Head Over Heels and the modern mudang: The exorcist isn’t a priest, but a woman with a ledger

She is a high school student who wears her uniform like a second skin, carrying the weight of ordinary teenage struggles in one hand and an ancient ledger in the other. At night, she becomes something else, a mediator between worlds, a woman who tracks debts that aren’t financial but spiritual, emotional, cosmic.

In Head Over Heels, Seong-ah is a girl in love, and also a mediator for ghosts; she’s a modern mudang, a Korean shaman who bridges the visible and invisible, the living and the departed. While Western stories give us exorcists in stiff collars and men shouting prayers into dark corners, the mudang stands differently. She dances. She negotiates. She sings until a spirit’s sorrow is heard, until someone’s hidden grief finally surfaces.

In her ledger, Seong-ah writes the names of those who owe something to the universe, those who need to be healed, those who need to be released. And perhaps, in the quiet corners of her own heart, she keeps track of her own unfinished debts too.

A history stitched in chants

She didn’t appear overnight. The mudang has been a fixture in Korean culture for centuries, weaving her chants and dances through the country’s history like a thread that refuses to break. During the Three Kingdoms period, she guided villages through famines and invasions, holding rituals that blurred the line between prayer and protest. When Confucian scholars dismissed her as a relic and Japanese occupiers tried to erase her, she adjusted, transformed, and endured.

While many think of shamans as forest dwellers or eccentric mystics, the mudang is something else entirely. She stands at the crossroads of fear and hope, offering healing that feels both intimate and defiant. Her performances are not merely entertainment; they are acts of survival, collective memory, and resistance. Even now, the mudang embodies a silent rebellion against systems that tried to contain her spirit.

She doesn’t chase perfection; she invites fracture and embraces the tremors of grief and joy alike.

The mudang in neon light

You might find her performing a gut in a quiet alley of Seoul, her voice echoing between convenience stores and neon lights. Or see her on television, advising politicians and celebrities with the same unwavering gaze she gives to grieving mothers. The mudang today is not confined to distant mountain shrines; she belongs to the cities, to the late-night diners, to the livestreams that carry her chants to thousands of curious eyes.

She has become both a healer and a public figure, blending centuries-old rituals with the worries of a generation addicted to instant answers. Young people visit her to ask about jobs, love, lost futures. Business owners seek her guidance before opening a new store. Even K-pop idols and actors have quietly stood before her, hoping for protection that no PR team can offer.

By stepping into the public eye, the mudang reveals a new kind of power: intimate yet broadcast, traditional yet unapologetically contemporary. She remains an enigma, someone who holds secrets in plain sight, a performer of both suffering and renewal. And when she writes a name into her ledger, it is more than an entry; it is an invitation to heal, to remember, to return.

Gender, performance, and Head Over Heels

When the mudang enters a trance, she carries more than spirits. She carries centuries of gendered expectation, inherited pain, and unspoken rage. Her movements become a choreography of contradictions, fierce and tender, masculine and feminine, all at once. In those moments, she embodies a freedom few can name, let alone claim.

Historically, Korean society pushed women to be silent, graceful, obedient. Yet the mudang stands on rooftops, sings into the wind, and lets her voice crack open the night. In some rituals, she dresses in male garments or adopts male spirits, blurring lines in a way that feels radical even today.

This fluidity multiplies her power. By becoming a vessel, she transforms vulnerability into strength, shame into clarity. Watching her is like seeing a mirror that refuses to lie, reflecting every wound, every hunger for liberation.

The mudang is not just a spiritual guide but a living critique of the roles imposed on women. She reminds us that healing is not a quiet process; it is loud, disruptive, and often unbearably honest.

Korean shaman or mudang? Understanding the real difference

The term “Korean shaman” often shows up in academic studies and popular media as an easy way to explain the spiritual figures central to Korean folk religion. But mudang is not simply a synonym for “shaman.” It is a word deeply rooted in Korean cultural identity, carrying layers of meaning that speak to both personal transformation and collective memory.

Historically, there have been two main paths to becoming a mudang. Gangshinmu are those who experience shinbyeong, a type of spiritual illness that calls them to the role. This process is intense and deeply personal, often involving visions, physical suffering, and a dramatic initiation ritual. On the other hand, sessumu inherit their position through family lineage, learning rituals and spiritual duties passed down through generations. In contemporary Korea, sessumu have become increasingly rare, while most practicing mudang today are gangshinmu, each carrying the scars and wisdom of their calling.

Elder mudang are honored with the title manshin, which highlights their spiritual mastery and accumulated experience rather than simply referring to age. This title marks a certain gravitas in the community and often implies that they have guided countless rituals and helped many people find healing or clarity.

Across different regions, the titles and roles of mudang can vary dramatically, reflecting the diversity of local traditions. In some areas, practitioners are known as paksu, a term more often used by those who identify as he/his or they/them, emphasizing that gender fluidity has long been present within these spiritual practices. This diversity in names and identities points to a living tradition that resists easy categorization and remains deeply tied to the communities it serves.

Asking a practitioner how they wish to be addressed is not just a polite gesture. It represents an act of respect and a willingness to engage with the richness of their world on their own terms. When scholars or media use “Korean shaman,” they simplify a tradition that is dynamic, personal, and intensely relational. Each mudang or paksu stands as a bridge between the seen and unseen, a guide through sorrow and joy, and a reminder that spirituality in Korea is as much about community as it is about the individual journey.

A ledger that holds more than names

In Head Over Heels, exorcism becomes an act of love disguised as labor. The mudang doesn’t banish to punish; she listens so the lost can finally speak. Every note in Seong-ah’s chants holds the weight of generations who were told to be quiet, who carried their grief in silence, who wrote no ledgers because no one would read them.

By turning a shaman into a teenage girl with a ledger, the series reminds us that healing is not sterile or methodical. It is messy, loud, handwritten. It demands presence and the courage to stand in the doorway between worlds.

Seong-ah’s ledger is more than a book. It is a living testament that sorrow can be documented, debts can be forgiven, and even the most stubborn ghost can find rest if someone is brave enough to record its name.