Four stories of Chinese youth breaking through high unemployment
Youth unemployment has emerged as a pressing social issue in China.
The National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) ceased reporting the unemployment rate for the urban labor force aged 16-24 after it surged to 21%. Although a new metric, which excludes students, was introduced six months later, it still climbed to 19% in August 2024—a figure higher than the peak levels recorded in 2020 and 2021.
The recruitment data tracked by BigOne Lab (the parent company of Baiguan) corroborates this trend, albeit from the perspective of job demand. When we separate job postings specifically for young people (i.e. graduates/interns/junior positions) from overall job postings, we observe that the former has declined significantly more than the latter on a YoY basis since mid-2023.
To understand why Chinese youth are facing such intense pressure, it is essential to first explore the underlying imbalances in the job market and even the education system. In China's job market, there are notable preferences for certain educational backgrounds and academic disciplines, particularly when hiring fresh graduates.
In the latter part of this article, I will share four real-life stories of how young individuals are breaking through these "glass ceilings."
Degree inflation and oversupply in certain industries have created a simplistic and rigid talent selection system
China's gross enrollment rate in higher education reached 60.2% in 2023, higher than the OECD average of 40.7% in 2022. This rapid growth, from 30% in 2012 to 60.2% in 2023, is primarily due to the expansion of higher education. While this has democratized access to education, it has also led to "degree inflation," making college graduates less of a scarce resource. As a result, the boundaries and hierarchies of educational qualifications have become more rigid and difficult to cross.
Chinese undergraduate universities are categorized into first-tier, second-tier, and third-tier institutions based on their teaching resources and academic levels. This classification is somewhat similar to the top-tier public/private universities, state universities, and small private colleges or technical colleges in the United States. Within the first-tier category, there are three subcategories: top institutions led by Tsinghua and Peking Universities, followed by 985 and 211 designated universities (originated from state-led initiatives aimed at enhancing the quality of higher education), and then non-985/211 first-tier universities, commonly referred to as "double non."
According to ThePaper.cn, there appears a clear funnel-shaped selection for Gaokao participants (born around 2000) in 2021:
Born annually: 19 million (100%)
Gaokao takers: 9.2 million (48%)
Undergraduate admissions: 3.09 million (16%)
First-tier admissions: 1.14 million (6%)
211 universities: 460,000 (2.4%)
985 universities: 150,000 (0.8%)
Tsinghua/Peking University: 6,600 (0.03%)
This hierarchical phenomenon is particularly common in job-seeking and overseas study application forums. Individuals are often reduced to a few fixed identity labels, such as "top 985 university, Information Management major, GPA 85/100, three internships at major internet companies, two academic projects" They share their job-seeking or application experiences, compare themselves with others, and position themselves within a vast network of cases to determine their career paths. When they see others with similar or even lower qualifications obtaining better opportunities, they may become disillusioned. This simplification of standards leads to highly similar choices, resulting in extreme congestion and fierce competition in certain fields (e.g. finance and internet industries in the past decade). When companies receive far more applications than needed, the simplest and most efficient way to screen candidates is by educational level. Graduates who rank in the middle or lower positions may lose their competitive edge in the first stage.
Another issue is the disconnect between the skills cultivated by higher education and job requirements. From my personal experience, the knowledge system of universities, especially for undergraduates, is broad but shallow. It essentially serves as a catalog guide, giving students a basic overview of their major, but without in-depth understanding. Moreover, the curriculum can sometimes be outdated. As a result, even if graduates' majors match job requirements, they often need to be retrained from scratch. In general, employers tend not to truly assess students' professional skills but simply use their degrees as a screening criterion.
Bias against humanities and social sciences
Secondly, there is discrimination against humanities and social sciences subjects, rooted in pragmatism and reinforced through the cycle of "college entrance exam - university - employment." When I was in high school, students chose between liberal arts and science tracks after the first year of high school. I naturally thought that those who excelled in science were smarter and that choosing humanities was a last resort for those who couldn't do well in science. Even though my high school was renowned for its Chinese language education and I was better at humanities, I still chose science, spending a lot of time studying math and physics to prove that I was "smart." Moreover, in terms of university major choices, science students have a wider range of options, implying broader employment opportunities.
