect their sense of belonging, as well as access to support and employment. This dynamic has relevance in Korea, where public conversations about addiction or mental illness can quickly shift from concern about an individual’s well-being to collective wariness. While such wariness may be defended in the name of public safety, when a diagnosis becomes shorthand for danger, or a history of drug use is treated as evidence of moral failure, we stop asking who someone is. We assume the label has already told us everything.

Language does not create stigma by itself. Stigma also grows from cultural beliefs, institutional practices and unequal power relations, all of which are reflected in everyday language and actions. However, the words we choose can reinforce that stigma, allowing judgments to take hold with little scrutiny. Derogatory expressions such as "yakjaengi" (junkie) and "jeongsinbyeongja" (psycho) do more than express disapproval. They invite contempt, perpetuate prejudice, and fuel discrimination, solidifying the idea that addiction or mental illness is something shameful to hide.

This concern is not merely theoretical. A few years ago, the National Human Rights Commission of Korea released videos featuring people with psychosocial disabilities. Topics included misconceptions about schizophrenia, assumptions of dangerousness, workplace experiences, opposition to community rehabilitation facilities and involuntary hospitalization. Their accounts illustrate how collective suspicion can make it harder to find work, receive support and feel accepted in one’s community. Mental illness can affect any of us; awareness of this shared vulnerability can help us connect with those facing these barriers and recognize our common need for dignity, support and belonging.

Language also influences who is considered “normal.” When nondisabled experiences are treated as the default, people with disabilities can be defined primarily in terms of what they lack or cannot do. In Korean, contrasting "jeongsangin" (normal people) with those with disabilities implies that having a disability makes someone abnormal. "Bi-jangaein" (“nondisabled people”) makes the relevant distinction without that judgment. The issue is about more than politeness: Wording can make exclusion seem natural, rather than prompting us to question inaccessible environments and challenge restrictive social expectations.

I understand that the lesson I learned in an American classroom cannot simply be transferred to Korean. Korean has its own linguistic conventions, and respect does not depend on mechanically lengthening or reordering every expression. What matters is whether a description is accurate, relevant and sensitive. A diagnosis may be relevant in a discussion of treatment but may explain little about a workplace disagreement or personal strengths. This also raises a question of power: Who gets to decide how people are described? People affected by these labels should have a say. Their preferences may vary, but their perspectives and experiences deserve to be taken seriously.

Some readers may share my initial skepticism, wondering whether changing words alone matters when it does not solve underlying problems. Replacing “relapse” with “return to use,” for example, does not itself ensure access to treatment. The limitation is undeniable, but language can signal whether seeking support will bring understanding or humiliation. A student who hears psychiatric treatment being mocked by others may discontinue care. Parents who worry that a child’s drug use will disgrace the family may delay seeking help. In such situations, anticipated judgment can lead people to withdraw and make silence feel safer; that silence can delay care and allow difficulties to worsen.

For this reason, respectful language should be accompanied by a willingness to listen and see a person’s life beyond the label. Calling someone “a person with a substance use disorder” or “a person experiencing homelessness” means little if we still assume that person is untrustworthy, incapable of change or a drain on public funds. Nor should a family’s request for privacy be mistaken for a sign of indifference or an attempt to conceal wrongdoing. We can ask what support is needed without turning someone’s difficulties into a source of ridicule or passing judgment on the entire household.

I believe that journalists, educators and social media creators have particular responsibilities. A headline can turn an individual case into a stereotype, while a comment section can amplify derogatory remarks until contempt appears to be the consensus judgment. That responsibility extends to our conversations. When someone uses a diagnosis as an insult or makes a sweeping remark about “those people,” we can question the assumption without humiliating the speaker. Language evolves, and people may use words for themselves that others would avoid. Explaining why an expression can hurt and suggesting an accurate alternative give someone room to reconsider.

I still think about the comments on my first assignment. Dr. Miller was teaching me to notice what my words might prevent me from seeing. In Korea, as elsewhere, the question is whether our words encourage us to listen to a person or whether it perpetuates stereotypes. Before reaching for a label, we can pause and ask: What am I assuming? Whose story have I not yet heard? Am I asking the right questions? Learning to pause takes practice, but it will help us to see the person beyond the label.

Ma Kyung-hee is an editor and researcher specializing in psychological well-being and community care.