SOUTH KOREA: They sit quietly in living rooms, waiting.
When the front door opens, their eyes light up, and a small voice fills the silence—bright, familiar, and childlike. Some wear pink dresses with tidy braids. Others come dressed in blue, a bow tie carefully fixed at the collar. They ask how the day went.
They play music. They wait patiently, hour after hour. At first glance, they could pass for grandchildren, but they are stitched from fabric, wired with metal, and animated by artificial intelligence—an unlikely presence in the middle of one of South Korea’s most painful crises.
Meet Hyodol, a doll-like companion robot for elderly people living alone. It connects to an app, allowing remote check-ins by family or caregivers. To users, it feels more like a comforting presence than a device.
However, the backdrop of this story is that every day, around 10 older adults in South Korea die by suicide.
The figure, reported in June 2025 by the Journal of the Korean Medical Association, featured in a recent CNN story, is more than a statistic. It reflects a quiet, growing despair among seniors across East Asia. Japan and Hong Kong have long struggled with high suicide rates among the elderly, but South Korea’s situation has become especially dire. The country now records the highest elderly suicide rate among OECD nations, alarming researchers, doctors, and policymakers alike.
Growing old in a hurry
“It’s a real crisis,” says Othelia E. Lee, a professor of social work at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte who has spent years studying isolation among older adults in South Korea.
The country is now a “super-aged” society, with more than 10 million people aged 65 or older—roughly one in five citizens. “The change happened so fast,” Lee explains, “that the government didn’t have time to build a strong pension or care system, but leaving seniors to fend for themselves is not an option.”
South Korea’s economic rise transformed the nation within a generation, but prosperity also fractured traditional family structures. Multigenerational households have faded. Adult children often live far away or struggle with their own financial pressures. Today, nearly one in three older South Koreans lives alone.
“That isolation brings financial stress, deep loneliness, and a crushing sense of being a burden,” Lee says. “Those feelings are closely tied to depression and suicide.”
As hospitals, social workers, and families strain to keep up, the government has begun looking beyond traditional care—and toward technology—to help fill the gap.
An artificial “grandchild”
One of the most visible results of that search is Hyodol.
Hyodol is a small, doll-like robot designed for older adults who live alone. It connects to a smartphone app and a web platform that allows caregivers or family members to check in remotely, but for the people who live with it, Hyodol is less a device than a presence.
It reminds users to take their medication. It alerts caregivers in emergencies. It keeps track of meals and routines. And it talks—softly, cheerfully, in the voice of a young child.
The robot is about the size of a pillow, easy to hold, and warm to the touch. It responds when its head is patted or a hand is squeezed. It plays familiar songs. It asks simple questions, and when a senior returns home, often to an empty apartment, it offers a greeting many haven’t heard in years:
“Grandma, Grandpa—I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
“The design was everything,” says Hyodol CEO Jihee Kim. “The baby-like appearance helps seniors feel safe. It builds trust. And the cuteness makes the technology less intimidating.”
By November 2025, more than 12,000 Hyodol robots had been distributed across South Korea, mostly through public welfare programs. About 1,000 more were purchased directly by families. The latest model costs around US$879 (S$1,135).
For many caregivers, that cost feels small compared to what they’ve seen it change.
One social worker, who asked to remain anonymous, described an elderly woman in her care who had become deeply withdrawn and overwhelmed by loneliness. After Hyodol entered her home, something shifted. The woman talked to it. Held it. Looked forward to coming home again. “The companionship mattered,” the social worker said. “It eased the loneliness.”
When connection returns
Stories like that are common. In a 2024 study, Lee found that many seniors gave their robots names, dressed them in baby clothes, and tucked them into bed at night. In a small trial involving 69 older adults, Hyodol users showed lower levels of depression and better cognitive scores after six weeks. For those with mild cognitive impairment, regular use was even linked to delaying admission into nursing homes.
“These robots don’t just pass the time,” Lee says. “They can change how people experience their days—and how they feel about themselves.”
The uneasy questions
Yet comfort comes with complications.
Some experts worry that the deep emotional bonds formed with these robots could encourage dependency or blur the line between support and substitution. Others question whether baby-like designs unintentionally undermine older adults’ dignity.
Kim recalls one case that still troubles her: a woman who named her Hyodol after her late daughter and gradually withdrew from social life, choosing the robot’s company over human contact.
“Hyodol isn’t meant to replace people,” Kim says. “It’s a tool, not a relationship.” She notes that many seniors—especially those who are more independent—find the robot annoying or intrusive. The average user age is 82, reflecting who it truly serves.
Privacy concerns also linger. Kim says data is anonymised and voice recordings are used only to improve the system, but researchers warn that ethical guidelines have struggled to keep up. A 2020 study in the Journal of Alzheimer’s Disease raised concerns about informed consent, emotional deception, and autonomy in the use of artificial companions.
A gentler path
Japan, another leader in eldercare robotics, has taken a quieter approach.
Instead of a talking, child-like companion, it introduced PARO—a plush robot modelled after a baby seal. PARO doesn’t speak, record conversations, or simulate family roles. It simply responds to touch, like a therapy animal.
“People can feel uneasy talking to robots,” says PARO’s creator, Professor Takanori Shibata. “PARO feels safe.” Research shows it can ease anxiety and agitation in people with dementia, veterans with PTSD, and children with developmental disorders.
Today, PARO is used in more than 30 countries. Hyodol may soon join it. The Korean business is formulating for an international introduction in 2026, adjusting its AI to diverse nations and outlooks.
As the world ages and families grow more disjointed, these ‘friends’ or companions—whether talkative grandchildren or noiseless mechanical seals—are becoming big chunks of normal life. The worldwide eldercare robot marketplace is projected to reach $7.7 billion by 2030.
And with their mounting existence comes a profoundly human query — when human connection becomes more difficult to stumble upon, how much coziness and well-being can a machine truthfully provide—and what does it say about the world we’re growing old in?