In an article we published last July (right after the college entrance examination in June), we mentioned the words of Zhang Xuefeng, an internet influencer and founder of a college application consultancy. He is a typical promoter of the "death of humanities" theory. For example, he controversially advised a parent whose child was interested in studying journalism, saying bluntly, "Scoring 590 in science? If she wants to go into journalism, you should knock her out." As of this writing, Zhang Xuefeng has 26.51 million followers on Douyin, giving him an enormous influence.
How do Chinese youth find ways out?
Recently, I saw a video on Xiaohongshu from a fresh graduate of a second-tier university sharing his successful job-seeking experience. He fabricated a prestigious university background on his resume to get interview opportunities, learned from those interviews, and then applied to second-tier companies with a genuine resume. You might ask, wouldn't he be blacklisted by companies for using deceitful means? The answer is that since all his identity information and experiences were fabricated, his name didn't have to be real either. This is truly a last-resort way of getting around the system. His method, though deceitful, reflects the extreme challenges faced by non-top-tier graduates.
As we continue in this article, I want to share four stories of young people with ordinary educational backgrounds who have defied traditional expectations and found success by pursuing their passions outside the rigid evaluation system, which I find very inspiring and touching. The article is from Gu Yu Lab, a non-fiction writing platform under Tencent News.
Below is the original article translated into English (with some paragraphs abbreviated).
For today’s youth, the challenges of navigating adulthood have reached unprecedented heights. The downward drift in academic credentials has become an inevitable reality. In 2024, the number of students sitting for China’s national college entrance exam (Gaokao) soared to 13.42 million. Yet, elite “985” universities—at the pinnacle of China’s academic hierarchy—offered an average admission rate of just 1.6%. The vast majority of young people find themselves enrolled in second-tier or third-tier institutions and vocational schools, receiving what is likely to be the most pivotal and final structured education of their lives. After graduation, they shed the protective identity of being students and are thrust into an increasingly unpredictable and cutthroat job market.
The post-graduation reality can be even more unforgiving. The barriers to entry in the job market are rising, and degree discrimination remains pervasive. A candidate’s first degree is often scrutinized the most. Some companies go as far as tying salary bands to the tier of one’s undergraduate institution, docking pay by thousands if the candidate graduated from a second-tier university, regardless of subsequent qualifications. And this, for many, is a fortunate scenario—countless résumés are summarily dismissed without a second glance.
It is perhaps no surprise that stories of rising from a “rock-bottom start” to achieving personal success have become some of the most celebrated narratives among young people today. Yet, “turning the tide” should not be confined to urban legend. True transformation relies not only on individual determination but also on a workplace environment that values inclusivity and fairness.
The following stories feature young people in their twenties who defied the odds without the privilege of prestigious credentials—graduates from second-tier, third-tier universities, or even vocational schools. They began their journeys from what many would consider a “rock-bottom start.” Amid the confusion, self-doubt, and moments of despair, they repeatedly grappled with the question, What does a degree truly mean? Through resilience and relentless effort, they carved out their own paths to success.
While no two life stories are the same, the common thread remains: what we often label as a “rock-bottom start” is, in reality, the starting line for most ordinary people. And a “turnaround in life” is simply about discovering one’s unique purpose and forging ahead with conviction.
Here are their stories.
Lily
Aged 22, a graduate of a second-tier university
Current position: operations at a mid-sized firm, monthly salary: 20K RMB
Key to success: perseverance amid repeated setbacks
My disadvantages were glaring: I was a liberal arts major, graduated from a privately funded second-tier university, and had no prior work experience. In my initial week of job hunting, I sent out dozens of applications to small companies, even accepting unpaid online internships.
