Imagine losing a voice that illuminated the darkest corners of mental health struggles, offering solace through honest storytelling—now, that's the heartbreaking reality as we mourn the passing of Baek Se-hee at just 35 years old. But here's where it gets profoundly inspiring and a tad controversial: her legacy extends far beyond her untimely death, sparking debates on how personal narratives can heal or challenge societal views on depression.
Baek Se-hee, the talented writer behind the bestselling self-help memoir I Want to Die But I Want to Eat Tteokbokki, passed away at the age of 35. Her compassionate act of donating her heart, lungs, liver, and both kidneys through the Korean organ donation agency saved five lives, a selfless gesture that underscores her gentle spirit.
Yet, as translator Anton Hur poignantly noted, 'her readers will know she touched yet millions of lives more with her writing.' This speaks to the profound ripple effect of her work, which has resonated with countless individuals grappling with inner turmoil.
Published in Korea in 2018 and in the UK by Bloomsbury in 2022, I Want to Die But I Want to Eat Tteokbokki chronicles Baek's heartfelt dialogues with her psychiatrist about dysthymia—a form of persistent, low-grade depression that can linger like a shadow, affecting daily life without the dramatic highs and lows of major depressive episodes. To help beginners visualize, think of it as a chronic mild sadness that doesn't necessarily prevent functioning but drains energy and joy over time. The book weaves in short, reflective essays, creating a mosaic of vulnerability and insight. And this is the part most people miss: the title's playful nod to tteokbokki, Baek's cherished comfort food—a spicy Korean dish made from chewy rice cakes simmered in a fiery red sauce—serves as a metaphor for life's bittersweet mix of pain and simple pleasures, reminding us that even in despair, small joys can persist.
Building on its success, a sequel titled I Want to Die but I Still Want to Eat Tteokbokki hit UK shelves last year, continuing her candid exploration of mental health themes.
The original volume has achieved remarkable sales, with approximately 600,000 copies sold in Korea and over a million worldwide, translated into more than 25 languages. This global reach highlights how her story transcends borders, offering a universal language for those facing similar battles.
Born in 1990, Baek pursued creative writing at university before dedicating five years to a career in publishing. She underwent psychiatric treatment for a decade, a journey that shaped her empathetic perspective. The memoir's genesis traces back to her therapy notes, shared on a blog, where they garnered enthusiastic responses. During a 2023 interview with PEN, she recalled her surprise when a reader described them as 'like a light was shining into the darkness of their life.' Writing had long been on her bucket list, and she confessed, 'I was having trouble finding the right theme, but I realised something I could write about with some authority was depression.'
Baek believed that writing 'can help you see yourself from different angles,' fostering a 'three-dimensional' view of one's identity—an idea that's particularly enlightening for those new to journaling or self-reflection. It's like holding up a mirror that shows not just the facade, but the layers beneath, encouraging self-compassion and growth.
In a statement to the Korea Herald, Baek's sister shared her sister's motivations: 'She wanted to write, to share her heart with others through her work, and to inspire hope.' Reflecting on her sibling's kind nature, incapable of holding grudges, she added, 'I hope she can now rest peacefully.'
The exact cause of Baek's death remains uncertain, leaving a void in the conversation about mental health advocacy. And this is where it gets controversial—some might argue that her open discussions of depression normalize seeking help, while others could debate whether such raw portrayals risk sensationalizing personal pain for profit. What do you think? Can memoirs like hers bridge the gap between stigma and understanding, or do they sometimes cross into uncomfortable territory? Do you believe her work has genuinely changed lives, or is there a counterpoint I'm missing? Share your opinions in the comments—let's keep the dialogue going!
