Redefining Success: Chinese Youth Embrace “Lying Flat”(躺平) and a New Vision of Life

Okay, settle in, grab a cup of coffee (or maybe some Longjing tea, if you’re getting into the local spirit like me), because we need to talk about something fascinating happening among young people here in China. It’s a phenomenon called “Tang Ping” (躺平), which literally translates to “Lying Flat.”

Now, if you’re picturing millions of young Chinese suddenly deciding to just, well, lie down and do nothing forever, hold that thought. It’s much more nuanced, complex, and honestly, quite revealing about the pressures and shifting aspirations in modern China. As an American living here and running this blog, I’ve been watching this trend evolve from internet chatter into something much more tangible, something people are actually doing. It’s a story that goes beyond the headlines of China’s economic miracles and digs into the personal lives and choices of a generation navigating a rapidly changing world.

For years, the narrative pushed both inside and outside China has been one of relentless ambition, the “Chinese Dream” fueled by hard work, sacrifice, and a climb up the socio-economic ladder. Think long hours, intense competition, and a laser focus on getting ahead. But “Tang Ping” represents a quiet, yet profound, counter-narrative. It’s less of an aggressive protest and more of a conscious withdrawal, a decision to opt out of the relentless pursuit of traditional markers of success.

Let’s rewind a bit to understand where this comes from.

The Pressure Cooker: Why Lie Flat in the First Place?

Imagine a society where competition starts practically from birth. The pressure to excel academically is immense, culminating in the gaokao, the notoriously difficult national college entrance exam that can largely determine a young person’s future. Getting into a top university, especially one of the elite “985” schools (think Ivy League equivalent, but with even fiercer competition), is seen as the golden ticket.

But the pressure doesn’t stop there. The job market is incredibly competitive. Reports indicate that the number of college graduates in China exploded from around 850,000 in 1999 to a staggering 11.58 million in 2023. That’s an enormous pool of talent vying for desirable positions, especially in the major coastal megacities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Shenzhen.

Once employed, many face the infamous “996” work culture – working from 9 am to 9 pm, 6 days a week – or similar demanding schedules. While not universal, it’s prevalent enough in certain sectors (especially tech) to shape the overall work environment. Add to this the skyrocketing cost of living, particularly housing prices in major cities that are astronomically high relative to average incomes. Buying an apartment, traditionally a prerequisite for marriage and settling down, feels increasingly out of reach for many young professionals, even those with decent salaries.

This intense environment has given rise to another popular term: “Neijuan” (内卷), or “Involution.” It describes a situation where competition becomes so fierce that people expend ever-increasing effort for diminishing returns. It’s like being stuck on a hamster wheel, running faster and faster just to stay in the same place, or worse, feeling like you’re falling behind despite working yourself to the bone.

The COVID-19 pandemic also played a role, shaking up industries, leading to layoffs and salary cuts for some (“being optimized,” as the euphemism often goes), and prompting a broader reassessment of life priorities for many.

It’s within this context that the appeal of “Lying Flat” starts to make sense. People are tired. As Xiao Jia, a self-proclaimed “Tang Ping Planner” (we’ll get back to him), noted, many of his clients, often well-educated city dwellers with respectable jobs and decent incomes (sometimes over 10,000 RMB/month, which is a solid middle-class income outside the top-tier cities), share a common sentiment: they are “心累” (xīn lèi) – heart-tired, emotionally exhausted.

Think of Li Si, the young man mentioned in one article, lying awake at night in his shared apartment on Beijing’s outskirts, filled with anxiety about the impending workday. His escape? Watching videos about “Tang Ping planning,” dreaming of a life where he doesn’t have to face the daily grind. Or Zhuang Zhou, a finance professional who once earned a hefty 2 million RMB (around $275,000 USD) annual salary but found himself burned out by extreme hours and immense pressure, fantasizing about a simple life by a lake, even though his financial obligations kept him tethered.

From Grumbling to Going: The Evolution of Tang Ping

Now, here’s a crucial point, and one of the specific insights I wanted to share: compared to a couple of years ago when “Tang Ping” was mostly online talk, memes, and expressions of frustration, this recent wave feels different. It’s more practical. People are moving beyond complaining and actually taking action.

