South Korea is often celebrated for its remarkable economic growth, technological advancement, and cultural exports like K-pop and Korean dramas. But beneath this shiny surface lies a mounting crisis: South Korea consistently ranks among the highest in the world for suicide, and its people are turning to psychiatric drugs in record numbers.
As a Doctor of Korean Medicine who helps patients taper off long-term psychotropic medication, I see the cracks in the system every day—patients who were placed on antidepressants, sleeping pills, or antipsychotics decades ago and never given a clear path to recovery. I’ve also been one of them.
A Silent Crisis
Despite rising awareness, mental health is still a taboo topic in many Korean families. According to OECD data, South Korea has the highest suicide rate among member nations. Yet, even when someone seeks help, the standard solution is almost always the same: medication.
Psychiatric institutions are increasing rapidly across the country. However, the system remains dominated by a biomedical model, where patients are quickly diagnosed and placed on medication. Most outpatient psychiatric visits last less than 10 minutes. Psychotherapy is rarely suggested. Community-based support is severely underfunded.
The Numbers Behind the Crisis
In a 2024 national survey, 73.6% of Koreans reported experiencing at least one mental health issue in the past year, such as chronic stress, anxiety, or depressive symptoms. This is a sharp increase from 63.8% in 2022, reflecting a trend that continues to rise year after year.
At the same time, the use of psychiatric medication—including controlled psychotropic substances—is also climbing. For example, insurance data reveals that propofol usage in medical institutions rose 12% in a single year, with only 15% of it being used under national health insurance coverage. The implication? A large portion of such substances may be used off-record, in ways that are difficult to monitor or regulate.
Yet despite rising distress and widespread access to medication, the majority of those suffering are not receiving structured care. In one recent study, 73% of individuals who reported psychological distress said they had not sought any form of treatment. Meanwhile, the overall utilization rate of mental health services in South Korea remains strikingly low—just 15.3%, far below the rates seen in other developed nations.
The system, then, appears to be caught in a paradox: more people are suffering, more drugs are being prescribed, and yet meaningful recovery remains elusive. Psychiatric medications are often offered as the default solution—but without complementary options such as therapy, community support, or trauma-informed care, these prescriptions can become long-term crutches rather than bridges to healing.
South Korea’s mental health crisis is not simply a matter of individual symptoms. It is a reflection of deep systemic issues—social pressure, medical hierarchy, lack of education around mental health—that collectively push people into silent suffering and pharmaceutical dependence.
It is time to ask not only how many people are receiving medication, but why so few are being offered real alternatives.
The Medicalization of Emotion
In South Korea, even mild feelings of sadness, lack of motivation, or difficulty concentrating are increasingly met with the advice to “go see a doctor and talk to a professional,” often framed as a caring and responsible approach. While this may reflect growing public awareness, I am concerned that such guidance funnels individuals into a tightly structured clinical pathway—one that often ends in a prescription pad.
Many of my patients began medication not after a traumatic event or persistent disorder, but simply because they were feeling overwhelmed during exams or going through a breakup. The prevailing narrative equates discomfort with disorder and positions psychiatric medication as the default solution, rather than one of many possible responses.
This growing medicalization of ordinary emotional distress overlooks the role of life context, social pressure, or unresolved psychological wounds. Instead of helping individuals explore the meaning behind their suffering, the system encourages chemical suppression of symptoms.
During a conversation with Robert Whitaker, I became even more alarmed to learn that this trend is not unique to South Korea. International surveys now show that countries promoting increased access to mental health services—particularly those based heavily on medication—often witness worsening overall mental health outcomes, not improvement. This paradox suggests that greater access, when tied to a narrow biomedical model, may actually deepen the crisis.
This insight has made me deeply reflect on the direction South Korea is heading. As more psychiatric clinics open and more citizens seek help, we must ensure that our definitions of “help” and “healing” go beyond fast-track diagnoses and prescriptions.
The Culture of Medical Authority
In Korean culture, doctors are seen as unquestionable authorities. When a psychiatrist says, “You need to take this medication for life,” few patients are encouraged to consider alternatives. Many don’t even realize there are options beyond medication.
This deeply rooted deference to medical authority begins early. In a society where education is often seen as the primary vehicle for success, becoming a doctor is regarded as the ultimate achievement. For many parents, investing in a child’s future medical school admission becomes a life-defining pursuit as early as age three. Within this context, doctors are not merely professionals—they are cultural symbols of success, credibility, and trustworthiness.
As a result, when physicians speak, their words carry near-absolute weight. Patients rarely question a psychiatric diagnosis or treatment plan, and discussions around risks, alternatives, or long-term implications are often bypassed altogether.
This cultural reverence, combined with limited education about psychiatric drugs, has created a society where psychotropic prescriptions are often accepted without question—and long-term use without reevaluation is the norm.
ADHD Stimulant Overuse in Youth
One emerging concern in Korea is the sharp rise in stimulant prescriptions for children and adolescents. ADHD diagnoses are increasing, and so is the perception of stimulant medications as academic performance enhancers. In competitive school environments, many parents and students seek these drugs for focus and endurance during exams.
One emerging concern in Korea is the sharp rise in stimulant prescriptions for children and adolescents. ADHD diagnoses are increasing, and so is the perception of stimulant medications as academic performance enhancers. In competitive school environments, many parents and students seek these drugs for focus and endurance during exams.
