Borrowed Confidence: Minsu, Drugs, and the Fantasy of Becoming Someone Else

Minsu, first introduced in Squid Game: Season 2 and further developed in Season 3, begins as a quiet, hesitant presence — a man who freezes during early team voting, avoids eye contact in group confrontations, and hesitates even when asked a direct question. A man who fades easily into the background. He doesn’t assert himself, doesn’t voice opinions, and gets swept up in other people’s power plays.

At first glance, he’s a familiar figure in Korean society: the mild-mannered man who obeys, defers, and survives by not taking up too much space.

And then something shifts.

A more aggressive, drug-using contestant — someone who needs chemical courage to feel powerful — passes on his cross to Minsu. The cross isn’t just symbolic; it contains a drug that alters Minsu’s personality. He begins to speak louder. Move more boldly. Assert himself. He becomes… visible.

But what’s most striking is that this transformation doesn’t come from some inner realization.

It comes from outside. From a pill.

In Korea, where drug use — including marijuana — is heavily criminalized and stigmatized, this storyline is especially striking. Korean law does not distinguish much between soft and hard drugs: weed and crack are treated with equal severity, and the moral reaction to any kind of substance use is largely shaped by shame, not addiction or health.

Teaching fear before understanding is often the primary strategy — a cultural reflex that may feel less like public safety and more like paternal control. For many Koreans, this echoes a familiar dynamic: one where obedience is demanded before questions are welcomed.

Minsu’s use of a drug isn’t just a narrative twist — it’s a profound cultural transgression, loaded with implications about desperation, alienation, and the cost of nonconformity.

It’s easy to dismiss this as character drama — especially for viewers unfamiliar with the social nuances of Korean culture. But for Korean audiences, Minsu’s arc cuts deeper. It echoes a cultural reality where self-erasure is often mistaken for virtue, and where confidence must be masked, borrowed, or chemically induced to be socially acceptable.

But the truth is, Minsu’s arc taps into a very real, very painful cultural dynamic:

the fantasy of becoming someone else to finally feel like enough.

In Western narratives like Lucy or Limitless, the drug gives the user superpowers — heightened intelligence, mastery, control. The transformation is framed as evolution: an unlocking of potential that was always there, waiting. It’s aspirational, not desperate.

In contrast, Minsu’s transformation is framed as dependency.

He doesn’t gain new capabilities — he only believes he has.

It’s not a discovery of power.

It’s a temporary escape from self-doubt.

That’s what makes it so heartbreaking — and so relatable.

Because Minsu’s crisis isn’t just about masculinity. It’s about culture.

Many Koreans — regardless of gender — are raised to value humility over expression, a pattern reinforced early in life through family hierarchies, rote-style education, and a cultural premium placed on quiet obedience over personal assertion. We’re taught to be careful, considerate, and above all, not to stand out.

For people like Minsu, this means going through life with the quiet, constant belief that confidence belongs to other people.

So when a shortcut appears — whether it’s a drug, a persona, a mask — it’s tempting.

Not because we want to lie.

But because we want to see who we could be if we were finally allowed to take up space.

The tragedy is, Minsu already had strength. He wasn’t powerless.

He just didn’t believe it until something external gave him permission to act like he mattered.

Sometimes, we don’t need real power to become powerful.

Sometimes belief alone can change what we’re allowed to do.

I remember working as a floor director during the 2002 World Cup — though despite the title, I was essentially a glorified tour guide and interpreter for ESPN crews. My boss used to give me 2,000 won — less than $1.50 USD — and ask me to buy 10 bottles of water from a vending machine that charged only 200 won per drink.

One day, as I was retrieving water, a Korean staff member stopped me and said only one drink was allowed per person. I tried explaining, but he wouldn’t budge.

So I walked to another machine, and was stopped again.

This time, I didn’t have time to fail.

I stood tall, looked up, and started speaking English quickly. Not aggressively, just confidently.

The man froze, then backed off.

What changed?

Not the rules.

Not my job.

Just my posture. My tone. My sense of permission.

I wasn’t trying to break rules or deceive anyone. I just needed to succeed in what I was asked to do.

And that moment taught me something Minsu’s arc reminded me of:

Sometimes, the barrier isn’t external power.

It’s internal permission.

And sometimes, confidence is treated as arrogance — unless it’s wrapped in the right accent, face, or timing.

But here’s the caution: confidence without grounding can quickly become delusion.

Minsu didn’t develop new skills — he just stepped into a louder version of himself.

And that, too, can be dangerous. Because once you need something external to feel real, it’s hard to know when the performance ends and the person begins.

And that’s what Squid Game captures so painfully well.

Through Minsu’s arc, it reveals something that extends far beyond Korean culture — the idea that confidence is not always about who you are, but who the world told you you’re allowed to be.

This isn’t just a Korean dilemma.

It’s a human one.

Across cultures, many of us carry untapped strength that lies dormant, waiting not for ability, but for permission.

Minsu didn’t take a drug to gain power.

He took a drug to gain permission.

And in a world built on performance and pressure,

sometimes that’s the more addictive fantasy of all.