Admitted, diagnosed, treated: Inside Seoul's hospital for stuffed animals

“Reddy has been admitted.”

The message arrived along with a photograph of 13-year-old Reddy taken inside her “hospital room,” shortly after she consulted with “doctor” Titi Kim.

Despite concerns, Kim had pronounced her condition “very minor.”

It was a fair assessment, after witnessing patients in considerably worse shape. Some were missing eyes. Others had ears bitten off. One had much of his back torn open.

“He's a critical patient,” Kim said, pointing to a badly wounded dinosaur doll. “His guardian's grandmother had been sewing him back together, but eventually she couldn't do it anymore.”

Reddy was then moved to the operating table, where the tools for her procedure were already laid out.

But she was in good hands. Kim has treated hundreds of patients since opening Toytalez, a “doll hospital” in Gangnam District, southern Seoul, in 2017.

Here, teddy bears, stuffed animals and other beloved companions worn down by decades of being hugged, carried and slept beside, some more than half a century old, are admitted, diagnosed and treated.

Some owners arrive pleading for their companions’ lives.

“Please save my little sibling. I don't care how much it costs,” Kim recalled some owners saying.

From admission to recovery

Like any hospital visit, Reddy's began with a consultation.

The red teddy bear has been around its owner through a difficult spell in middle school, a move to a different country, university and, eventually, adulthood. Through it all, Reddy had changed remarkably little.

Until recently. The seam between her round stomach and one leg had split open, leaving stuffing poking through. After nearly 15 years together, leaving her that way was not an option.

That brought Reddy to Kim.

“We will open it up and remove all the stuffing, turn it inside out, sew it back up and then put the stuffing back in,” Kim said after examining Reddy for some time.

Kim jotted down Reddy's name, her guardian's name and diagnosis on an admission form, then placed her in her “hospital room,” a box that fit her almost perfectly.

Most patients stay for two or three days, Kim said, although more serious cases can require weeks of treatment, including thorough hand-washing and multiple procedures.

While dolls can be sent in by parcel, Kim said most owners prefer to bring them in themselves. Mail-in patients tend to come from outside Seoul. “They don't want to send them away in a box,” she said.

Reddy was moved to the operating room or, in this case, Kim's worktable. Kim opened a seam at the back of her head and removed all her stuffing. Her now-empty body was turned inside out, and the damaged seam was sewn by machine.

Her stuffing was put back before her head was stitched closed.

Even the “very minor” operation took about 40 minutes. But Reddy was all fixed up,  perhaps even a little cuter, with her stuffing now fluffier than before.

Afterward, she was taken to the photo zone for her “after” photographs, and a new message arrived. “Treatment complete.”

Reddy was moved to the recovery area to wait among the other freshly treated patients.

Not necessarily good as new

Kim has been working with dolls since 1999, first designing and producing them for export. She has brought many characters to life, including a doll of Cha Eun-woo’s character featured in “The First Ride” (2025).

Repairs began on a small scale as an after-sales service for her company's own products before people started asking whether she could fix dolls made elsewhere.

The “doll hospital” opened in 2017, around the time when dozens of fans of boy band EXO began bringing in dolls modeled on member Kai. They wanted Kim to alter the China-made dolls to give them more prominent facial features that better resembled him.

“Back then, a lot of idol dolls came in for treatment,” Kim said. “Now, it's really the attachment dolls that come.”

Most of Kim's customers are in their late 20s to mid-30s. Kim believes many in that generation grew up with working parents and dolls that kept them company. Now adults with incomes of their own, they can finally afford to repair the doll, which can cost far more than the owners originally paid for it. In Reddy's case, it cost about 50,000 won ($37).

Nearly three decades in the doll business have also left her workshop well stocked, with tens of thousands of pieces of fabric accumulated over the years in different colors and textures, allowing her to find a close match for almost any doll brought in.

“To other people, these might just look like fabrics that should be thrown away,” Kim said. “But for treatment, they're essential.” Drawers also contain doll eyes in countless shapes and sizes.

Beyond her extensive stock of materials, Kim is confident about the technical side of the work.

“There isn't anything we can't do,” she said. “We've made thousands, tens of thousands of dolls by hand.”

But making a doll as good as new isn't the goal here. The more difficult part is deciding what “fixed” is supposed to mean. For many owners, the answer is not “new.”

A French customer once brought in an old mouse doll. Much of its fur had fallen out, and years of being held had left the mouse noticeably flat. Once Kim replaced its skin and added fresh stuffing, it puffed up again.

“He didn't like that,” Kim said. “We had a hard time getting it right. We had to deliberately flatten it again.”

“It can't be based on what feels right to me,” she said. “We're trying to find the feeling in that person's memory.”

That is why consultations can become remarkably detailed. Every owner has a different idea of which imperfections are damage and which are simply part of the doll they remember.

“You have to know exactly what that person considers important,” Kim said. “You can't make it prettier just because you think that's better. You have to do what the owner wants.”

“Doll hospitals” for beloved stuffed animals have been around a little longer and have a more visible presence in Japan. Korea also has around five businesses offering similar services, including Soosoogongbang in southern Seoul's Gwanak District and Doll Hospital Anna in southern Seoul's Songpa District.

More than a toy

The attachment crosses borders. Kim has had customers bring their longtime companions from overseas, including a man who left his 55-year-old childhood doll for treatment while on a business trip to Korea.

“He was so satisfied with it that when he came back on another business trip, he brought his younger sister's doll with him too,” Kim said.

Japanese visitors have also brought dolls with them on trips to Korea, leaving them with Kim and picking them up before returning home. 

But one patient in particular has stayed in Kim's memory.

It was an old cat doll that a girl's grandfather had given her. Her father brought it in on his daughter's behalf. Its fabric had deteriorated so badly that much of the doll had to be reconstructed.

After the restoration, the man and his daughter took the doll to his father's grave.

“He said he took it to the grave and told his father about it,” Kim said. “That was really moving.”

Not everyone understands that kind of attachment.

Parents or partners sometimes bring dolls on behalf of adult children or partners who are embarrassed to come themselves. One mother asked Kim whether there was something wrong with her son because he remained so attached to his doll.

“I told her, ‘No, there's nothing wrong with him,’” Kim said. “People think differently. There's no reason to be ashamed.”

After years of meeting owners unwilling to give up companions that others might see as worn-out toys, Kim believes a doll can become “a companion for the soul.”

“That’s how it is for everyone who comes here,” she said. “These dolls are like friends that heal their souls.”

BY WOO JI-WON [[email protected]]