According to national health statistics, the total number of ADHD patients in South Korea more than doubled in just four years—from 60,909 in 2018 to 149,272 in 2022. Among them, the number of patients aged 6 to 18 rose by 82.2%, from 36,771 to 81,512. This surge reflects not only increased awareness, but also a growing dependence on medicalized solutions for childhood behavioral and attentional difficulties.
However, little public discussion exists around the risks of stimulant dependency, emotional side effects, or long-term developmental impact. Only few schools or clinics offer behavioral therapy or non-drug approaches as an option.
I recently treated a teenage patient who had been diagnosed with ADHD after showing disinterest in schoolwork and signs of anxiety following his parents’ divorce. His mother, highly educated and deeply invested in her son’s academic success, would often say, “Whose child are you, that you can’t focus like the rest?” The child had no real interest in studying and was clearly struggling emotionally, but his behavior was interpreted not as a sign of distress, but as a disorder.
He was prescribed ADHD medication, which he took for two years. The side effects were severe, and eventually, he and his family sought me out to help him stop the stimulants. Over the course of six months, we were able to taper off the medication safely. He regained the ability to function in daily life without drugs.
But what happened next was heartbreaking.
Even though his concentration had normalized and he was doing well, his mother grew anxious whenever he showed moments of daydreaming or lack of focus—something all teenagers do. Her fear was not about his well-being but about his academic performance. Eventually, despite having overcome all the side effects and dependency issues, they left my clinic in search of ADHD drugs again—driven not by medical need, but by educational ambition.
That moment left me deeply shaken.
When the very people meant to protect children are the ones pushing them toward unnecessary and harmful medication, we must ask: Who is modern medicine really serving? And is it still valid to assume that all forms of medical intervention are inherently beneficial to the human spirit?
Rethinking Psychiatric Medication
Any time someone raises concerns about psychiatric medication—or simply suggests caution in its use—they are quickly met with a familiar warning: “That’s a dangerous statement.” This often comes from psychiatrists, those who have suffered from severe mental illness, or people who have witnessed such suffering firsthand.
But as James Davies, author of Sedated, has pointed out, psychiatric drugs act more like a bandage or painkiller—helping to suppress symptoms temporarily, not treat the root cause of mental distress. In other words, they are not curative tools, but short-term symptom managers, especially for severe mental illness where urgent intervention is needed.
That’s precisely why the backlash against criticism is so strong: these drugs offer visible relief in dire situations. But the real danger lies in mistaking symptom suppression for recovery, and in promoting these drugs as long-term solutions.
What I continue to argue is simple: psychiatric drugs may serve a limited purpose in managing acute symptoms, but they cannot and should not be mistaken for fundamental treatment. As a society, we need to be able to clearly distinguish between symptom control and true healing—and only then can we make truly informed decisions about prescribing and taking these medications.
My Story and My Work
After returning to Korea from my studies in Chemistry and Anthropology at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, I was prescribed psychiatric medications that ultimately led to severe side effects and withdrawal symptoms. My healing came not through additional drugs, but through Korean medicine—including herbal formulas, and a lifestyle shift focused on balance and restoration.
This experience led me to train formally as a Doctor of Korean Medicine. In my clinical practice today, I work with patients—many of whom have been on psychiatric medications for over a decade—to help them taper safely and recover their sense of agency and well-being.
What distinguishes my approach is the emphasis on narrative-based diagnosis. Rather than focusing solely on surface-level symptoms, I aim to understand the broader context of a patient’s life: their early experiences, emotional patterns, family dynamics, and the meaning behind their distress.
Herbal medicine plays a key role in this process. Rather than being guided by abstract theory, my use of traditional formulas is based on patterns of imbalance observed over generations. I follow original prescriptions as they were recorded, applying them with a long-term, cumulative clinical perspective.
Interestingly, many of the herbs I use seem to improve digestive function—a finding that aligns with emerging research on the gut-brain axis, which explores how gastrointestinal health and mental well-being are closely connected.
As someone who once viewed Korean medicine through the skeptical lens of Western biomedicine, I’ve come to see it differently—not as an unproven alternative, but as a complementary path that offers individualized care, especially in the treatment of mental and emotional suffering.
Toward a More Humane System
South Korea needs a shift—from a system of symptom control through lifelong medication to one rooted in recovery, autonomy, and holistic care.
Today’s dominant model of psychiatry—especially its biologically reductive form—allows for prescriptions to be written in five or ten minutes. It’s quick and efficient: identify the symptom, match it to a drug, and move on. But real healing is rarely that simple. Mental distress cannot be understood in isolation from the life of the person experiencing it.
Psychiatric suffering is deeply personal and multifaceted. A true diagnosis must consider the patient’s entire life story—when and where they were born, their childhood experiences, school life, relationships with their parents, and other formative environments. That is why I apply a narrative-based diagnostic approach in my clinic. It’s not uncommon for me to spend one or even two hours with a single patient during their initial visit.
To some, this may seem inefficient. But to me, true medicine—especially in the field of mental health—must prioritize one person’s full recovery over a hundred temporary symptom fixes. This philosophy guides everything I do. Healing begins when we listen deeply—not just to symptoms, but to the whole story behind them.
Because behind every prescription is a person trying to survive, to be heard, and to heal.
