I’m currently experimenting with AI in various ways and trying to apply it to my work. And in the process, a thought struck me—this is something I need to share with young people. Doesn’t history repeat itself? Philosophy and mathematics, once relegated to the minor leagues of modern society, seem poised for a spectacular comeback. Philosophy—the friend who always seemed boring—and math—the one who was hard to understand. What if, just one more time, we reached out our hand to them? I hope that the story of one student becomes your story.

I once taught a student who had given up on math during their senior year of high school. They had attended many academies and had private tutors, yet remained stuck at the lowest level. At the time, I didn’t have the capacity to take on another student. One of the parents of a student I was already teaching knew this, but one day after class, they asked me for a moment. “I happened to mention you to a parent I know, and they said they’d love to meet you. They’re willing to match your availability entirely. They live in the same apartment complex, so if you could just go after this class… We’re close friends, and I thought long and hard before asking.” It was a difficult request, but I decided to visit once, out of gratitude for their trust. Then I learned—the student was a senior. Only six months remained until the Korean college entrance exam (the equivalent of the SAT).

On the day we had agreed to meet, the student wasn’t there. The parents greeted me warmly, though visibly flustered. As we sat in the living room over tea, they confessed something hard to say. “Actually… they blocked my number.” That’s when I realized: they didn’t even know I was coming. It was a bit of a shock—it had never happened to me before.

About ten minutes later, the front door opened. The student walked in with a cold expression, threw a glance at the parents, and sat across from me. Part of me felt relieved. I didn’t have the time to take on another student, and this seemed like a natural reason to decline. But when I saw the parents’ hopeful faces, I knew I needed a more valid reason. 

I don’t usually spend lesson time solving problems. I focus on definitions, theorems, and logical thinking. Especially for students who’ve given up on math, you need to start with the foundations. Since we’d both taken the time to meet, I decided to give a first lesson. Before diving in, I explained a few basics and mentioned that my method wouldn’t follow the usual textbook sequence. I began with the fundamental definition of a function—what it means, and why it matters in high school math. I filled the time explaining the “why” behind the math, the questions I’d once had, and the concepts I’d come to understand. At the end, I made a deal: if the student couldn’t recall what we learned by the next session, we’d stop. The student, the parents, and I all agreed. If there’s no will to learn, you can’t teach. On the way home, I felt unburdened. 

The appointed day came. After teaching another student in the same apartment complex, I dropped by. Before starting, I reviewed the definitions from last time—not just to reinforce them, but as a way to exit if needed. To my surprise, the student answered everything correctly. “Wait… maybe this could work.” With six months until the exam and only two sessions per week, the time wasn’t generous—but with motivation, it wasn’t impossible. I agreed to continue teaching.

As I said, I don’t solve problems. I try to show students how math can be an intellectual game, built from definitions and logic. Once they discover the joy of learning, they start walking the path on their own. If neither the student nor the parents rush the process, results will come. Thankfully, this family had nothing left to lose and fully entrusted me. Still, the student was hesitant. This method—building from definitions instead of drilling problems—was foreign. Could this really work in real tests? They followed along, half-doubting.

Then, after about a month, the first practice exam came—and as expected, the results were dismal. Rows of unanswered questions, with an occasional correct one shining through like the sun in a shower. The student probably thought, “Of course. This teacher might not actually be good. Perfect chance to expose them. Tonight, I’ll ask them to solve the hardest question. Let’s see how confident they really are!” That evening, the student greeted me with the brightest smile I’d seen. That was a clue. 

I said first, “I heard you had a mock exam today. Let’s go over some of the ones you missed—see how what we’ve learned applies.” They immediately pulled out a problem they’d prepared. But things didn’t go as they’d expected. We solved the problem, step by step, using definitions, theorems, and logic. As the student watched, something shifted. Doubt gave way to trust. By the end of the session, they looked at me and said, “You’re amazing.” I’m still not sure whether that referred to me or to how the math unfolded. What I do know is this: they had started to enjoy math. And we had built mutual trust. 

Their attitude changed. I noticed their behavior toward their parents shift, too. After the final exam that semester, they said: “I really regret all the times I slept through math class. Why did I give up on something so fun?” I don’t assign homework. The only thing I ask is: remember what we learned, and don’t forget it. But to my surprise, the student began assigning homework to themselves. They bought workbooks and started solving problems on their own. Throughout the break, they kept at it. Their grades, which had only crawled before, started to run in the second semester. They proudly told me that even friends were coming to them for help now.

It was impressive—and all thanks to their own effort. Eventually, the final practice test before the college entrance exam arrived. As usual, we reviewed missed problems together. When I arrived, the student greeted me with a smile at the door—something I’d seen before. We sat and opened the test. The paper was filled with circles like sunshine after rain. A few drops of rain remained, but the result exceeded expectations. “Teacher, I got a level 3 for the first time.” By ranking, there was still a way to go. But the fact they had discovered how to study—and found joy in it—made me truly happy.

Then came the actual college entrance exam. Later, I got a call. The result? They’d misaligned their answers, starting one row too low. But they said: “Actually, I think it turned out well. I realized I’m better suited to science and engineering. I want to go to engineering school, so I’m planning to retake the exam next year—this time as a science-track student.” Most students move from science to humanities, not the other way. I found their choice bold and admirable. 

Seasons passed, and autumn came again. My schedule got too full, and I couldn’t continue tutoring. It was time to part ways. After the final lesson, I had drinks with a neighbor. His wife was an English teacher, and it turned out the student had been studying English with her. Over drinks, I heard the latest: “You know, that kid? Last year they didn’t even say hello when we met. Now they bow politely. Total change. And get this—they switched to the science track, and apparently scored level 1 in math for the first time on a recent practice test. They told me to pass along a message if I saw you: they’re sorry they couldn’t reach out. They’d gotten rid of their phone and spent all their time at the library.” 
So the autumn of 2010 ripened quietly.

To all the students who’ve given up on math: Isn’t it too early to give up?