My first major setback came during the college entrance exams. As a student at Hengshui Senior High School, I had consistently ranked in the upper-middle tier. But in 2020, illness during the exam caused my performance to plummet, leaving me with a score just above 500. Determined to make the best of it, I began researching potential career paths. Scouring job boards, I noticed that positions in design or animation often offered entry-level salaries as high as 30,000 RMB for fresh graduates. I learned about a second-tier university in Jilin with a strong animation program whose graduates frequently landed roles at top-tier companies. With that in mind, I chose to major in Advertising, planning to simultaneously pursue a second degree in Animation.
But my university experience fell far short of expectations. Classes were uninspired, offering nothing beyond the textbook. The lecture slides were clearly outdated, and even my foundational understanding of advertising came from books like Confessions of an Advertising Man, which were far more insightful than the curriculum.
I felt lost. The Advertising department offered no real opportunities for projects or practical learning. I dabbled in animation courses, but the technical barriers were daunting. I even spent thousands on training courses for software like Photoshop, only to discover that free online tutorials provided similar, if not better, instruction. Around me, most students spent their time idling, oblivious to the impending challenges of post-graduation life. By my first year, I was already gripped by fear—afraid of wasting my time and graduating into a world where I’d struggle to find work.
By my third year, my family began pressuring me into arranged dates, lining up marriage prospects during my visits home. They believed I was young and should “seize the moment” to find a suitable partner before “it was too late.” My family is well-off but deeply traditional, valuing marriage over personal ambition for women. They had been thrilled when I was accepted into college, regardless of the school’s ranking, and expected me to return home after graduation to settle down.
When I expressed interest in interning, my father initially promised to help, saying he had connections to secure opportunities for me. But by my third year, his tone had shifted: “No need for internships. Come home and get married.”
The moment I realized my family wouldn’t support my ambitions was when my father called, urging me to leave school and start planning my wedding. That call shattered my illusions. Up until that point, I had convinced myself that they might support my career. But that conversation brought with it a wave of fear. I saw the path they were laying out for me: first dictated by my parents, and later, by a husband.
With only a little over a year before graduation, I knew I had to take control of my life. I decided to pivot into operations, a field I perceived as more accessible, with lower entry barriers and clear pathways to joining a top-tier company. Operations also offered the potential for performance-based salaries, which aligned with my long-term goals. I started from scratch. My disadvantages—being a liberal arts major from a second-tier university with no prior experience—meant I had to build everything from the ground up.
In one week, I applied to dozens of small companies, taking unpaid online internships where I learned basic skills while contributing to projects. I created PowerPoint presentations, wrote proposals, and designed product images for e-commerce listings, cobbling together a portfolio that became my first résumé.
During the summer of my junior year, I began applying to internships at mid-sized and large companies, as well as roles that seemed “niche.” The process was grueling. Despite having some project experience, the competition was fierce. Many roles had strict academic requirements, and my résumé was often filtered out before anyone even glanced at it. On the rare occasions I landed interviews, I would struggle to answer questions and be rejected within minutes.
That entire month, I pushed myself relentlessly. Every morning, I would open multiple job platforms, combing through postings for new opportunities. Afternoons were reserved for interviews, and afterward, I’d tweak my résumé or dive into online resources to refine my professional skills. I endured rejection after rejection—sometimes failing outright in the first round of interviews. Dozens of “no’s” later, I grew numb to the disappointment. But I kept going. After coming this far, there was no turning back.
Finally, persistence paid off: I secured my first internship in operations at a mid-sized company, where my performance was directly tied to GMV (gross merchandise value). For me, the high-pressure environment wasn’t a deterrent; it was a source of motivation. I still remember staying up until 3 a.m. for a team meeting, only to show up at my desk promptly at 10 a.m. the next morning. Compared to the grueling years at Hengshui Senior High School, even the most demanding workdays seemed manageable. That experience instilled in me a work ethic that set me apart—my KPIs consistently ranked among the highest on the team.
Overcoming that first hurdle opened the door to subsequent opportunities. My next two internships in operations came almost seamlessly, with little downtime in between. I saw fellow interns struggle to meet performance targets and leave their roles under pressure. My second internship was in a less competitive team, where operations weren’t tied to revenue but focused solely on data. Two months after I left, the entire team was disbanded—a stark reminder that stability is never guaranteed.
