The weight-loss crisis in Korea

Every morning, before I even get out of bed, I open Instagram and am instantly hit by an endless barrage of "body profile" photos and aesthetic diet vlogs.

Walking through the streets of Seoul, subway stations are plastered with dramatic "before" and "after" plastic surgery and diet advertisements. Increasingly, I see my own friends — teenagers who are perfectly healthy — becoming obsessed with quick-fix weight loss, desperately trying to mimic the radical, rapid transformations of K-pop idols and influencers.

In Korea, health has undergone a strange mutation. It is no longer a biological indicator of well-being and sustainability, but rather an immediate obligation to manufacture one’s body to fit a narrow social standard. Sixty percent of diet-pill users in Korea are not medically obese. Yet, driven by social pressure, many resort to heavy pharmaceuticals, only to suffer from severe anxiety, insomnia and behavioral changes.

According to data submitted to the National Assembly, doctors in Korea prescribed over 1 billion pills of these narcotic appetite suppressants between 2021 and mid-2025 alone. These suppressants activate the sympathetic nervous system, mimicking gut hormones and altering neurotransmitters that signal satiety. They bind to specific serotonin receptors in the brain that typically give you a sensation of satisfaction after a meal.

If a person who is not obese takes these medications, it disrupts the normal dopamine regulation, which frequently leads to side effects such as nausea, insomnia and anxiety. A 2026 study by the Korea Institute for Health and Social Affairs found that 73.5 percent of diet pill users experienced physical or psychological side effects.

Despite all this, millions of prescriptions are written each year, including cases where patients do not meet the criteria of being clinically obese. Patients with a normal body mass index can receive simple prescriptions to obtain these medications. In 2022, a single clinic in South Chungcheong Province prescribed a female patient roughly 3,200 appetite suppressant tablets in a single year. That translates to eight tablets daily, significantly exceeding the medically advised safety limit of one to two tablets per day for a maximum of three months. These medications are easily accessible in bulk, which means teenagers and students are easily able to access and distribute them without medical advice.

Beauty standards have escalated globally — such as the rise of Ozempic in the U.S. — but in Korea, the media have uniquely embedded abnormal standards into the societal "norm." Korea consistently records the highest suicide rates among OECD countries, and while tragic, people have been desensitized to this fact. We collectively wonder why clinical depression is abnormally high among young adults, yet the media frequently strips down the cause to sheer academic stress.

In addition, clinics and businesses are no longer treating their patients, but monetizing social anxiety and insecurities. By providing quick pharmaceutical solutions, they disincentivize consumers from identifying their root problems, creating dependency on the prescription. Weak government oversight shifts the medical risk onto patients, as well as loose regulations that increase clinical hazards across vulnerable age groups.

Health has lost its intrinsic meaning over the past years. Despite its purpose of reformulating the body to its optimal standards, clinics have exploited it as a tool for conformity amid weak government regulations. Until Korea learns to value true health over appearance, our prescriptions will keep treating symptoms, not causes. The real crisis we face is not merely a medical one — it is a conceptual failure of what we believe it means to be healthy.

Luke H. Lee is a senior at United World Colleges ISAK in Japan.