[Caring the Korean Way] What belly massage really does for children with stomach pain

What does it mean to care -- deeply, instinctively, and culturally?  In this series, "Caring the Korean Way," we explore the distinct practices, beliefs, and values that shape how Koreans care for themselves and each other. From time-honored folk remedies to modern reinterpretations of healing, each story offers a window into the unique ways care is expressed in Korean life. -- Ed.

Q. My mother always rubbed my belly when I had a stomachache. Does that actually work?

A. Maybe not for the reasons you think.

Across cultures, parents reach for the same instinct: touch. In South Korea, the comfort even has a saying children grow up hearing -- “Mom’s hand is a healing hand.” A warm palm circles the stomach, usually clockwise, under the belief that digestion will settle and pain will fade. 

Many children do feel better afterward. The question is whether that relief begins in the gut or in the mind.

The clockwise detail is not random. Folk belief imagines food spiraling through the intestines, and rubbing in that direction is thought to help the body’s flow along.

Traditional East Asian medicine adds another layer: the abdomen is said to contain points tied to internal organs, and a clockwise massage is supposed to free stagnant energy. Going the other way, the lore warns, could trap gas or even twist the bowels.

Anatomy, however, tells a different story. Gastroenterologists said the small intestine runs several meters in adults, though its length varies depending on muscle tone and how it is measured. 

What matters more is that it coils in every direction rather than spiraling clockwise. Food moves automatically under the control of the autonomic nervous system. The colon does trace a broad clockwise route, beginning on the right side, sweeping up and across, then down the left, which makes the folk tale sound plausible. 

But because the colon lies deep and close to the back, rubbing the surface of the belly is unlikely to reach it. 

“The idea that you can guide stool forward by rubbing the front of the abdomen doesn’t make anatomical sense,” said Professor Choi Chang-hwan, a professor of internal medicine at Chung-Ang University (CAUH), in an interview Wednesday. “If massage truly worked for constipation, we would see strong studies proving it, and we do not.”

One small study in China combined clockwise massage with anal dilation in 60 children with functional constipation and reported shorter intervals between bowel movements and easier passage of stools. 

More rigorous work, including a randomized placebo-controlled trial in Turkey and a meta-analysis pooling 13 mostly Chinese studies, suggests that abdominal massage in general may improve constipation and quality of life. None, however, found that direction mattered.

Why, then, does the practice persist? According to Professor Choe Yon-ho, who specializes in pediatric gastroenterology at Samsung Medical Center (SMC), it has less to do with disease than with stress. Roughly one in five children reports recurring abdominal pain, he said, yet more than 90 percent show nothing unusual on scans or bloodwork. 

“The pain is real, but it often comes from stress -- the anxiety of using a school bathroom, pressure from parents, the dread of an exam,” he explained. The hand on the stomach doesn’t heal the gut; instead, it breaks the cycle of worry.

Touch, in other words, has its own power. Gentle, predictable contact reduces anxiety and modulates pain perception, partly through physiology and partly through expectation. Warming the abdomen with a hand, a hot pack or even a bowl of chicken soup increases blood flow and brings comfort, even though the intestines would have kept moving regardless.

Culture shapes the response, too. In Korea, parents are quick to act when a child complains of belly pain, sometimes setting off a cascade of visits and tests. Professor Choi of SMC recalled one case where a child was prescribed antibiotics for abdominal discomfort and later developed pancreatitis when the drug triggered gallstones. It was a reminder, he said, that in medicine doing more is not always the same as doing better.

That urgency is not confined to healthcare. In Seoul’s Daechi-dong district, a neighborhood packed with after-school academies where children study late to stay ahead, families mobilize quickly to avoid falling behind. The same competitive reflex can appear in hospitals, where parents rush from one clinic to another at the first sign of trouble.

“It is part of a broader culture of catching up and not falling behind,” he said, describing how Korean parents look to the next test or the next treatment much as they do the next class.

None of this makes a mother’s hand meaningless. Warmth does boost circulation. Placebo effects matter. Children quickly learn that comfort follows touch, and the body complies. A grandmother’s hand can be as reassuring as a physician’s. The risk comes when reassurance is mistaken for cure.

That distinction is critical in emergencies. Conditions such as volvulus, when the intestine twists on itself, cannot be soothed with massage. Professor Choi of CAUH explained that with an endoscope, doctors can sometimes enter the twisted loop and carefully rotate it back in the opposite direction. “It is a rare condition,” he said, “but it requires immediate treatment in the ER.”

For most children, stomachaches fade as they grow older and parents hover less. What lingers is the memory of care. As Professor Choi of SMC put it, pleasant memories are the ones children ask to repeat. If a hand once brought relief, they will want that comfort again.

So is a mother’s hand real medicine? Not in the pharmacological sense. But dismissing it as useless misses the point. Touch, ritual and reassurance are part of how children learn to live with their bodies. Sometimes that’s enough.