There's really no chance to meet men. I only go between work and home.
In the shadow of an eighth-century mountain temple, Buddhist monks have taken on an unlikely role in South Korea's most pressing modern crisis: a fertility rate so low it threatens the nation's future. With young adults isolated by long work hours, expensive cities, and shrinking social circles, structured retreats like the one at Donghwasa are filling a void that neither dating apps nor government spending has managed to close. It is a quiet, human-scaled response to a problem of civilizational scale — the ancient institution of the monastery offering what modernity has quietly taken away: the conditions for people to simply meet.
- South Korea's fertility rate of 0.72 children per woman — less than a third of what sustains a population — has pushed the country into a demographic emergency that $250 billion in government incentives has not reversed.
- Young adults describe lives narrowed to work and home, with no natural spaces left to encounter potential partners, making even the desire to connect feel structurally impossible.
- Over 1,600 people applied for 30 hours at a forested temple, signaling a deep hunger for something structured retreats can offer that algorithms and blind dates cannot: the slow, witnessed experience of being seen.
- Roses were exchanged, rivalries flickered, a man brought homemade pastries, and by the final morning eight couples had formed — small victories measured against a national crisis, but victories nonetheless.
- Birth rates nudged upward in 2024 and surveys show a nearly 10 percent rise in favorable attitudes toward marriage among unmarried Koreans, suggesting the cultural tide may be shifting even if no single policy can claim credit.
At Donghwasa Temple on the forested slopes of Palgongsan mountain, a monk told a room of young South Koreans they had come to save their country — not through prayer, but by finding love. The 30-hour retreat was one small response to a staggering demographic fact: South Korea's fertility rate had fallen to 0.72 children per woman in 2023, less than a third of the 2.1 needed to sustain a population. Despite roughly $250 billion spent since 2006 on parental leave, baby bonuses, and housing subsidies, the crisis had not relented. Buddhist monks, invoking their historical role defending Korea in the 1500s, were now stepping in where the state had stalled.
The problem was structural and stubborn. Young Koreans worked long hours, lived in expensive cities, and had few natural spaces to meet. Dating apps had never taken hold. Sunhyeji, 28, described her days as a loop between work and home, surrounded by older colleagues. Enyo, 30, had tried roughly ten blind dates arranged by friends — all of them shallow, going nowhere. His factory employed almost no women.
More than 1,600 people applied for the retreat. Those selected arrived at the temple to find their potential matches waiting. Men helped with luggage. Enyo distributed French pastries he had baked himself. There were walks through wooded paths, a talent show that shattered the careful politeness of the day, speed dating over untouched green tea, and rounds where roses were handed out and rivalries quietly formed. Minho, a 32-year-old civil servant, found himself caught between Sunhyeji and Ruby, a designer who watched with visible irritation as Sunhyeji chose him at dinner. Enyo sang a ballad and left without a match, but said he would come back.
By the final morning, eight couples had formed. Sunhyeji had stayed up until 3 a.m. laughing with new friends and felt, she said, like a teenager again. Nearly everyone left carrying something they hadn't brought: connection, confidence, the simple experience of having shown up and been seen.
The larger picture remained unresolved. Birth rates edged upward in 2024, though officials were cautious about attributing the gains to any particular intervention. What was clearer was a shift in feeling: a March survey found unmarried Koreans nearly 10 percent more favorable toward marriage and children than two years prior. Social media feeds full of weddings and newborns were doing something that policy could not force — quietly changing the cultural conversation, one small human moment at a time.
At Donghwasa Temple, nestled in the forested slopes of Palgongsan mountain, a monk in burnt-orange robes stood before a room of young South Koreans and told them they were there to save their country. Not through prayer or protest, but by finding someone to love and, eventually, having children.
The 30-hour retreat was part of something larger and more urgent than a weekend getaway. South Korea's fertility rate had collapsed to 0.72 children per woman in 2023—a historic low, and a number that terrified the nation's leaders. The replacement rate needed to sustain a population is 2.1. The gap between those two figures represents a demographic crisis that no amount of policy tinkering has yet solved. The government had already spent roughly $250 billion since 2006 on incentives: longer parental leave, cash bonuses for babies, subsidized apartments for newlyweds. Local governments and civic groups had begun organizing matchmaking events. And now, Buddhist monks—invoking their historical role defending Korea against Japanese invaders in the 1500s—were stepping in to do what the state could not.
