In South Korea, a growing sense of loneliness is quietly reshaping the lives of students and young professionals, even as the country boasts impressive statistics in educational attainment and scientific research. On September 2, 2025, two separate but thematically linked reports—one exploring the emotional intricacies of friendship and another exposing the harsh realities facing young researchers—painted a sobering portrait of modern social disconnection and the high-stress academic environment fueling it.
From the earliest days in elementary school, through the long years of middle and high school, and finally to the hallowed halls of university, South Koreans spend nearly half their lives in classrooms and lecture theaters, according to a recent analysis published on September 2. The shared experiences—eating lunch together, collaborating on group projects, or just breathing the same air of youthful ambition—might suggest the formation of lifelong friendships. But as the article points out, this assumption is often an illusion.
“We easily mistake proximity for friendship,” the article notes, highlighting how simply being together does not guarantee meaningful bonds. The difference between being classmates and being true friends is a chasm that many never cross. Sociologist Robert Weiss, in his influential 1973 work Loneliness, argued that genuine friendship is defined by emotional support and social integration, not merely the passage of time spent together. Peter Blau, in his 1964 book Exchange and Power in Social Life, further emphasized that friendships are maintained through voluntary and reciprocal exchanges, not by institutional or legal compulsion.
Why, then, do so many in South Korea—and perhaps elsewhere—cling to the notion that all former classmates are friends? The answer seems to lie in cultural expectations and the powerful pull of nostalgia. Reunions and alumni gatherings often start with the familiar refrain, “Weren’t we in the same class?” Yet, as the article cautions, this is only the starting line, not a guarantee of lasting camaraderie. The danger of conflating old classmates with true friends is more than semantic—it can lead to unnecessary comparisons, disappointment, and even emotional harm.
“The person who was barely noticed in school suddenly becomes sought after if they achieve social success,” the article observes. In these moments, the term ‘friend’ can be stretched to mean ‘useful contact’ or ‘network,’ rather than someone who genuinely shares the joys and burdens of life. The result is a fragile web of relationships that may leave individuals feeling more isolated than ever, especially when they need real support.
This emotional landscape is mirrored in the statistics emerging from South Korea’s universities and research institutes. According to a report published the same day by Hankyung, around 30% of South Korean students experience acute loneliness, a figure that surpasses their American and Japanese peers. The problem is particularly severe among graduate students and young researchers, many of whom struggle not only with social isolation but also with precarious employment and financial instability.
One poignant story centers on a man in his thirties, supporting two children, who laments, “In America, at least I would earn enough for my family to live on.” The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics confirms that PhD holders in the United States earn an average annual salary of $108,000—enough, after adjusting for cost of living, for a family of four to get by. In contrast, many South Korean researchers—especially those who fail to secure coveted tenure-track positions—are pushed into unstable, low-paying jobs with little hope for advancement.
Data from the Science and Technology Human Resources Policy Platform (HPP) shows that, as of 2022, South Korea produced 199.1 doctoral graduates per million people, far outpacing the U.S. (130) and Japan (96.5). Yet, the job market has not kept pace. While 75.6% find employment in the private sector, only 10.1% secure university research positions—a rate less than half that of Germany or France. The competition is fierce, and the stakes are high: last year, 29.6% of new PhDs were unemployed, up from 24.5% in 2014. Among those under 30, the unemployment rate soared to 47.7%.
Behind these numbers lies a system that often leaves researchers in limbo. South Korea’s Higher Education Act recognizes only students and faculty as official members of the university community, excluding research staff from institutional support. As a result, many postdoctoral researchers rely on government or corporate grants for their salaries, with little job security or access to benefits. Once a research project ends, so does their paycheck. In countries like the U.S. or Japan, postdocs can transition into permanent staff scientist roles after gaining experience. Not so in South Korea, where such tracks are rare or nonexistent.
One researcher who worked in the U.S. remarked, “In America, there are opportunities for permanent positions, and even visas and mortgages are supported. In Korea, there’s no such foundation.” The lack of stability not only drives talented individuals abroad but also undermines the continuity of basic research. As Professor Nam Jin-woo of Hanyang University noted, “Overseas, technicians and researchers operate equipment for decades as permanent staff, while in Korea, if a research professor fails to secure a project, the staff disappears.” This leads to a loss of expertise and repeated inefficiencies, as new teams must relearn old skills.
The government has introduced programs like the Sejong Science Fellowship to address these issues, but some argue these efforts have backfired. For example, researchers who earn their doctorates abroad and return to Korea receive a grant of 150 million won, while those who complete their studies domestically get little support. This has led to a sense of futility among young scientists, who joke that it’s better to leave the country early and, if unsuccessful, simply return home to claim the benefits.
The consequences of these trends are profound. As the first article emphasizes, “The more the value of friendship is diluted, the more lonely people become.” The same could be said for professional relationships. Without genuine support networks—whether forged through deep friendship or stable employment—individuals are left to navigate life’s challenges alone. The growing epidemic of loneliness among South Korea’s youth is not just a personal tragedy; it’s a societal issue that threatens the country’s future innovation and well-being.
Ultimately, the distinction between classmates and true friends, or between colleagues and meaningful professional allies, is more than academic. It’s about building a society where people feel seen, supported, and connected—not just in name, but in genuine, lasting ways.