Fast forward to today: I’ve been a full-time employee for nearly half a year. I’m renting a small loft apartment in Beijing, living independently with a few cats. Thanks to performance-based incentives, my monthly salary has stabilized at over 10,000 RMB. Additionally, I’ve started a side hustle offering résumé writing and interview coaching, which sometimes pushes my monthly income to 20,000 RMB.
My father still calls occasionally, lamenting, “We raised you for nothing—we don’t even get to see you.” But I’ve already tasted what it’s like to live life on my own terms, and there’s no going back to the path they’ve envisioned for me—marriage and a life dictated by tradition. My current leader is the epitome of a strong, independent woman: she earns top pay and delivers exceptional results. She’s exactly the kind of person I aspire to become.
Zhang Wenhan
Aged 26, a graduate of a third-tier university
Now teaching at a private college
Key to success: defining my own goals
“Where did you do your undergraduate studies?”
Whenever asked this question, I instinctively lower my voice and reply, “Oh, just at the College of X, affiliated with Y University.” Most people don’t catch the distinction, assuming I attended the prestigious Y University itself.
For a long time, I harbored the dream of pursuing a doctorate. I wondered, could an exceptional third degree somehow eclipse the stigma of a lackluster first?
My undergraduate alma mater bears a name that’s hard for me to say aloud. While its parent institution is a respected 211 university, the college I attended is a third-tier independent school under its umbrella. Despite later earning a master’s degree from Guangzhou University and securing a teaching position at a private institution, the anxiety remains. Anytime someone probes, “Where did you get your undergraduate degree?” I lowered my voice and gave my usual answer. If they mistake it for 211 university itself, I feel a fleeting sense of vindication—after all, everyone has their pride, don’t they?
In the academic world, degrees are the ultimate calling card. For someone like me, with a less prestigious first degree, everything takes extra effort—writing better papers, getting stronger recommendations from professors, and compiling a portfolio that’s harder to ignore. During my master’s interview, I could feel the committee zeroing in on my undergraduate background, as if I had to prove I belonged in the room.
This obsession with academic credentials isn’t unique to me. My master’s advisor often spoke of a colleague whose first degree was from Shandong University, but whose subsequent degrees were from Peking University. Despite all being 985 institutions, he would never mention his first degree. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Even among high achievers, the hierarchy persists.
Before I turned 18, the idea of attending a third-tier college was inconceivable.
I excelled in school, ranking near the top in middle school and earning a spot in the honors class in senior high school. My teachers even saw potential in my voice and appearance, encouraging me to pursue the arts. On the surface, everything seemed smooth, but beneath it lay cracks. I was a “good kid,” too obedient to push back, even when I faced bullying. My classmates smoked, drank, and strayed off course while I watched in silence. I didn’t dare tell my parents, and they never noticed.
At home, things were no better. My parents argued incessantly, leaving shattered dishes in their wake. My father was openly dismissive of girls, while my mother imposed impossible expectations on me. She wanted me to succeed but only cared about my grades—not who I was or what I wanted. Rebelling against academics became my only form of defiance.
By the time I took the specialized entrance exam for art majors in China, my results were subpar, and I felt strangely indifferent. My mother took charge, debating whether I should attend a vocational school for nursing or teaching, or scrape into a third-tier college. She eventually decided on Shuda College, an independent institution under Hunan Normal University. And so, I began my journey at a third-tier school.
For years, I questioned what I truly wanted in life but didn’t know where to find the answers. Like many of my peers, I drifted aimlessly through college. Then, a roommate suggested we prepare for graduate school. I agreed half-heartedly, going through the motions until I told my mother I wanted to enroll in a prep class. She replied sternly, “This is the last time I’ll trust you to make a decision.”
I agreed, but internally, I felt no strong emotions about it. At first, I planned to apply to Hunan University, a local 985 institution. Deep down, I didn’t believe I could compete with students from better schools. But then, a message from my cousin in Guangzhou changed everything. She invited me to visit her, and something clicked. What did I want? I wanted to leave Hunan. I wanted to escape the memories and find a fresh start in a bigger city.