The problem was simple and stubborn: young South Koreans were not meeting each other. They worked long hours. They lived in expensive cities. Dating apps had never gained traction; Tinder itself had rebranded as a friend-finding platform after years of stagnant growth. Small talk was rare. The traditional pathways—meeting through school, work, or through blind dates arranged by friends and family—were narrowing. Sunhyeji, a 28-year-old who had moved south for a job, described her life in stark terms: work and home, nothing in between. Her office was full of people much older than her. There was no chance to meet men. Enyo, a 30-year-old factory worker outside Daegu, had tried blind dates about ten times, arranged by friends. They felt shallow, going nowhere. Ninety-seven percent of his coworkers were men.
The retreat had drawn more than 1,600 applicants. The selection process was rigorous—questionnaires, selfie videos, assessments of how serious candidates were about marriage and children. Those who made it through arrived at the temple on a summer day to find their potential matches waiting. The men rushed to help the women with their luggage. Enyo handed out French pastries he had baked himself. The first activity was an introduction round. Then came the first dates: walks through wooded paths, conversations about hobbies and favorite shows. Minho, a 32-year-old civil servant, paired with Sunhyeji. Later, the men handed out plastic roses to women they wanted to know better over lunch. Minho chose Ruby, a 28-year-old designer. They stood closer together by the time they were washing dishes.
Then came the talent show—the awkward crescendo that broke the careful politeness of the day. Minho danced to a 2PM song with the chorus "I wanna take you to my house." Sunhyeji grooved to a pop hit. Enyo sang a ballad. Ruby spoke Spanish. One woman played the flute. The activities were relentless: speed dating over green tea that no one drank, another round where the women chose their dinner partners. Sunhyeji gave her rose to Minho. Ruby, who had also chosen him, watched in irritation. Enyo wasn't chosen by anyone and ended up at a table with the other unmatched participants.
By the final morning, eight couples had formed, including two matches between event staff and participants. Sunhyeji had stayed up until 3 a.m. gossiping with other women and had made plans for brunch. She felt like a teenager again, spontaneous and unafraid. The single men had bonded and planned to hang out, with alcohol and meat on the table. Enyo left without a match but said he'd return if invited again. Nearly everyone left with something they hadn't arrived with: new friends and a kind of confidence that comes from being seen, from trying, from showing up.
The broader picture remained uncertain. Birth rates had edged upward in 2024—women were expected to have 1.0 child each, up from 0.8 in 2025—but officials cautioned that the pandemic had delayed weddings and births, and a large generation born to baby boomers was reaching childbearing age. It wasn't clear whether the government's $250 billion in incentives, or the monks' retreats, or anything else had actually moved the needle. But a survey from March suggested something might be shifting: unmarried people were nearly 10 percent more favorable to marriage and children than they had been two years earlier. More of them were seeing friends tie the knot and have babies on social media. The cultural conversation was changing, slowly, in ways that no policy could force.
Citações Notáveis
Low births are a national crisis. We had to do something about it.— Yoo Cheol-ju, host monk at Donghwasa Temple
I made many friends! A plan to get brunch together is already in the works.— Sunhyeji, 28-year-old retreat participant
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why would monks take on this role? It seems so far from what we think of as their work.
The host, Yoo Cheol-ju, framed it as continuity. Donghwasa Temple had housed monk militias defending Korea in the 1500s. This felt like the same principle—Buddhists acting when the country is in trouble. Except the trouble now isn't invaders. It's that people aren't meeting each other, aren't marrying, aren't having children.
But a speed-dating retreat seems almost absurd as a response to a fertility crisis. How does that actually help?
It doesn't solve the crisis. But it addresses something real: the isolation. Sunhyeji couldn't meet men because her life was work and home. Enyo's workplace was 97 percent male. They weren't failing at dating—they were failing at the first step, which is meeting someone. The retreat creates that space.
Did it work? Did people actually pair off?
Eight couples formed over the 30 hours. But that's not the whole story. Enyo didn't find a match, and he left disappointed. But he also said he'd come back. Sunhyeji didn't leave with a partner either, but she made friends and felt alive in a way she hadn't in months. For some people, the retreat was about romance. For others, it was about remembering they could be spontaneous.
The government has spent $250 billion on this problem. Why is it still so hard?
Because you can't legislate desire or opportunity. You can offer subsidized apartments and parental leave, but if young people are working 60-hour weeks and living in expensive cities and have no time to meet anyone, the incentives don't matter. The retreat works because it removes friction—it puts people in a room together for 30 hours and says, here, try this.
Is the birth rate actually improving?
It ticked up in 2024, but no one's sure why. The government is careful to say it might be the pandemic catching up, or demographics. But there's also a shift in attitudes—people are more open to marriage and children than they were two years ago. Whether that's because of the retreats, or social media, or just time, nobody knows.