From Scary Paper to Cute Photo Cards: Seoul’s Talisman Trend
From Scary Paper To Cute Photo Cards: Why Talismans Are Back In Seoul
When most people picture a Korean talisman, they still imagine the old-film version. A yellow strip of paper, mysterious red characters, slightly haunted energy. The kind of thing you quietly wedge above the door and then pretend not to notice.
Walk around Seoul in 2025 though, and that image falls apart quite quickly. Among Gen Z and MZ, talismans have gone pastel. Think photo cards with tiny hamsters saying “today will be okay”, cartoon fish promising “exam success”, and charms slim enough to slide behind your phone case next to your travel card.
They’re affordable, easy to gift, and live in very modern places. On your desk. In your wallet. Tucked into your laptop case. Instead of heavy, scary energy, they give off small postcard-of-encouragement vibes. And one day, staring at a wall of these in a shop, I caught myself thinking. If this is the new version, what exactly were talismans meant to be in the first place?
Talismans existed long before organised religion
Long before we labelled religions, people were already nervous about invisible things. Sudden illness. Crop failure. Accidents that felt too big to blame on bad luck alone. A talisman was the object created to push back against that.
Traditional descriptions talk about talismans as objects believed to carry special power, used to drive away harmful spirits and keep misfortune off the doorstep. Even the word itself hints at that. It combines characters for a symbolic mark and a record, basically meaning “a document or object marked with meaning”.
The idea was simple. Heaven has its script, human life has its script, and somewhere in-between there’s a small gap you might be able to twist just a little. Not enough to rewrite your entire destiny. Just enough to deflect the worst and invite in something better. Blocking bad luck, drawing in good fortune.
Zoom out far enough and a talisman stops looking like a magic paper and starts looking like a survival sketch. Our basic wish to stay alive, keep the people we love safe, and avoid absolute disaster, boiled down into a symbol. A visualised prayer that says. “Please, just this once, let things go well.”
The talismans I grew up around were surprisingly everyday
Shamanism as a word feels heavy. What I saw growing up was anything but.
At school, talismans moved around more like secret stickers. Friends slipped tiny papers into their pencil cases before exams “just in case”. Someone always had one to stop ghosts following you home after a late-night walk. It was half superstition, half group joke, but always with that tiny seed of hope sitting underneath.
My parents’ generation handled them differently. There were talismans taped quietly behind a doorframe when a grandparent’s health felt fragile. Extra charms appearing during university entrance season. In more serious houses people would say things like “the house feels heavy lately” and suddenly there would be talismans on pillars, doors, even on the back of the TV.
From the outside, it’s very easy to write this off as superstition. From the inside, it sits in the same emotional space as clasping your hands to pray or lighting a candle before an important day. Another way of saying “I’ve done everything I can. Now please let this go well.”
Post-pandemic Seoul: why MZ are happily queueing for talisman photo cards
Since the pandemic, questions like “Is my health actually okay?” and “Will this job even exist in a year?” shifted from abstract worries to background noise. For a lot of younger people, that low-level hum never really went away.
Recent surveys show that teenagers and people in their twenties are the most engaged with tarot apps, saju (Korean fortune readings), YouTube fortune channels and lucky items. It’s not because they believe a card can literally see their future. It’s because someone calmly naming what they’re going through feels grounding.
Scroll through a big tarot channel and the comments all sound similar. “This is eerily close to my situation.” “I think I needed to hear this today.” It’s less about prediction and more about language, perspective and a feeling of being less alone.
In offline spaces, the same pattern shows up in different packaging. On the way to grab a coffee, you can easily pass a pop-up stand selling talisman cards printed with things like “leave-work-on-time charm”, “no-creeps-on-public-transport charm”, “no-awkward-boss-meeting charm”. No one believes the card will literally block their boss from sending a Teams message. But the joke itself makes everything feel slightly less hostile.
Positive momentum: when micro-rituals quietly add up
Some trend reports call this kind of behaviour “positive momentum”. You don’t pretend everything is fine. You don’t deny the anxiety. But instead of waiting for a huge miracle, you build lots of tiny touchpoints that keep you moving.
A talisman photo card taped to your laptop. A five-minute tarot reading before bed. A journal entry listing one decent thing from the day. None of these rewrite your CV or raise your salary. But together they stop you from mentally unravelling when things are tough.
If each of those habits nudges your mood up by two or three per cent, the overall direction can still tilt upwards. It’s not magic in the Hollywood way. It’s maintenance. Emotional housework. Quiet, repetitive and strangely powerful over time.
