When news broke that 24-year-old actress Kim Sae-ron was found dead in her home earlier this year, a sense of tragic déjà vu rippled through South Korea.
Police believe it was suicide. The national outpouring of shock and grief felt all too familiar. “When will this ever end? How many more lives must be lost before this tragic cycle is broken?” one Korean columnist poignantly asked.
The cycle in question is the relentless rise-and-fall of Korean idols – a toxic loop of idol-making and idol-breaking that has claimed far too many young stars.
As a Seoul-based journalist who has covered K-pop and K-drama for years, I’ve witnessed this dark cycle up close. It’s a phenomenon fueled by two potent forces: an obsessive fan culture that lionizes idols to impossible heights, and a profit-hungry industry that exploits and discards these idols with equal fervor.
Kim’s story encapsulates the extremes of this culture. Once a beloved child star, she saw her career unravel after a single mistake – a drunk-driving incident in 2022 – triggered a tidal wave of public shaming. She paid fines and apologized, but nothing could stop the “avalanche of criticism, both online and in the media” that followed. Roles dried up; scenes she had already filmed were cut from a Netflix series, and she was forced off an upcoming TV drama. In a desperate attempt at normal life, Kim took a job at a coffee shop, only to be mocked for it. This January, she became the latest casualty in a list of Korean celebrities driven to take their own lives under intense public pressure – a list that tragically includes K-pop idols like Sulli and Goo Hara in 2019, and SHINee’s lead singer Kim Jong-hyun in 2017. Each time, we ask what we as a society could have done differently – yet the cycle continues.
Idol-Making: High Dreams, High Pressure
Behind every K-pop idol or screen star shining on the global stage is a grueling idol-making machine. South Korea’s entertainment industry famously grooms teenagers (sometimes even younger) through trainee programs that demand military-like discipline. The young aspirants endure endless rehearsing and strict restrictions on nearly every aspect of life – from dating or socializing to calorie intake and even online activity. In return, they are promised a shot at stardom in a country that has become a pop-culture “cultural superpower”. Make no mistake: the K-culture boom – K-pop, K-drama, K-everything – is big business. Top agencies invest millions to manufacture the perfect idols, and they expect total obedience and perfection in exchange.
One recent breakout group, NewJeans, illustrates both the power and perils of this system. Debuting in 2022 with fresh faces aged just 14 to 18, NewJeans rocketed to stardom almost overnight. Their success validated the industry’s relentless training regime – but it also came shrouded in controversy. The group’s very debut was marked by debate over a song “Cookie,” whose lyrics many interpreted as “sexually suggestive” and wildly inappropriate for minors to sing. Fans and critics alike wondered: were these teenage girls being packaged with sly innuendo to court popularity at any cost?
The agency, ADOR, insisted the innuendo was unintentional, but the episode highlighted a disturbing truth. In the rush to mint the next big idol, boundaries of ethics and youth wellness can blur. NewJeans’ youthful appeal was a marketing goldmine – endorsements, album sales, global media buzz – yet the adults in the room seemingly struggled with how to protect these young stars from exploitation.
Even beyond questions of content, the case of NewJeans revealed how corporate greed and power struggles can overshadow an idol’s art. Last year, the group’s visionary producer Min Hee-jin resigned from their label amid a messy feud with its parent company, HYBE. She later described enduring a “nightmarish dispute” for months, accusing HYBE of an “illegal audit” and interference in her creative direction. In a highly unusual move, the five NewJeans members – barely out of high school – publicly appealed for Min’s reinstatement as CEO, essentially siding with their mentor against the corporation that owns their careers.
The spectacle of teenage idols effectively begging a Fortune 500-sized company to do right by them was both inspiring and alarming. It underscored that even at the pinnacle of success, idols remain pawns in a bigger corporate game. The idol-making machine might churn out glittering new stars, but behind the glamour lies a precarious life lived at the mercy of management deals, media narratives, and fan expectations.