I immediately looked up Guangzhou-based universities with media-related programs. By sheer luck, Guangzhou University had recently resumed admissions for its broadcasting and television master’s program, and competition was relatively light. Without hesitation, I applied and never looked back. The intensity of the prep process rivaled my high school days. The schedule was grueling, with early mornings, late nights, and even a month-long summer boot camp. Students scrambled to claim front-row seats for the next day’s lectures. Yet, amidst the chaos, I felt an unfamiliar but powerful sense of fulfillment. For the first time in my life, I was chasing a goal that I had chosen for myself, and every ounce of effort was for something I truly wanted.
When I was accepted into Guangzhou University, it felt like a second chance at life. Those three years in graduate school were a period of self-reinvention. During my first collaborative paper with my advisor, I received unexpected praise: “You have real talent!” Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. You know, that was the first time I realized that my hard work alone could earn me genuine recognition—pure, unconditional acknowledgment with no strings attached.
In the three years that followed, I achieved almost everything I could as a graduate student. I won nearly every scholarship available, maintained the highest GPA in my program, and published several academic papers. In my final year, my advisor suggested, “You should seriously consider becoming a university professor.”
I successfully secured a teaching position at a private university, and I’m genuinely content with my current work and lifestyle. Teaching at a university is comfortably within my element—it offers flexibility, a straightforward working environment, and a rhythm that centers around course instruction. Plus, the long summer and winter breaks are an added bonus. That said, I have even bigger plans. If I can obtain a doctoral degree, perhaps one that overshadows my undergraduate credentials, my academic prospects could expand significantly. I am actively preparing to apply for a PhD program. If I don’t succeed this year, I’ll try again next year. Deep down, I know I will keep pushing forward until I take that next step.
Lola
Aged 24, pursued an undergraduate degree in Malaysia after vocational school
Key to success: beyond comfort zones
The manager lazily lifted his coffee cup, his gaze unfocused and his demeanor distant—barely engaging during the entire interview. But I quickly adjusted my mindset. With only a vocational school diploma to my name, survival was my primary objective. Early on, I understood that everything depended on me.
I grew up in Hunan province. My parents divorced when I was young, and I lived with my mother, though neither parent paid much attention to me. During middle school exams, I performed as expected and was told my name appeared on the list of students admitted to a local high school. However, no one in my family was willing to pay for me to continue studying.
I fought back, pleading with my mom, “I want to study art and major in interior design.” I loved reading and painting since I was a child, dreaming of a transformative journey like Anne in Anne of Green Gables. But my mom panicked, immediately calling relatives to convince me otherwise with the same tired arguments: “Design doesn’t make money. A girl should study nursing or teaching—stable careers.”
My uncle quickly intervened, dragging me to enroll in a vocational nursing school. I watched in a daze as my name was entered into the system, overwhelmed by confusion and fear. How did my life come to this? Meanwhile, my younger brother, who was five years my junior, was lavished with opportunities. My mother insisted that “no matter what, we’ll ensure he finishes high school.” Even though his grades were poor, they enrolled him in extracurricular sports classes, hoping he could pass through athletic admissions. It wasn’t until I left my small county and saw the world beyond that I realized this was the result of deeply ingrained gender bias. The underlying message was clear: “Why should a girl leave Hunan? Why not stay here, find a stable job, and get married early?”
The vocational school lasted five years, and the environment was far from ideal. In the early semesters, I wanted to quit and retake my high school exams, but I knew my family would never allow it. I had no money to fund my dreams. I tried to make the best of my situation—becoming a class leader, joining the dance team, and volunteering. However, the reality hit hard. Once, as class president, I assigned dormitory cleaning duties to a group of students. They refused and retaliated by hurling relentless insults at me in the class group chat, with every word more vulgar than the last. The teacher ignored the situation. It was a sobering moment—I realized I couldn’t change others, nor could I achieve the mutual respect I craved in that environment.
