When Love Turns into Perfectionism: Lessons from King Yeongjo and Prince Sado

When Love Turns into Perfectionism: Lessons from King Yeongjo and Prince Sado

​The Tragedy of Crown Prince Sado: A Father Who Loved Himself Too Perfectly

Korean history has a story of a father and son intertwined with love, expectations, and tragedy. It's the story of King Yeongjo of Joseon and his son, Crown Prince Sado.

Yeongjo loved the son he had in his old age more than anyone else. However, this love manifested itself in the form of demanding perfection. He desired the crown prince to grow into a flawless monarch, meticulously controlling his academics, manners, and even his speech. Crown Prince Sado constantly strived to live up to these expectations, but was harshly reprimanded for even the slightest misstep. Under the pressure of perfection to win his father's love, the crown prince became increasingly plagued by anxiety and fear.

Eventually, the crown prince's heart gradually crumbled. His mind became unstable, and with a mixture of anger and fear, he began to exhibit strange behavior within the palace. Instead of understanding his son's suffering, Yeongjo attempted to control him with harsher discipline. Love became control, not communication, and their relationship became irreparably estranged. Finally, under political pressure and fear, King Yeongjo ordered his son imprisoned in a rice chest. Crown Prince Sado died there, starving and suffering for eight days. It was the most tragic ending in Korean history, killing his once beloved son with his own hands.
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This story is not just a royal tragedy. It is a human story that shows how cruel love can become when it demands perfection. In the name of raising children properly, we often forget their hearts. True education begins with trust, not fear, and love grows through understanding, not control. If Yeongjo's love built a wall, our love today must become a bridge—a bridge that connects our hearts.

Why Teaching Is So Hard — What We Can Learn from King Yeongjo and Prince SadoThe story of King Yeongjo and his son, Prince Sado, reminds me how fragile and difficult education can be.

Yeongjo, who became a father late in life, loved his son deeply. But his love came with impossible expectations. He wanted Sado to be the perfect prince — flawless in study, manners, and leadership. What began as love slowly turned into perfectionism. As Sado struggled to meet his father’s expectations, his mind began to break down. He suffered from anxiety and emotional instability, yet his father only tightened control. In the end, Yeongjo, trapped by fear and politics, ordered his own son to be locked inside a rice chest, where Sado died after eight days.

This story shows how easily love can turn into pressure, and how education can become a form of pain. I see traces of this even in today’s classrooms.
When a child tries to learn something new, and a teacher demands perfection — correcting every tiny detail, expecting flawless results — the child loses confidence and soon gives up. True learning doesn’t come from being perfect; it comes from showing up again and again. If we keep starting and quitting, our lives become like books where we only ever read the introduction. The real lesson lies in patience — and in learning how to enjoy that patience.

When I was in graduate school, I once read a line that changed how I see teaching:
“Make your classroom a place where children enter with the excitement of walking into a birthday party.”

That image has stayed with me ever since. It’s still the ideal I chase — a class where students wonder, “What will we do today? How fun will it be?” If they can enter with that spark of joy, half the lesson is already a success.
Of course, reality is never so simple.

There are days when I must focus on technical skills — the basics that are hard to learn and harder to teach. Those are the moments when I ask myself, “How can I make this process easier, lighter, more joyful?”
And then comes the biggest challenge of all: creativity.

Creativity cannot be forced. It’s not something a teacher can “give.”
It grows naturally, like a gift that spreads in an atmosphere of laughter and curiosity. That’s why I believe the true role of a teacher is not to instruct, but to create a space where imagination can breathe — a place where students can fail safely, try again, and surprise themselves.

When I was a child, my mother never bought us many toys. She was a minimalist — our floors were spotless, and every item had its place. The only things she allowed were paper, scissors, glue, and crayons. My siblings and I built entire cities out of paper: hospitals, schools, dance studios, roads filled with tiny cars. Then we would take everything apart, clean the floor, and start again.
Looking back, I realize that this simple childhood play became the foundation of my teaching.
Inventing, planning, and creating are not difficult for me — they are second nature, like breathing.
I want my students to experience that same freedom.
So I’ve begun to change my classes little by little — adding activities that aren’t graded, encouraging mistakes, and letting joy lead the way.
The results are remarkable. The classroom fills with laughter; their faces relax; the tension melts away.
I often say that if I don’t hear humming in my classroom, something is wrong.
On quiet days, I reflect: “Hmm… I need to do better.”
But when I hear that soft humming, I smile.
That sound — that gentle tune of happiness — is the truest evaluation of my teaching.
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In the end, the story of Prince Sado isn’t only about a royal tragedy.
It’s about how love can turn destructive when it becomes control.
To teach and to love are both acts of humility.
Perfection builds walls; kindness builds bridges.
And it’s on those bridges — not inside the walls — that real learning begins.