Idol-Breaking: Public Trials and Harsh Judgments
If idol-making is about raising stars to impossible heights, idol-breaking is the swift, often brutal process of casting them down. In South Korea, an idol’s fall from grace can be as dramatic as any K-drama storyline – except the pain and consequences are very real. A minor scandal or personal mistake can flip a switch, turning ardent admirers into an online lynch mob overnight. The same frenzied passion that fuels fan obsession can quickly mutate into outrage and abandonment when an idol is perceived to falter or “betray” the immaculate image built around them.
Social media and gossip sites amplify every rumor or slip-up, with little regard for context or mercy. As one commentator observed, Korean celebrities have become easy targets in a high-stakes public arena: “South Korean society has become like a giant Squid Game… People who make mistakes or fall behind are ruthlessly eliminated… Celebrities are under immense pressure to appear impeccable at all times”.
The reference to Netflix’s Squid Game may be metaphorical, but the elimination is literal in terms of careers – and sometimes lives. Fans and netizens, empowered by anonymity, hold idols to standards of near-perfection. When an idol shows human frailty, the backlash is swift and often vicious. Indeed, stars – especially female stars – face a “pressure to appear impeccable at all times,” knowing any blemish could end their livelihood.
Consider the public pillorying of Kim Sae-ron after her DUI incident. Despite her apologies and legal penalties paid, online commenters and tabloids hounded her relentlessly, accusing her of not showing enough remorse for a single mistake. In effect, she was never allowed to recover her reputation. That unforgiving glare contributes to a mental health crisis among idols. Many are terrified to seek therapy, as doing so might leak to the press and invite even more scandal. The system offers few second chances; in the court of public opinion, a guilty verdict is often a life sentence of ostracism.
Male idols are not spared either. A current example dominating headlines is the trial by fire of actor Kim Soo-hyun – one of the country’s biggest TV stars – whose private life was dragged into the spotlight in the most sensational way. In early 2025, Kim became embroiled in explosive allegations that he had groomed the late Kim Sae-ron, having dated her when she was underage, and even contributed to her downfall. The accusations, stemming from Kim Sae-ron’s own family and a YouTube gossip channel, put Kim Soo-hyun in the crosshairs of public fury. Overnight, this revered actor’s name was trending for all the wrong reasons. Advertisers swiftly pulled his commercials, and a high-profile new drama he’d filmed was put on indefinite hold by its streaming platform. Kim Soo-hyun watched years of hard-won prestige crumble virtually overnight, before he even had a chance to speak in his defense.
When he finally did respond, it was through tears at a press conference, vehemently denying any wrongdoing. “It is not true that I dated her when she was underage. It is also not true that she made the fatal decision due to financial pressure from my agency,” he declared.
To salvage his reputation, Kim took the extraordinary step of suing his accusers – including the young actress’s family – for defamation, seeking 12 billion won (over $8 million) in damages. It is a bitter, public battle with careers and credibility on the line. Regardless of the outcome, the spectacle reinforces a sobering reality: in K-entertainment, a single controversy can make you or break you. Today’s national heartthrob can become tomorrow’s national pariah in the blink of an eye.
Amid these public trials, some fans remain supportive. In Kim Soo-hyun’s case, loyal supporters even sent a LED billboard truck around Seoul bearing messages like “We won’t let hate win” to rally behind him. This kind of fan-driven solidarity — through hashtags, protest trucks or supportive ads — is a unique phenomenon in K-pop culture. Yet even such support can feel like a thin shield against a much larger tide of vitriol. And not every embattled star is fortunate enough to have a devoted fandom in their corner; for many idols, once the public turns on you, there is no redemption arc forthcoming.
Obsession, Greed, and the Way Forward
What drives this unforgiving cycle of idol-making and idol-breaking? At its core lies a volatile mix of obsession and greed. Fans pour intense emotional energy (and money) into idol worship – buying albums in bulk, streaming songs 24/7 to boost chart rankings, treating their favorite idols not just as entertainers but as personal heroes or even deities. This devotion can border on obsession, creating a sense of ownership over the idol.
