Where's Waldo
I asked a 91-year-old woman living alone what she feared most. Without hesitation, she replied, “Dying alone.”
Her voice carried neither panic nor despair. Just quiet certainty. I wouldn’t say it was the physical act of dying that unsettled her. It was rather the idea that her absence would go unnoticed, that no one would grieve, that the world would carry on as if she had never existed.
Loneliness is often seen as a condition of old age, a symptom of outliving one’s loved ones. But in South Korea, it has become an affliction that cuts across generations, infiltrating the lives of the young just as much as the elderly.
I recently read an article once about a man in his twenties who had been found dead in his apartment weeks after he had passed. There were no friends, no family, no coworkers who had grown concerned about his absence. Just an empty room with a decaying body. The phenomenon is known as godoksa, or “lonely death,” a term that originally described elderly individuals who passed away without anyone to mourn them. But in recent years, godoksa has become disturbingly common among young adults, a demographic that should be in the prime of their lives.
South Korea has long been celebrated for its economic transformation. Within a few generations, it evolved from a war-torn country into one of the strongest technological and cultural powerhouses in the world. Successful economic policies drove the economic growth of South Korea. But it’s undeniable that its “rapid” growth was fueled by intense competition, work ethic, and a ridiculous education system that demanded perfection. For decades, this system produced results—higher GDP, booming industries, and global recognition.
But beneath the surface, the same forces that propelled South Korea forward have begun to dismantle its social foundations. The intense pressure to succeed, once seen as a necessary sacrifice for economic growth, has left an entire generation exhausted, disillusioned, and isolated.
Young people today were raised believing that hard work and sacrifice would lead to stability and success. But for many, that future has failed to materialize. Job security is increasingly rare, wages remain stagnant. At the same time, living costs soar, and the traditional milestones of adulthood, including homeownership, marriage, and starting a family, all have become unattainable dreams for millions. The corporate culture, notorious for its grueling hours and hierarchical structures, offers little in return for the sacrifices it demands.
The result? A growing segment of the population has chosen to disengage entirely. They are rejecting not only the workforce but also relationships, family, and even the pursuit of long-term goals. Rather than setting aside money for the future, they chose to spend it all on Michelin-starred omakase meals, luxury hotel stays, and overseas trips, posting pictures on Instagram to show off. This behavior makes ordinary people feel even poorer, creating the illusion that everyone else is financially better off when, in reality, most are in similar situations. As a result, it exacerbates feelings of financial inadequacy and worsens the overall situation.
The consequences of this shift are not economic. They are in fact psychological. As more individuals choose to live alone, human connection has become increasingly scarce. In 2021, single-person households made up more than a third of all homes in South Korea (33.4%).
For some, solitude is a choice. But for many, it is a symptom of something much darker: alienation. Without the safety net of family or close social bonds, everyday struggles become insurmountable. A failed job interview, a financial setback, or an emotional crisis, any of these can push an isolated person over the edge. Studies consistently show that strong social connections are one of the most effective safeguards against depression and suicide. Yet in South Korea, those connections are fraying at an alarming rate.
And so, young people disappear into their one-room apartments, shutting out the world not because they want to, but because they see no place for themselves in it. Many of these individuals do not actively choose death. They simply stop fighting to live.
The South Korean government has attempted to address the crisis with awareness campaigns, mental health hotlines, and suicide prevention initiatives. But these efforts treat only the symptoms, not the root cause.
The pursuit of economic progress has created a culture where a person’s worth is measured solely by their productivity, which, in this context, is often equated with financial success. Rest is seen as laziness, struggle as a personal weakness, and success as the only acceptable outcome. In such an environment, those who fall behind, whether due to financial hardship, mental health struggles, or simple misfortune, are not given the support they need. They are cast aside, left to bear their burdens alone.
What South Korea faces is a collapse of the social contract. The belief that hard work leads to reward, that society takes care of its people, and that one’s struggles will be met with compassion—these fundamental assurances have eroded. Many see no reason to keep fighting.
If South Korea is to reverse this crisis, it must rethink its priorities. Economic success cannot come at the expense of human well-being. Policies must be implemented not just to create jobs but to ensure that those jobs offer security, fair wages, and reasonable work conditions. Mental health care must be made as accessible and normalized as physical health care, with government-funded support systems that intervene before people reach the point of no return.
More than that, there must be a cultural shift in how society values human life. South Korea must move beyond the notion that a person’s worth is tied solely to their achievements. There needs to be space for failure, for rest, for self-discovery. There must be communities where people can find belonging outside of work and school, where relationships can form without the pressure of competition.
Several countries have acknowledged the risks associated with widespread isolation. Japan, grappling with a comparable crisis, took action by appointing a Minister of Loneliness to combat the increasing rates of social withdrawal and suicide. On February 12, 2021, Prime Minister Yoshihide Suga established a cabinet position dedicated to reducing social isolation.
South Korea should follow suit, not merely with symbolic measures but with concrete initiatives aimed at restoring social connections before the foundations of society weaken beyond repair.
A nation cannot thrive when its young people see no place for themselves in it. Progress is meaningless if it leaves its people behind. Until South Korea finds a way to rebuild the human connections that once held its society together, the cycle will continue.
One by one, more doors will remain shut, their lights extinguished, leaving nothing behind but an overwhelming silence only.
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