The first thing you notice on the New York City subway is the noise. A performer practices trumpet in the corner, a toddler yells “Next stop!” at full volume, two strangers argue about the Yankees and someone hums with their headphones half on. The seats are orange, yellow, blue — a mismatched combination. In simpler words, it’s chaotic.
Then you ride the Seoul subway. Everyone faces forward, earphones in, eyes down. The seats are monochromatic, the walls silver. Every movement feels intentional and controlled — careful not to disturb. Personally, when I ride the subway in Korea, I feel nervous and often hesitant to make a sound.
After experiencing both, I realized something important. We severely underestimate how environments like the subway shape how young people behave.
But here is where I disagree with the common assumption about mental health. Most people may argue that chaotic, noisy, overstimulating environments harm mental well-being. Studies show that noise raises stress levels, disrupts sleep and increases anxiety. That’s true — noise can absolutely be harmful. But silence can be harmful too. Not the peaceful kind, but the pressured kind.
In New York, the message is clear: Your voice belongs here. Take up space. Speak freely. Express frustration, joy, exhaustion. It all blends into the sounds of the city. But in Seoul, the message is the opposite. Stay composed. Don’t interrupt or stand out. Don’t burden others with your noise or your emotions. And that quietness doesn’t stay underground. It follows you home, to school and into conversations.
Korean culture has long valued restraint, politeness defined by not imposing, harmony defined by not disrupting. On a subway, that creates order. But in daily life, it creates emotional suppression. Teens absorb this without realizing it. When you grow up in an environment where even clearing your throat feels loud, you learn to shrink your presence in other ways too. It becomes easy to forget that an emotion unspoken is still an emotion carried.
To be clear, I’m not arguing that Korea should become New York. There is beauty in Seoul’s quietness, a sense of safety, order and collective respect that New York could never even dream of. But there is a cost when that respect turns into pressure to disappear emotionally. Mental health cannot thrive in a culture that equates silence with strength. And yet that is what many Korean teens learn first. Don’t speak unless necessary, don’t show what you’re feeling, don’t take up space — not on the train, not in conversation, not in your struggles.
Public spaces reflect cultural expectations. They shape how young people understand what is allowed, what is normal and what is “too much.” When every subway ride teaches you to be quiet, your feelings start learning the same lesson. What I learned riding both subways is that emotional expression isn’t just a personality trait, it’s often a trained behavior. New York trains its teens to express. Seoul trains its teens to endure.
Korea definitely doesn’t need to fill its subway cars with chatter or repaint them in neon colors. But we do need more places, and more norms, where teens feel permission to speak honestly without fear of being seen as disruptive, dramatic or disrespectful. Mental health begins long before therapy or diagnosis. It begins with the simple belief that your feelings are allowed to exist out loud. And right now, too many young people are riding through their struggles in silence.