From dried pollock to the cutest keyrings in Seoul
Korea has a long-standing tradition of using dried pollock as a protective symbol. Hung up with red thread, mouth open and eyes wide, it’s meant to keep watch over the entrance and chase away bad energy. If you didn’t grow up with it, it honestly looks a little intense.
Recently though, the pollock has gone through a full design refresh.
Crocheted pollock dolls that look like they belong in a café window.
Pollock charms made from upcycled marbled paper that feel more gallery than fish market.
Wooden and ceramic pollock figures sitting neatly on shelves.
Pollock keyrings labelled for job luck, love luck, money luck and “please don’t let this year be chaos” luck.
Search for “액막이 명태” on Korean shopping platforms and you’ll find it everywhere. Gift sections, home styling sections, even sitting high up on the trending charts. Meanwhile real four-leaf clover keyrings have their own maps in student communities. People share the exact locations of street stalls that sell them then queue before exams to pick one out.
One day, walking through Hongdae, I noticed that a stall which once sold cheap hair clips and earrings was now completely covered in pollock dolls and clover charms. If I had to pick a single scene that sums up modern Korean folk culture, it might be that. Traditional symbols, reimagined until they’re cute enough to live next to your AirPods case.
- Always on guard – even dried, pollock keeps its eyes open and its mouth slightly parted. People read this as a fish that never sleeps on the job, watching the entrance and scaring away bad energy like a tiny, silent security guard.
- Little fish, big abundance – pollock lay a huge number of eggs, so they came to represent fertility, prosperity and fresh starts. In charm form they carry “things will eventually work out” energy rather than “brace for disaster”.
- Longevity wrapped in red thread – when pollock are tied or wrapped as talismans they symbolise long life and ongoing good fortune. Over time that shifted their image from slightly eerie dried fish to protective mascots quietly guarding your space while looking disarmingly cute.
Yes, I joined the trend (obviously)
Of course I did. I was walking through Seoul with a friend when we saw a line of pollock charms hanging like slightly confused sea characters. We locked eyes with them. They locked eyes with us. You can guess what happened next.
“You take the career-luck one. I’ll grab the money-luck one.”
Back home, I hung mine near the entrance. Nothing burst into sparkles. There was no surprise promotion email waiting in my inbox. My bank balance stayed exactly the same.
But something gentle did shift. Every morning, on the way out, my eyes land on that tiny fish for half a second. In that moment, my brain does a little reset. Shoulders down. Breath out. Quiet mental note. “Alright. We try again today.”
If you measure “power” only in lottery wins then no, the charm doesn’t work. But if you measure it in how many days you manage to get up, get dressed and stay vaguely hopeful then I’d say it does exactly what it needs to.
Ironically the most talisman-like part wasn’t even hanging it up. It was the act of swapping them with my friend. Two people standing in the street handing each other tiny fish and silently saying “let’s both have a good year”. That, more than anything, felt magical.
How images quietly reshape us
I once read a story in a leadership book about a child who covered their wall with photos of astronauts and people they admired. Every morning they looked at those faces and repeated the same thought. “One day, I’ll be that kind of person.”
Years later, they realised their posture, choices and even their way of speaking had slowly grown towards that mental image. Not overnight. Not dramatically. Just a tiny adjustment, again and again, until one day it became obvious.
It sounds slightly like a self-help spell, but psychology has a similar idea. The images and words we surround ourselves with, the ones we see every day without really thinking about them, gently influence what we notice, what we tolerate and what we aim for.
In that sense, a talisman is just a very concentrated image. My pollock charm doesn’t physically push misfortune away. But every time I glance at it and think “do your best again today”, that micro-second nudges me towards a slightly braver version of myself. One hundred micro-nudges like that aren’t nothing. They’re the difference between giving up and trying one more time.
Not horror. Just MZ-style self-care with a folklore twist
Most of my foreign friends met Korean shamanism for the first time through horror films and dramas. Flickering candles, frantic drumming, people in vivid robes shouting into wind and darkness. That world does exist, and it can be intense. But it’s not what you usually meet at street level in Seoul.
- Instead of “believe or be punished”, you get a sticker on your laptop that quietly says “you worked hard today”.
- Instead of a slightly scary dried fish over the doorway, you get a plush pollock doll that looks best next to your iced latte.
- Instead of all-night rituals, you get a five-minute tarot video in your recommended feed and a phone wallpaper with a tiny lucky icon.
The size of the anxiety hasn’t shrunk. If anything, it’s grown. But the way people hold it has become softer, more playful and easier to carry. You could call it “cuteifying” your fear. Turning your stress into something you can at least smile at while you deal with it.
The question foreign friends always ask
There’s one topic my overseas friends can’t stop circling back to. “If Koreans are Christian, Buddhist, atheist, whatever… why do they still go to fortune tellers?”