The turning point came when I met an exceptional English teacher. She was ambitious, aiming to create a medical English program to help students become nurses abroad. Classes were squeezed into her schedule—8 PM lectures, 6 AM dictations—and I never missed a session. Later, when I had to start hospital internships, she gave me three English textbooks and encouraged me to self-study while continuing with her online Q&A sessions after work. This routine lasted for eight months. Initially, the classroom was packed with over 100 students. By the time I graduated, only five of us remained.
For me, vocational school became an accelerator of personal growth. It taught me that I must take control of my life and chase what I truly want, no matter the obstacles. Nothing should stand in my way.
At graduation, a teacher from the neighboring class—also the head of the dance team—bid me farewell with a tight hug and said, “Be a light that illuminates yourself and others.”
When it came time to find a job, the options were limited. Only a handful of companies came to campus for recruitment. One offered me a position at an autism care center in Hangzhou. I didn’t overthink it—any job that allowed me to leave my county was good enough. At 18, I packed my bags and left home for the first time.
The job wasn’t demanding, but the pay was low, and raises came too slowly. I couldn’t afford to wait. Scanning job boards, I noticed many tutoring centers hiring English teachers with salaries that doubled my current pay. Some positions required only a CET-6 certificate, which I happened to have. I applied and, to my surprise, landed an interview.
My first interviews, however, were humbling because of my limited work experience and academic qualifications. At one small English training center, I answered a question thoughtfully, but the interviewer seemed disinterested—sipping coffee absentmindedly, barely listening. It was a harsh reality check, but I knew I had to persevere. With a vocational school diploma, survival meant proving myself at every step.
Not long after, I secured a position as an English teacher. I worked tirelessly, filling my schedule with back-to-back classes. Within a year, I was earning nearly 10,000 yuan a month. My boss even considered promoting me to a managerial role. But I wasn’t content to stop there. Sensing the shaky revenue of my previous company, I made a swift career move to a foreign teacher recruitment agency, matching international educators with schools and institutions. This job paid more.
After another year, I was gripped by an overwhelming fatigue. It became clear that I was stuck in a cycle—hopping between small companies with no clear path to growth. Entering a major corporation wasn’t an option either, as my qualifications would inevitably fail the first screening. I felt stifled, as though life had placed a ceiling over my potential. It was time for a change. My desire for higher education had always lingered beneath the surface, dating back to my vocational school days when it seemed like an impossible dream. But after entering the workforce, I discovered that saving up for studying abroad was an achievable goal. I wanted to see a bigger world and rewrite my story.
I eventually chose a private university in Malaysia to pursue a degree in computer science. The two years I spent working allowed me to save just enough to cover my first year’s tuition. Fortunately, during the pandemic, I was stuck at home taking online classes. This gave me the chance to leverage my prior experience as an English teacher, taking on online teaching jobs to fund my education. At one point, I was conducting over 40 lessons a week—teaching from morning to evening on weekends. Some days, I’d teach so much that by the last session, I could barely form coherent sentences. Yet, after a year of relentless effort, I saved enough to cover my second year’s tuition and living expenses.
At 21, I stepped onto foreign soil for the first time, finally realizing my dream of attending university. Shortly after arriving in Malaysia, I ran into two women—one from Japan, the other from Canada—while shopping in the city center. During our conversation, I casually mentioned my background: having attended a vocational school for nursing in China and now studying computer science.
Their astonished reactions caught me off guard. “You were a nurse? And now you’re studying computer science?” they exclaimed. Their surprise made me wonder if my journey was more extraordinary than I had realized. Encouraged, I recorded a video sharing my story. The response was overwhelming—thousands of views, hundreds of comments, and 4,000 new followers. Many young women facing similar challenges reached out with questions and shared their struggles.
I realized that my story wasn’t just mine—it resonated deeply with others. This gave me a new sense of purpose. Sharing my journey became a way to give back, to inspire others while building an audience that supported me in return.
