During the day, 30-year-old Hae-ri Jeong seemed busy and cheerful as she taught English and served as a youth group leader at her church in Seoul. Yet at night, she would return to her empty apartment and feel disappointed and anxious over a recent breakup with her boyfriend. At times, the emptiness overwhelmed her.
“It was hard to open up even to my close friends,” she recalled. “I was afraid it would seem too trivial or make me look even more pitiful.”
One night this summer, she stared at her phone in her hand for a long time before calling the local mental health crisis hotline. When the counselor told her, “You can say anything to me,” Jeong burst into tears. After a lengthy conversation, the counselor guided her to a government-run center called a “mind convenience store” near her house, where she could meet with a counselor in person.
Jeong is one of many Seoul residents struggling with loneliness. In the past two decades, the proportion of single-person households has grown from 16 percent to 40 percent. An estimated 130,000 people between the ages of 19 and 39 are socially isolated. Nationwide, the government recorded more than 3,600 cases of godoksa, or “lonely deaths”—where a person dies alone and remains undiscovered for an extended period—in 2023. South Korea has had the highest suicide rate among OECD (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development) countries for the past two decades.
In response, the Seoul government pledged to spend 451 billion won ($321 million USD) over the next five years on its “Seoul Without Loneliness” project, which would include expanding the 24/7 hotline and community spaces. One of its initiatives is opening mind convenience stores, which provide citizens a place to rest, enjoy tea or simple meals, and receive psychological assessments or counseling, all free of charge. Meanwhile, Christian groups in Korea have long sought to create third spaces, such as cafés, for people to gather and build community.
Convenience stores like 7-Eleven or FamilyMart are ingrained into everyday life in East Asia, where they often appear on every block. The clean, brightly lit stores are filled with food, drinks, stationery, and toiletries and allow customers to purchase train tickets and receive packages. Recent books, like Kim Ho-yeon’s The Second Chance Convenience Store, have depicted convenience stores as places for lonely misfits to find community.
That idea led to the city’s creation of mind convenient stores. CT visited the Gwanak branch in Sillim-dong, Seoul, on a rainy September weekday. Inside, AstroTurf covers the floor as several grannies chat in lawn chairs surrounded by trees and potted plants. A counter offers tea to brew in a glass teapot, while shelves of instant noodles cover a wall. An adjoining room serves as a movie theater and lecture hall with a ceiling-mounted projector and flexible seating.
The space also includes several private counseling rooms and onsite counselors. After registering as members of the mind convenience store, participants can earn points by taking part in counseling sessions or volunteer activities. They can then use the points to join other programs or receive food within the store.
According to social worker Joo-a Son, more than 660 people submitted membership applications to the branch between April and August this year, and more than 100 people use the space daily. Some visitors come just to sit quietly for a while before leaving.
“For those people who have been isolated for a long time, even making an appointment for counseling can be burdensome,” she explained. The center, which is open from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. on weekdays and until 1 p.m. on Saturdays, helps participants build ongoing relationships within the community.
One visitor, 45-year-old Cheol Kim, had long struggled with financial hardship and depression, which led to suicidal thoughts. One day he noticed a banner on the street advertising the center. He stepped inside, where he was able to eat and receive free counseling. “I felt the kindness and warmth of the welcome here, and it gave me the courage to overcome depression,” Kim said.
Churches and Christian ministries have also long sought to help lonely people in Korea’s big citiesby creating spaces for community to grow. For instance, Pastor Hyo-seong Kim opened up Youth Space Eum on the fourth floor of a commercial building in the Gwanak district ten years ago in response to the rise of single-person households. Local churches and Baekseok University, a Christian college 50 miles south of Seoul, helped found and sponsor Eum, which includes rooms for people to study or hold seminars.
“I wanted to help people struggling with loneliness and to meet them outside the church so I could learn their language and culture,” Kim said. “We opened this space to everyone, whether Christian or not.”
At first glance, Eum looks like a typical café, with a long wooden table and bookshelves lining the walls. A coffee machine is available for visitors to use at no cost. Yet Eum does more than provide a space for friends to catch up or remote workers to set up camp. It holds monthly community gatherings, annual trips, and ongoing counseling by Kim. Through partnerships with the government and businesses, it also offers job-counseling and mentorship programs.
“Faith-based values are at the core,” Kim said, “but what we aim is to reach out to young people to provide practical help.” Kim believes that churches need to care for people who fall through the cracks of social services. “Isolation cannot be solved with short-term projects,” he noted. “Sustainability is what matters most.”
Every summer, Eum hosts a Worship & Lifestyle & Balance camp on Jeju Island. It invites about a dozen young people to eat, rest, and fellowship together for four days. At the close of each day, they share their reflections and encourage one another. “It is a time of worship, but what is most essential in this time is a spirit of hospitality and the courage to be loved,” Kim said. “In the midst of weary lives, participants experience the love God has given and from that love find renewal of body and spirit that points them toward their ultimate direction.”
Meanwhile, in Busan, the second-largest city of South Korea, Christians also work to tackle loneliness by running a place called Promised Land, a basement venue designed as a gathering place for young people.
As visitors descend the narrow staircase to the entrance, the noise of the street fades into silence. At the bottom, a wooden door opens into a room that feels more like a hidden retreat center than a performance hall. Inside, rows of wooden chairs rest on stacked pallets, facing a stage carpeted in green turf. The walls are covered with signs of community life—photographs of visitors, colorful flyers, and a poster for a Christian play called Mother.
Founded in 1998 by Seung-hak Kim and Jung-hee Choi of Donggwang Church in Busan, the café began as a place for small gatherings. When Whoojin Park began volunteering two years later, it was on the verge of closure due to unpaid rent. Park took over ownership, covering the rent first through fundraising and then by taking on other part-time jobs.
“[Promised Land] should not become the possession of a particular church or organization but remain a faith-based commons where anyone can enter, stay, converse, and find renewal,” Park said.
Two decades later, as the COVID-19 lockdowns cut into the café’s business yet again, Promised Land began to rent out the space to Christian and local community groups. It has hosted plays, concerts, art exhibits, poetry readings, and seminars.
On Sundays, the space is closed to the public and used as a worship site for church plants on a one-year rotating basis. More than 14 congregations have gathered there so far. The hall remains open to small groups who wish to use it for worship or community meetings. Rather than charging fixed rental fees, the venue invites contributions through freewill offerings, a practice intended to keep the space accessible, with lower barriers.
Promised Land hopes to create an “urban mission infrastructure” that responds to the isolation and loneliness of people. Park highlighted the importance of place. He has preserved the same basement venue for nearly three decades because “only a space that holds memory can reconnect people with their past selves.”
Back in Seoul, Jeong noted that her late-night phone call to the mental health hotline was the first step of her journey toward healing. “I felt my anxiety calm down during the conversation,” she said. “It didn’t solve the problem itself, but just being able to open up to someone gave me comfort.”
Looking back, Jeong said she hopes others will not carry their burdens alone. “I want to tell people not to be afraid of reaching out for help,” she said. “Even when life feels empty, God’s love never abandons us. That truth has carried me—and I believe it can remind others that they are not alone.”