The earlier phase was characterized by online discussions, shared feelings of burnout, and a sense of solidarity in disillusionment. It was cathartic, perhaps, but often remained theoretical. Today, we’re seeing a growing number of young Chinese actively seeking out and implementing “life withdrawal plans,” as a news report described it.

This shift is evident in the emergence of figures like Xiao Jia, the “Tang Ping Planner.” His journey itself is illustrative. After struggling with unfulfilling jobs in Shenzhen and experiencing burnout (even getting diagnosed with mild depression), he discovered the FIRE (Financial Independence, Retire Early) movement online. This wasn’t just about complaining; it provided a framework, a potential roadmap. He started tracking his expenses meticulously, cut non-essential spending (even quitting an eight-year smoking habit), and eventually quit his job.

But he didn’t just stop there. He bought a used car and embarked on a 187-day road trip across 34 cities, specifically researching locations suitable for a low-cost (under 3000 RMB/month, roughly $415 USD) lifestyle. He documented his findings, created spreadsheets listing hundreds of potential “Tang Ping locations,” and started sharing his insights online.

The response was overwhelming. His WeChat friends list ballooned to over 3,000, he manages multiple chat groups dedicated to the topic, and he’s provided consultations (many free, some paid) to over a thousand individuals. People aren’t just saying they want to lie flat; they’re asking how and where. They’re seeking practical advice on budgeting, investing (even if it’s small amounts), and, crucially, finding affordable places to live.

The Geography of Escape: Where Do You Go to Lie Flat?

This leads to the second key point I wanted to emphasize: the feasibility of this “Tang Ping” lifestyle in diverse locations across China is significantly enabled by the country’s massive infrastructure investments over the past few decades.

You might think that escaping the high costs of Beijing or Shanghai means roughing it in some rural backwater. But that’s often not the case. Thanks to China’s extensive high-speed rail network, ubiquitous mobile internet coverage (even in smaller towns), reliable utilities, and the proliferation of modern conveniences like online shopping and delivery services, it’s possible to live a comfortable, connected, modern life in much smaller, cheaper cities without feeling completely cut off.

This infrastructure makes the “geographic arbitrage” aspect of Tang Ping truly viable. You can drastically cut your living expenses by moving away from the Tier 1 cities while still enjoying decent amenities.

Consider some of the hotspots that keep popping up:

• Huizhou: Located adjacent to Shenzhen in Guangdong province, Huizhou (particularly areas like Daya Bay) has become known as “Shenzhen’s sleeping bag.” It offers significantly lower housing costs while remaining close enough for occasional trips back to the metropolis (or even, for some hardcore commuters, daily travel, though that defeats the ‘lying flat’ purpose). The infrastructure is well-developed. San San, a vlogger who quit a government job and now documents his FIRE life there, rented a fully furnished three-bedroom apartment for just 1000 RMB/month (around $140 USD) initially. He highlights the convenience: malls, supermarkets, gyms, hospitals, even a cheap community cafeteria, all within easy reach. He’s even built a local community of fellow “Tang Ping-ers,” with dozens living nearby, sharing tips on grocery deals and socializing occasionally. The downside? Its popularity is causing rents to rise (San San noted his apartment type now goes for 1200 RMB).
• Rushan (Shandong Province): Often mentioned for its “cabbage price” sea-view apartments, particularly in the Yintan (Silver Beach) area. According to reports, this coastal city experienced a property boom that later busted, leaving a large stock of vacant apartments. Xiao Jia found you could rent simple, furnished studios with sea views for around 600-800 RMB/month ($80-110 USD). The trade-off? It’s much quieter, further from major cities, lacks the convenience of Huizhou (described as an “outside delivery desert”), has an older demographic, and the buildings might feel dated. It’s a more hardcore “lie flat” option for those prioritizing extreme low cost and quiet over convenience.
• Qujing (Yunnan Province): Chosen by Zhang Yuan (the cyclist inspired by San San) precisely because Huizhou was still too expensive for his budget. He found a basic room with a private kitchen and bathroom for a mere 240 RMB/month (about $33 USD!). Yunnan offers pleasant weather and beautiful scenery. Qujing represents an even more budget-focused option, often attracting those seeking “pure lying” with minimal work. Zhang Yuan noted the community there seemed more introverted (“socially anxious”), often staying home. The local salaries are very low, making it hard to earn locally if needed.
• Yangjiang (Guangdong Province): Dubbed the “Southern King of Lying Flat” by Xiao Jia. He stayed in a hotel-style room with sea views on Hailing Island for less than 27 RMB/day (under $4 USD!), translating to about 600 RMB/month. Great value for coastal living, but requires navigating the off-season deals and potentially dealing with less convenient grocery shopping.
• Other Mentions: Places like Hegang (a former coal town in the far northeast known for ultra-cheap housing but harsh winters and remoteness), Guìyang (specifically the massive, somewhat dystopian Huaguoyuan complex offering cheap city living), and various smaller cities in provinces like Guangxi, Fujian, Sichuan, and even central China (like Hebì in Henan) are also part of the conversation.