When idols deviate from the script fans have in mind – by dating secretly, speaking out of turn, or simply showing vulnerability – the disappointment can be extreme. In online forums, I’ve seen fans who once flooded idols with love turn around and hurl abuse or start boycott campaigns at the first whiff of scandal. As sociology professor Sangchin Chun notes, celebrities in Korea are “people you can freely attack without facing any pushback” – unlike powerful politicians or chaebol executives, idols are uniquely exposed and vulnerable in the public eye.
On the other side of the coin, entertainment companies and media organizations exhibit an insatiable greed for profit and clicks. The K-pop idol system is fundamentally a business model, one that sometimes prioritizes profit over the wellbeing of its stars. Trainees can spend their adolescence locked in contracts that border on indentured servitude, with the agency investing in their debut and taking a huge cut of their earnings.
Once an idol becomes popular, the company has every incentive to maximize that popularity – more world tours, more endorsements, more content – often at the expense of rest or personal growth. And if a scandal arises, many companies will cut an idol loose in hopes of protecting the brand, treating these young people as disposable assets.
The press, too, often fans the flames. Sensational headlines and tabloid exposés generate precious web traffic. In Kim Sae-ron’s case, watchdog groups criticized how “most media outlets [were] at the forefront of promoting criticism” against her, exploiting her misfortunes for clicks. This relentless feeding frenzy continues even after death – a South Korean media ethics organization pointed out that numerous outlets kept milking Kim’s story posthumously, as if her tragedy were just another trending topic.
The result is a deeply unhealthy environment for anyone in the limelight. South Korea’s celebrity suicide rate is not mere coincidence; it’s a mirror reflecting the pressures of a society that both worships and weaponizes its idols. After each loss, there is a round of soul-searching. The government mulls regulations – like stronger cyberbullying laws or requiring real-name registration online to curb trolls – but meaningful reform stalls amidst free-speech concerns and industry pushback. Entertainment agencies have begun suing malicious commenters on behalf of their artists in some cases, and there are calls for news sites to disable comment sections on celebrity news. But these are piecemeal measures, treating symptoms rather than causes.
Breaking this cycle will require a cultural shift in how we define success and virtue for public figures. It means asking uncomfortable questions of ourselves as fans and consumers of K-culture. Why do we demand moral perfection from 20-something pop stars who spend their adolescence in training bubbles? Why do we click on every scandal article, feeding the tabloid beast? And why are apologies and accountability not enough to earn forgiveness in the court of public opinion?
There are no easy answers. As a Korean who cherishes our cultural achievements, I celebrate the BTSes and Blackpinks that put our music on the world stage, and the Oscar-winning actors and globally loved dramas. But I also ache with each story of a young talent broken by the weight of that success. The death of yet another bright star like Kim Sae-ron should haunt us. It’s a stark reminder that behind the glorious hallyu wave that carries Korean pop culture across the globe, there is an undertow pulling our idols down.
To truly honor the idols we adore, perhaps we need to reconsider what it means to be a “fan.” Does love for our stars mean blinding ourselves to their humanity, then crucifying them when they err? Or can it mean allowing them to be fallible, to rest, to grow – even to age and change – without betrayal? And on the industry side, how long can the show go on when its brightest performers keep burning out?
These days, when I find myself covering yet another scandal or tragedy, I think back to that urgent question posed in The Guardian: When will this ever end? The optimistic part of me dares to hope that by confronting the uncomfortable truths of our fandom and industry practices, the cycle can be broken. The more cynical part worries that as long as the hits keep coming and the money keeps flowing, the machine will keep churning – and we’ll be asking that question again, after the next heartbreaking loss.
In the end, the fate of K-culture’s idols rests in the hands of all who participate in this ecosystem – the companies, the media, but also we the fans. Idol-making and idol-breaking are two sides of the same coin, minted by our collective fervor. If we truly value the artistry and joy these young people bring us, we must find a way to stop idolizing them to death.