At uni, the friend who most often dragged me to tarot cafés happened to be very active at church. She prayed regularly, volunteered and still booked saju sessions when she felt stuck. For her, it wasn’t about replacing her beliefs. It was about getting an outside read on her situation in a format that felt playful and low pressure.
In Korea, couples on the verge of marriage still go to check their compatibility charts. Parents who never talk about spirituality in everyday conversation will quietly ask an elder to look at a baby’s birth date. These things live somewhere between therapy, culture and entertainment. They’re tools in the emotional toolkit rather than a declaration of faith.
My foreign friends find this mix fascinating. So in a future post I’ll dig into how Koreans actually use tarot, saju and “궁합” (compatibility readings) in real life, beyond the dramatised TV version. Spoiler. It’s a lot less scary and a lot more like group decision-making with extra candles.
So… do talismans really work?
I don’t believe talismans can fix everything. They won’t magically erase your overdraft, cure long-term health issues or make your boss suddenly kind. But if I strip away the superstition and look at what they actually do, the list is not bad.
- They catch your eye when your thoughts start spiralling.
- They give you a tiny ritual that anchors the start or end of your day.
- They make you smile on mornings when you weren’t planning to smile at all.
- They carry that feeling that someone – or at least a cartoon fish – is quietly on your side.
Most mornings I glance at the little pollock by my door. It doesn’t glow. It doesn’t hum. It just hangs there, looking vaguely surprised, like it can’t believe it has a full-time job as my security detail.
And every time, almost without thinking, I repeat the same line in my head.
“Alright. Let’s try again today.”
If a small, slightly ridiculous charm can help me say that with a tiny bit more conviction then for me, the talisman is already doing its job.
Coming soon on Soyomoment
This post is the first part of a mini series on modern Korean folk culture and everyday magic. Next, I’ll be talking about how Koreans actually use fortune telling and compatibility checks in real life – including why my very religious friends still book tarot sessions and what really happens when families go to “see the 궁합 (Marital compatibility)”.
And because beauty is its own kind of talisman, I’m also working on a practical guide called “Airport Beauty Survival: Land In Seoul Looking Alive”. Think long-haul skincare, carry-on hacks and tiny rituals that stop you arriving at Incheon looking like a dehydrated raisin. Stay tuned.
Little talisman things I’m loving right now (not sponsored)
I’m not affiliated with these shops, but while falling down the “cute talisman” rabbit hole, these are the pieces that made me pause, smile and quietly add to cart (or at least to my mental wish list).
Soft, postcard-style charms with simple “happiness” messages. I like these for desks, mirrors or the inside of a wardrobe door – the places you open half-asleep and need a tiny reminder that today might not be terrible.
See the Donna & Friends talisman postcards
A classic dried-pollock-meets-modern-home version for your entrance. It looks like a tiny guardian fish watching who comes in and out and feels perfect for new flats, housewarmings or “new chapter” seasons.
See the doorway pollock charm on SSG
A very extra pack of four-leaf clover cards and stickers. Good if you’re the type who likes to hide little lucky symbols everywhere – pencil case, diary, laptop, friend’s birthday card, exam timetable…
See the four-leaf clover sticker pack
A health talisman disguised as a keyring featuring Chun-sik in full “I’m trying my best” mode. Ideal for gym bags, hospital appointments, new-year-health-resolution season or just as a tiny reminder to drink water today.
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FAQ: modern talismans in Seoul
Do people really believe these cute talismans have power?
Some do, many don’t. For a lot of MZs, talismans sit somewhere between a good-luck charm, a visual mantra and a mental health tool. It’s less about strict belief and more about having a small object that makes the day feel easier to carry.
Isn’t this against religion?
In Korea, it’s very common for people to hold a formal religion and still visit a tarot reader or carry a lucky charm. Most see it as part of culture and self-care, closer to checking your horoscope than changing your religion.
Where can I find these talisman photo cards in Seoul?
Look in lifestyle shops around Hongdae, Mapo and Seongsu, at pop-up stores, on online marketplaces and sometimes in the stationery corners of big bookshops. They’re usually near stickers, postcards and keyrings rather than in any “serious” spiritual section.
Are dried pollock charms only for homes?
Traditionally they hung near doors to protect the household, but modern versions show up as keyrings, car charms and even desk mascots. The meaning stays the same. “Please keep bad energy away from me and my people.”
I’m visiting from abroad. Is it okay for me to buy one?
Yes. As long as you treat the culture with respect, buying a small talisman is a lovely way to remember your trip. Think of it as taking a pocket-sized piece of Seoul’s humour and resilience home with you.
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