The point is, there’s a growing list of options, each with its own pros and cons, catering to different budgets and preferences. And the ability to access reliable internet, order goods online (Taobao/JD reach almost everywhere), use mobile payments, and sometimes even hop on a high-speed train relatively easily makes these places viable alternatives, not just pockets of deprivation.

The Many Flavors of “Lying Flat”

It’s also crucial to understand that “Tang Ping” isn’t monolithic. It manifests in various ways:

1. The FIRE Seekers: Like Li Si initially, aiming to save a substantial nest egg (his goal was 1.3 million RMB, about $180,000 USD) to live off investments, following the 4% rule. This often still involves intense work before lying flat.
2. The Frugal Minimalists: Taking low cost to an extreme. Think of the blogger “Yi Tiao Wucai Banlan de Xianyu” (A Colorful Salted Fish) who documented her challenge of eating for only 30 RMB (about $4 USD) a month, relying on clever grocery shopping, simple cooking, and sometimes vitamin supplements (inspired by another blogger, “Dai Du de Wuye Youmin” – The Malicious Unemployed Vagrant). This often involves meticulous budgeting and embracing a very simple, low-consumption lifestyle.
3. The Part-Time Hustlers: Not fully retired, but opting for flexible, often remote or gig-based work that covers basic expenses without the stress of a full-time corporate job. This could be freelance writing, graphic design, online tutoring, or even driving a taxi part-time. Xiao Jia calls one variation “Barista FIRE” – where investment income covers some costs, and light work covers the rest.
4. The Temporary Breathers: Using Tang Ping as an extended gap year or a period of recovery from burnout. Zhang Yuan, despite settling in Qujing, explicitly plans to return to work in Shanghai after a year to save more money. Many who consult Xiao Jia just need a break and a plan for a few months of rest and recuperation before potentially re-entering the workforce, perhaps on different terms.
5. The Content Creators: The paradox of the Tang Ping influencer. Figures like San San, Xiao Kui (who films cheerful videos mostly from her bed, challenging traditional expectations), Zhu Shifu (who found accidental success documenting her post-layoff life), and Xianyu leverage their “lying flat” lifestyle into a form of work itself. They build followings by sharing their experiences, offering vicarious escape or practical tips to others. As Xiao Kui admitted, even filming seemingly relaxed videos requires preparation and isn’t truly “lying flat” in that moment. This path has its own pressures – the need for consistent content, chasing views, and the irony of potentially “卷” (getting competitive) within the Tang Ping niche itself.

Beyond Laziness: The Psychology of Withdrawing

Dismissing Tang Ping as mere laziness misses the deeper psychological and social dynamics at play, as explored in the more academic piece provided by researchers (情境策略微观互动...). From a micro-interaction perspective, expressing the desire to “lie flat” serves multiple functions for young Chinese:

