On Liberty

This book was a gift from a friend whom I met while living in the same family dormitory during my time in the UK. The residence where we stayed during my wife’s studies was a place of nearly a century of history, preserved under the special patronage of the British Royal Family. Its classic Neo-Georgian red-brick façade and the quiet courtyard within always exuded an atmosphere of scholarly stillness. For my family, it was more than just a place to stay—it was a meaningful foundation that allowed us to compose our lives and let our thoughts take root.

My family lived on the third floor, and his family lived just below us. We each had a daughter around the same age, and the children would often play together in the dormitory garden. Even after returning to Korea, our relationship continued. He is someone I constantly learn from, especially in terms of his thoughtful approach to life. One day, during a conversation about how we live, he handed me On Liberty and suggested I read it.

Freedom is something I’ve always claimed to value, yet I had never truly examined its meaning. I vaguely understood it as the ability to do what I want without interference. At best, I thought of it as living freely as long as I wasn’t harming others. Beyond that, I hadn’t thought deeply about the concept. This book sharpened that vague perception. As I read, I began to reassess not only myself but also the society I belong to. That reflection led me to three key insights.

In On Liberty, John Stuart Mill emphasizes that individuality is essential not just for personal happiness, but for the progress of society as a whole. This idea struck me the most while reading. For Mill, individuality isn’t merely about differences in personality or taste. It’s a fundamental condition for a person to remain the agent of their own life. Since people differ in abilities and desires, their ways of life must also differ. Mill argues that judgment is formed in the process of choosing and taking responsibility for one’s actions—a process that includes making mistakes. When trial and error is allowed, people remain thinking beings. And society learns from these diverse life experiments. New norms and ideas don’t emerge from the average but from the exceptional. Thus, Mill believed that a society suppressing individuality gains order at the cost of vitality. He warned that social pressure is even more dangerous than the law. When people begin to resemble each other under the gaze of the majority and conformist customs, freedom is eroded from within.

This part eerily reminds me of today’s social media environment. Social media doesn’t issue commands, but it sets standards. Likes and reactions reveal what expressions and attitudes are acceptable. People become conscious not of punishment, but of judgment. Comparison becomes normalized. The surveillance is subtle but effective. Safe opinions are repeated, and agreeable tastes are reinforced. It may seem as though people aren’t oppressing each other, but in reality, they’re mutually regulating each other. In Mill’s terms, this is another form of the tyranny of the majority. A society stripped of individuality may seem less conflicted—but its thinking is equally diminished. On Liberty remains relevant today precisely because it foresaw this quiet regression.

The second insight I gained from the book relates to how my own individuality has been worn down in my role as a public servant. I find it increasingly difficult to think and write freely in this position. No one has ever explicitly told me not to write something. Yet I’m always the first to draw boundaries for myself. I constantly assess whether a phrase might cause misunderstanding, or whether a critique departs from the organizational tone. Through that process, my thoughts become increasingly smoothed out, and my writing more innocuous. Referring back to Mill’s argument, this is not simply a matter of personal preference. If individuality is a resource for societal development, then by censoring myself as a public official, I’m effectively withdrawing that resource from society. The discomfort I felt while reading this book stemmed from this realization.

This self-censorship may originate from professional ethics or a sense of responsibility. But the more it’s repeated, the more intellectual growth is stifled. Individuality is tamed in the name of organizational stability. Mill warned that social pressure could be more dangerous than legal constraint. In the world of public service, that pressure operates with even greater precision. We internalize the lesson that safe, unremarkable decisions are the best ones. Lately, I’ve been asking myself whether this safety is truly beneficial to society. The more public servants lose their individuality, the narrower the range of perspectives available to society becomes. The issue of individuality I noticed in the first part of the book thus evolved into a personal concern in the second.

The third idea that lingered in my mind was Mill’s warning about bureaucracy, presented near the end of the book. He believed that unnecessarily expanding government power could seriously harm society. A bureaucratic system may offer comfort by taking responsibility for every domain. But the price is a passive public. People stop thinking for themselves and instead look to officials for direction. Important decisions are made by bureaucrats, while everyone else waits to be told what to do. In this process, the role of the individual shrinks. Mill’s critique of bureaucracy isn’t just about administrative inefficiency—it’s a warning about a society where human capacity for thought and judgment is in decline.

This warning is directly applicable to the age of AI. If AI replaces the bureaucrat, efficiency and consistency may improve. But as more decisions are transferred to systems, people become more reliant. Rather than asking what is right, they simply follow the answers the system provides. Like bureaucracy, AI carries the risk of becoming the decision-maker rather than just a tool. When public officials lack individuality, citizens are unused to critical thinking, and systems make all the decisions, Mill’s concern becomes a reality. The question of individuality that began with On Liberty thus expands—from my inner struggles as a public servant to larger structural issues involving bureaucracy and AI.

On Liberty continues to be read across generations not because it offers a definitive definition of freedom, but because it sheds light on when and why people choose to think for themselves—or give up thinking altogether. Individuality is less a right to be protected than a commitment to carry the burden of judgment. Mill repeatedly poses the question of whether we are willing to keep making decisions ourselves, or to hand that responsibility over to organizations, institutions, or technology. Rather than offering an answer, On Liberty quietly stands in our way whenever we are tempted to relinquish that responsibility.