By the end of my second year, my university required us to complete an internship. To manage my finances, I returned to China and worked as a private English tutor, accompanying children through their studies six days a week. On my day off, I would book a hotel room to shoot more videos. My schedule was hectic, but I was driven by a constant sense of urgency. What if my bank account ran dry? What about rent, credit card payments, or daily expenses? Survival anxiety fueled my determination—I had to take full responsibility for the life I wanted.
The three years I spent in Malaysia were transformative. For the first time, I experienced the richness of an international community, with classmates from all over the globe. Despite the country’s modest average income levels, people seemed genuinely relaxed and content. Even the campus security guard would head off after his shift to train in boxing. Professors encouraged us to embrace work-and-travel opportunities after graduation to explore the world without pressure.
This summer, I graduated and secured a work visa in Malaysia, allowing me to stay longer. I’ve since taken up horseback riding and tennis. I also signed up for a three-month volunteer program in the U.S. next year, where I’ll work as a camp counselor leading outdoor activities for kids. Home is no longer a part of my plans, nor is the pursuit of a “stable” job in which stability is simply a reliance on a system created by someone else, requiring years of devotion in exchange for delayed rewards.
Instead, I’ve chosen to place my sense of security in my own growth and the money I’ve earned. Looking ahead, I plan to continue expanding my skill set—be it through sports, professional certifications, or preparing for exams like the IELTS. My goal is to become an independent English teacher who can work and travel freely. I have no grand aspirations for conventional success, but I am fiercely committed to creating a life that aligns with my desires.
Zhang Luo
Aged 25, a graduate of a second-tier university
Key to success: courage
I always knew my background wouldn’t stand out—my school wasn’t prestigious, my major had little connection to marketing or operations, and my resume looked unremarkable at best. But I was determined to bet on myself. “Why not give me an assignment first? If I can deliver, then you can decide whether I’m worth hiring,” I told the interviewer.
In 2017, the Fuxing high-speed train made headlines with its debut on the Beijing-Shanghai railway. Fresh out of high school, I was inspired to contribute to China’s high-speed rail industry. Enthusiastically, I chose vehicle engineering as my major, partly because it seemed relevant and partly because my scores weren’t high enough for computer science. This decision led me to a second-tier university in Sichuan.
However, my idealism quickly dissipated. Conversations with senior students revealed the reality: meaningful research required advanced degrees, and even then, few graduates made it to top-tier projects. Most ended up working in small manufacturing firms, tightening bolts on assembly lines.
Despite my disappointment, I spent my freshman year staying busy—attending classes, joining clubs, and participating in student government. But I knew I was simply filling my time to avoid facing my lack of direction. I didn’t want to drift through life aimlessly.
When I realized my major had limited prospects, I began exploring alternatives. I did the bare minimum to pass my required courses, focusing instead on finding a way out. The outdated curriculum, filled with knowledge from a decade ago, felt irrelevant in a fast-changing world. I needed a new path.
By 2018, the rise of social media was undeniable. I wondered: could I catch this wave and carve out a space for myself?
Determined, I began teaching myself tools like Photoshop, Premiere Pro, and After Effects. I wasn’t aiming for mastery; reaching a working proficiency in each was enough before moving on. During this period, my learning curve was steep—I immersed myself in video editing, scriptwriting, and content pacing. After creating a few smaller projects, I decided to aim higher. It was during China’s so-called “golden age of animation” that inspiration struck. I devised an original storyline, blending historical myths into a fantastical world. The first video in the series went viral, amassing over 2 million views. The positive feedback drove me to keep creating. Each evening after class, I would spend more than three hours refining my ideas and producing new episodes. The series performed exceptionally well, bringing in sponsorships and income. One video even trended on social media and caught the attention of a film studio, which invited me to collaborate on content. As my channel grew to 550,000 followers, I couldn’t contain my excitement. Watching the numbers climb by the thousands each day was exhilarating. Hitting 600,000 followers felt like a personal milestone, and I reveled in the achievement.
But after more than a year, I hit a creative wall. Topics became harder to brainstorm, engagement declined, and sponsorships dwindled. The returns no longer justified the effort, and my passion for content creation began to fade. The isolation of the pandemic only made things worse—I spent my days cooped up at home, disconnected from the outside world, and creatively drained. It became clear that I couldn’t rely on social media as a lifelong career.