• Phase Adjustment: It’s often used to signal the need for a break after intense effort (like exams or a big project). Saying “I want to lie flat” becomes a socially acceptable way to express the need for rest and recovery, framing it as a reward or a necessary pause before the next push.
• Emotional Regulation: In moments of overwhelming stress or facing seemingly impossible tasks, verbalizing the desire to “lie flat” acts as an emotional release valve. It’s a way to acknowledge pressure and anxiety without necessarily giving up entirely. One student noted that saying it sometimes reduced the pressure, allowing them to refocus on the task with less internal conflict (“内耗” – internal friction/consumption).
• Impression Management: In a culture that often values appearing effortlessly successful, claiming to be “lying flat” can paradoxically be a strategy. It can be used to downplay one’s efforts (“I didn’t even study that hard”), preserving an image of natural talent. It can also be a form of self-deprecation (“I’m just a 985 waste”), preemptively lowering expectations to protect self-esteem, especially for those struggling to replicate past academic success in the more complex university or work environment.
• Seeking Social Support: Sharing the desire to “lie flat” within peer groups (friends, roommates) often functions as a bid for understanding, empathy, and encouragement. It’s a way to build solidarity (“We’re all tired”), receive validation (“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed”), or even get a gentle nudge (“You can do it!”). It fosters connection and provides a crucial buffer against stress.
• Negotiating Social Distance: In the highly collective environment of university dorms or shared living spaces, saying “I’m lying flat” can be a polite way to signal a desire for privacy or to gently deflect inquiries about one’s activities (“What are you up to?”). Conversely, joining in collective “lying flat” talk can be a way to fit in, showing you’re not an overly ambitious “卷王” (king of involution/hyper-competitor) and reducing perceived threat to peers.

Seen through this lens, Tang Ping is less about apathy and more about active adaptation, coping, and strategic social interaction within a demanding environment. It’s about finding ways to preserve mental health, maintain a sense of self, and connect with others who share similar experiences.

The Uncertain Future of Lying Flat

So, is “Lying Flat” a permanent revolution in values or a temporary phase? The answer, like the phenomenon itself, is complex.

We see examples like Li Si, who, after a period of fantasizing about FIRE, achieved his savings goal but found himself drawn back into the traditional path – promotion, relationship, plans for marriage and homeownership in Beijing. His Tang Ping dreams served as a temporary psychological balm and, ironically, a motivator to earn more.

Then there’s Zhang Yuan, planning his return to the Shanghai grind after his year of exploration and rest in Qujing, albeit with a changed perspective and perhaps a long-term plan to eventually settle somewhere cheaper.

And there are those like Xiao Jia and San San, who seem to have found a more sustainable balance, integrating their Tang Ping philosophy with a new form of work (planning, content creation) that aligns better with their desired lifestyle.

The Tang Ping influencer paradox remains: does the need to perform relaxation for an audience eventually create its own form of pressure and competition? And can a lifestyle built on extreme frugality or low income truly sustain itself long-term, especially if unexpected expenses (like healthcare) arise, or if rents in previously cheap areas continue to climb due to increased demand from fellow “flat-liers”?

Family pressure also remains a significant factor. As Li Si mentioned, the weight of parental expectations and sacrifices made it difficult for him to truly opt out. For many young Chinese, especially only children, there’s a strong sense of obligation towards parents who invested heavily in their education and future.

However, what seems undeniable is that Tang Ping reflects a genuine questioning of the relentless pursuit of material wealth and status as the sole definition of a successful life. It prioritizes mental well-being, personal autonomy, and finding meaning outside the confines of a high-pressure career track. It shows a generation exploring diverse life paths, empowered, in part, by technology and infrastructure that make unconventional choices more feasible than ever before.

For an American audience, perhaps there are echoes here of the “Great Resignation,” “Quiet Quitting,” or the minimalist movement. But the Chinese context – the scale of the competition, the specific cultural pressures around family and property, the unique role of state-led infrastructure development – gives “Tang Ping” its distinct flavor.

It’s not necessarily a rejection of work altogether, but often a rejection of meaningless or soul-crushing work. It’s a search for a rhythm of life that feels sustainable and personally fulfilling, even if it means living with less materially. As Zhang Yuan reflected, after his travels and his time “lying flat,” even returning to work felt less daunting; he had found his own pace, and work now had a purpose – funding the next stage of his chosen life.

Watching this unfold here in China is a constant reminder that societies, especially ones undergoing such rapid transformation, are always generating new ways for individuals to navigate the currents. “Lying Flat” might look passive from the outside, but dig a little deeper, and you find a fascinating landscape of active choices, quiet resilience, and a generation redefining what it means to live a good life on their own terms. And that, I think, is a story worth paying attention to, no matter where you are in the world.