Desire, and the Space Between Control and Balance

📬 Letter #4: Practicing Desire Regulation

When I was growing up, roller skating and rollerblading were popular at the time.
Every Friday after school, around grades 3 or 4, a group of girls and boys would gather and head to the skating rink. Once I started skating, I couldn’t stop. Hours passed without breaks. I forgot I was hungry. I forgot my friends were waiting. I forgot my mom was probably wondering where I was.

Looking back, I think that was my first real encounter with dopamine—the rush of excitement, speed, and pleasure. When something felt good, I disappeared into it completely.

My sister knows this side of me better than most. Once, half-jokingly, she told me that if I were part of the marshmallow experiment*, I would have eaten the marshmallow immediately—no hesitation, no waiting.

*The Stanford marshmallow experiment was a study on delayed gratification conducted in the 1970s by psychologist Walter Mischel at Stanford University. In the study, a child was offered a choice between one small immediate reward or two small rewards if they waited for a period of time. During this time, the researcher left the child alone in a room with a single marshmallow for about 15 minutes. Follow-up studies initially suggested correlations between delayed gratification and later life outcomes, though later research challenged the strength and reliability of these conclusions, pointing to factors such as socioeconomic background.

She was probably right.

I’ve always been sensitive, feeling-driven, instinct-led. When I liked something, I indulged fully: food, play, dance, movies, fan-girling, amusement parks—anything that gave me joy, thrill, electricity. When I didn’t like something, I struggled to endure it: neglect, boredom, physical pain, being ignored, feeling unappreciated or humiliated. I lived by emotion. I reacted instantly, often unconsciously.

Pleasure pulled me forward.
Discomfort pushed me to escape.

Regulation or Reprogramming?

Understanding how my emotions actually worked took years of commitment. Meditation became the turning point—a practice of radical observation. Yet noticing emotions wasn’t enough. I had to understand what I was reaching for underneath them.

A lot of my dopamine-seeking was relational.
I wanted to be loved. Cared for. Included. Protected. Understood. To belong. I attached easily to people I liked.

At the same time, we don’t live in isolation. Emotional patterns are shaped and regulated through education, etiquette, culture, and social expectations. Emotional balance isn’t only spiritual—it’s also social. The two must work together.

My first real “civilized training” in emotional regulation happened unexpectedly, during an overseas volunteer camp when I was 18.

Learning to Be Responsible for Emotions

We were stationed in a village called Songko, in the mountains of Mindanao, Philippines. To reach our base camp—halfway up a mountain—we carried backpacks weighing over fourteen kilograms through rain-soaked, muddy trails. Each step sank into the earth. The air felt alive, untouched, ancient.

After an hour, we reached a wooden hut that would serve as both our base camp and, eventually, a school for local children. We were staying with the Talaandig people—one of the Indigenous Lumad tribes of Mindanao, known for their deep traditions of music, dance, and oral storytelling.

There was no electricity. At night, candles flickered softly. The Datu, the village elder, welcomed us with a ritual to give thanks and ask for protection. It had nothing to do with us—and yet we were generously included.

Every night, the Milky Way spilled across the sky, impossibly bright. Music echoed through the forest. We gathered around the fire, laughing, singing, playing drums. It felt unbelievably pure. Whole.

“So you dance and sing like this every day?”

I—a complete city girl, raised in a concrete jungle and a society with high competition, high suicide rates, and chronic stress, where working hard 24/7 is considered a virtue—asked two local Indigenous friends, Balukto and Soliman, almost incredulously.

They smiled, completely at ease.

“Of course. This is life.”

5 days in, closeness formed easily. One night, standing beneath the stars, Soliman and I talked about small things—colors, music, art. We came from entirely different worlds, yet familiarity grew quietly. The village noticed. They teased us every time they saw us.

“Ajung, why don’t you live here?”
“Marry Soliman!”

I hovered between embarrassment and humor—until our team leader pulled me aside.

“Remember,” he said gently but seriously, “we are visitors. We will leave. These people will stay. While we’re here, we must respect the lives that continue after we’re gone.”

That conversation stayed with me.

It was the first time I truly understood what it means to arrive as a guest—and what it means to be responsible for how I interact with others. Every connection carries responsibility. Expressing affection, attraction, or preference is not neutral—it shapes lives.

There’s a cheesy line often used in Korean dramas: “I love you, so I leave you.”
As a meditation practitioner and Buddhist philosopher now, I understand that line deeply.

Feelings arise and pass. But once we grasp and act on them, they leave traces—in ourselves and in others.

Balancing Desire, Not Suppressing It

The Buddha spoke often about guarding the sense doors—not as repression, but as protection. Unchecked sensory indulgence binds the mind in distraction. When we meditate, we temporarily reduce sensory input so the mind can turn inward.

Seeing consequences clearly is one of the most powerful forms of emotional regulation.

When we can honestly see what follows compulsive casual sex and entertainment, gaming, substances, or endless dopamine loops—not just for ourselves, but for those around us—balance becomes natural. Control is no longer needed.

There are pleasures that harm, and pleasures that heal.

As awareness deepens, new forms of joy emerge: quiet mornings, meaningful work, solitude without loneliness, growth without urgency.

Gradually, attachment to destructive pleasure loosens—not because it’s forbidden, but because something healthier becomes available and more natural to us.

That’s the stage where regulation gives way to wisdom.
That’s the stage of becoming where we no longer need to regulate or control anything.

Not suppression.
Not indulgence.
But balance.