Netflix ‘When Life Gives You Tangerines’ Review #7

[#1] How a Body That Swallows Emotion Turns into Illness

Suppressing emotion is a physiological form of violence

Suppressing emotion is not maturity — it is a survival strategy

As children, we learn quickly: crying brings scolding, enduring brings praise.
So most “good kids” begin to swallow their emotions.
This is not a personality trait — it is a sign that the nervous system is already in defensive mode.

To “hold it in” means the body has entered survival mode (fight, flight, freeze) even in situations that are not dangerous.
The brain suppresses emotion but maintains physiological tension: muscle contraction, elevated heart rate, weakened digestion.
When this continues long-term, the burden does not stay in the mind — it becomes illness in the body.

The body remembers — the storage room of unspoken emotion

Neuroscientist Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score:
“Emotion begins in the body, long before language.”

When emotion is not expressed, its energy does not disappear.
It transforms into dysregulation of the autonomic nervous system.

• Sympathetic overactivation → insomnia, heart palpitations, tinnitus
• Parasympathetic overactivation → lethargy, depression, burnout
• Both oscillating → extreme fatigue and emotional instability

Suppressing emotion means living with the body’s circuits permanently switched on.

“I wasn’t mentally weak — I was physiologically exhausted.”

Many CPTSD survivors misunderstand themselves:
“I’m overly sensitive.” “I’m dramatic.”
But their nervous system was simply stuck in constant alert mode.

To “endure” in that state is like running an engine with no fuel.
Eventually the body stops and declares:
“Look at me.”

It shows up as panic, insomnia, tremors, digestive issues.
This is not failure.
This is the body’s rebellion — the survival mechanism working correctly.

Expression is not therapy — it is circuit restoration

Expressing emotion is not just catharsis.
It is the recalibration of the autonomic nervous system.

• Crying lowers sympathetic pressure.
• Speaking activates the parasympathetic system and calms the heart.
• Being heard releases oxytocin and restores digestion.

This is the physiology of emotional expression.
Thus, the first step of recovery is simple:
Speak. Cry. Let the body feel again.

Enduring is violence — but that violence can stop

We were taught endurance is a virtue.
But the nervous system interprets it as violence — violence we inflict on ourselves.

We stop that violence through small linguistic shifts:

“I’m fine” → “This is hard.”
“Just get through it” → “I need to pause.”
“I’m okay” → “I’m shaking right now.”

I got sick because I endured.
But that was not mental failure —
it was my body’s last attempt to save me.

[#2] The Violence of Filial Piety — The Cost of Silence

A society that cannot speak love ends up sick

Why does filial piety demand silence?

In Korean culture, hyo (filial piety) has long been the core of morality.
It equates obedience with love and with being a “good person.”

But this ethic worked one-sidedly:
the child’s mouth must close while the parent’s remains open.

Parents may say, “I only did it for your own good.”
But children are denied the right to say, “That hurt me.”

Love becomes unilateral.
And hyo becomes violence.

Confucius’ hyo vs. modern hyo

Confucius wrote in The Analects:
“Serve your parents with gentleness.
When they are wrong, remonstrate with them kindly.”

His concept of hyo included gentle correction — not blind obedience.
But as Confucianism became institutionalized in Korea,
this teaching was distorted into absolute, unquestionable obedience.

Thus, saying “My parents hurt me” is still treated as ungrateful, immoral, and shameful.

The ethics of filial piety vs. the ethics of dignity

Filial piety claims to preserve family harmony —
but at the cost of silencing the individual.

Modern ethics asks:
Whose harmony is that?

Silence may look peaceful,
but inside that silence someone was breaking.

Harmony built on suppression is not peace — it is containment.

The cost of silence

Those who stayed silent in the name of hyo eventually speak with their bodies:
insomnia, panic, guilt, numbness, collapse.

This is not rebellion.
It is the body’s last language.

To say “I was hurt”
is not to accuse your parents —
but to restore what was real.

Silence protected hyo,
but it destroyed me.

From filial piety to dignity

Acknowledging the love you received does not mean denying the harm you endured.
Both can be true at once.

In the era of hyo, silence was virtue.
In the era of dignity, speaking is moral.

True hyo is returning the life you were given back to yourself.

[#3] Late Regret Is Not Recovery

The illusion of responsibility seen in Eun-myung’s parents

Crying late is not sadness — it is relief

Eun-myung’s parents cry while preparing settlement money.
But the scene does not feel tragic.
It feels comfortable.

Because guilt finally gives them a way to feel something.
Their tears are not love — they are relief.

Why didn’t they look sooner?

They were always “too busy,”
always blaming money, hardship, circumstance.

But hardship was everywhere —
and some parents still managed to see their children.
To notice tone, expression, silence.

Eun-myung was lost not because society failed —
but because her parents closed their eyes first.

Laziness disguised as the “times”

“Everyone was like that back then.”
This is Korea’s oldest absolution.

If the system was harsh, it could have been questioned.
If income was low, a different way could have been tried.

Understanding a child costs neither money nor much time.
It only costs the willingness to look.

Love is timing

Love that arrives too late does not heal.
The child endured alone long before the tears came.
Those tears now fall only on absence.
They save the parent — not the child.

True grief is not ‘not knowing’ — it is ‘refusing to see’

I did not feel sad in that scene.
Because it was not love — it was absolution.

The tragedy was not the loss.
It was the years they heard but did not listen,
saw but did not look.

[#4] The Prison of Time

Why childhood trauma grows larger in adulthood

Wounds grow not on the day they occur — but in the days that follow

People say, “Time heals.”
Trauma does the opposite.

Because childhood pain is stored before language,
its meaning deepens with age, not dissolves.

The nervous system returns to that day
whenever a similar situation appears.

Trauma exists not in time, but in the language of the nerves.

A child’s nervous system is an unfinished recorder

Children cannot separate feelings from identity.
So trauma is stored not as:
“That was scary.”
but as
“I am someone who is not safe.”

This is the existential deformation at the core of childhood trauma.

As we grow, the trauma grows with us

The same event evolves across developmental stages:

• Childhood: “I must have been wrong.”
• Adolescence: “The world is unfair.”
• Adulthood: “I do not deserve love.”

Trauma is not a memory — it is a companion through life.

The child never disappears

We become adults externally,
but the child remains inside.

A tone of voice, a sigh, indifference —
and the nervous system reopens the door to that day.

This is not regression.
It is memory that has never been able to move forward.

Real recovery is not erasing the past — but returning to it

Trauma healing means meeting the child who was left alone
and writing a different ending:

“You had no one then.
But now — I am here with you.”

The wound does not vanish.
But time begins to move again.

The child remains —
but now you are the adult who stays.

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