I briefly considered switching majors to broadcast and television, the closest program to new media at my university. I even approached department leaders with my portfolio, but they didn’t fully understand my work. They insisted I follow protocol, which meant downgrading my year and completing additional courses. It wasn’t worth the time or effort. My limited qualifications meant experience and skills were far more valuable than a degree change.
By my junior year, internships became a pressing priority. Encouraged by a senior at Tencent, I decided to aim high despite my unconventional background. “Am I qualified for Tencent?” I nervously posted a comment in WeChat Moments. Her response was unwavering: “You absolutely are.”
I couldn’t suppress my excitement. Even though my major had nothing to do with the internet industry, I thought, why not give it a shot?
Bolstered by my determination, I prepared my resume and targeted positions in content, operations, and marketing. Before long, I secured an interview with the marketing department of a Tencent subsidiary. I was acutely aware of my disadvantages: my school was unimpressive, my major irrelevant, and my experience lacking. It was the textbook definition of a “weak candidate.”
The interviewer hesitated, expressing concerns about my limited experience and leaning toward candidates with formal marketing backgrounds. Sensing the opportunity slipping away, I decided to take a bold step. “Why not assign me a project as a test?” I suggested. “If I deliver good results, then you can reconsider.”
The marketing team handed me a three-day promotional project as a test. I threw myself into it, working tirelessly to craft a plan that could stand out. Nervously, I submitted my work. That very evening, I was added to a group chat, and the marketing team leader sent me a message: “This is excellent. When can you start?”
I could barely contain my excitement. At the time, Tencent classified its interns into different tiers: “blue badge” for formal interns on a direct path to full-time positions, “green badge” for outsourced roles, and summer internships with no guarantee of permanence. I had assumed that securing a green badge would already be a win, but to my surprise, they offered me a coveted blue badge through an early recruitment pathway. It was a result far beyond my expectations, and I immediately said yes.
After three months, the internship culminated in a final presentation to determine whether I would be converted to a full-time employee. I vividly remember one of my competitors—a graduate student from Fudan University’s prestigious journalism program. Her work was polished and impressive, and I felt the odds were stacked against me. To my surprise, we both made it through. The fact that I had earned a place alongside such accomplished peers affirmed that my skills met Tencent’s high standards.
However, for personal reasons, I didn’t accept the full-time offer at the time. I wanted to explore other opportunities. Later, I recalled a team I had collaborated with during my internship—Tencent’s HR content team. They had expressed interest in my work and encouraged me to consider a role with them. After going through the campus recruitment process again and passing the interview, I officially joined Tencent as a full-time employee.
Now, nearly three years into my role at Tencent as an HR professional, I manage the company’s official Bilibili account, “Tencent Recruitment”, a platform designed to engage with younger audiences. I see it as a modern calling card for Tencent, one that shouldn’t only be active during recruitment seasons. Instead, I’ve focused on making the account more relatable and authentic, sharing stories of work and life to resonate with viewers.
One of my proudest moments was producing a video titled “The Story of a Goose,” a third-person narrative about my journey from an “ordinary” student to a Tencent employee. The comment section was filled with heartfelt responses, especially from students who believed Tencent only recruited top-tier candidates from elite universities. Many wrote that my story gave them hope. After all, I was living proof: if you dare to apply and believe in yourself, there’s always a chance.
Looking back on the twists and turns of my path, I have no regrets. Would I have chosen differently if I could start over? Probably not. I’d still pick vehicle engineering, dive headfirst into content creation, and make the same bold moves. Sometimes, the most straightforward paths lead to dead ends, while the bumpy roads take you to where you’re meant to be.
*All names mentioned in the article are pseudonyms.
The one thing that strikes me is that young Westerners are able to get jobs overseas, even with mediocre resumes. It's the Failed in London Try Hong Kong phenomenon, but global. How do Chinese youth fare in international markets, and do they have a chance of finding work that way?