China’s Graduate Job Market Is Breaking a Generation — And No One Has a Fix

On Chinese university campuses, something subtly changes every June. Pictures from the ceremony are uploaded. The coordinated dresses, the pride of the family, the practiced grins. The waiting then starts for an increasing number of young people.

Chinese universities graduated a record 12.7 million students this year, an increase of almost half a million over the previous year. A medium-sized European nation could be filled with that number alone. And many of them have plunged headfirst into a labor market that, to put it simply, cannot accommodate everyone between the graduation celebration and their first job application.

In the last month, Jasmine, a 22-year-old Shanghai accounting graduate, has sent out about 150 resumes. Nothing has returned. “It has been much harder than I imagined,” she replied. “The competition is intense, especially for jobs that offer weekends off and proper social insurance.” The combination of respectable compensation, consistent work schedules, and a few fundamental protections has turned into something akin to a luxury.

The employment market for recent graduates in China is not abruptly collapsing. It is more akin to a gradual structural drift that has been developing since at least 2020 and is currently accelerating for several reasons at once. The economy of China is contracting. The GDP growth target set by Beijing has been lowered to its lowest level since 1991. There is little domestic consumption. Additionally, entry-level jobs like data processing, simple coding, and document management that used to be the starting point for young professionals are being quietly eliminated by AI.

It seems like the timing couldn’t be worse. In response to Beijing’s orders, Chinese universities have been drastically reducing what authorities refer to as “obsolete” programs, primarily in the humanities, arts, and languages, while encouraging students to pursue advanced manufacturing, artificial intelligence, semiconductors, and new energy. Over 12,000 undergraduate programs were discontinued and roughly 10,200 new ones were added between 2021 and 2025. The intention makes sense. For this generation caught in the middle of transition, the execution has been agonizing.

Fan, a 22-year-old Sichuan University humanities graduate, talks about a workplace where each path has its own unique anxiety. Working in the private sector entails long hours—12-hour days and weekend shifts are typical—as well as a persistent fear of being laid off. Although civil service positions are stable, they pay less and necessitate passing one of the world’s most difficult exams. “For most of us, looking for a job or going to work is very stressful,” he stated. It’s difficult to deny that many of these graduates don’t have many good options to choose from. It is in between various types of pressure.

According to Charles Jeffery Sun, founder of the consultancy China Education International, the total pool of jobseekers this year may surpass 15 million when taking into consideration previous cohorts who are still looking, postgraduates who haven’t found employment, and returning overseas graduates. Since China hasn’t released national data on graduate unemployment in recent years, that figure isn’t based on official statistics. Whether on purpose or not, the true scope of the issue is still somewhat hidden.

Informal surveys on Xiaohongshu, a platform frequently likened to a Chinese version of Instagram combined with TikTok, reveal a more dire picture. More than 14,000 members of the class of 2025 participated in one survey in June. Over 10,000 reported that they were still without a job.

Nearly 5,000 people participated in another survey, and the most popular response was “unemployed since graduating, feeling aimless, lost and anxious.” One 26-year-old used language that was difficult to read without feeling uncomfortable when discussing their job search. “I’m crying, I’m exhausted, I’m silent, I’ve surrendered.”

Graduates are increasingly turning to gig work, such as delivery driving, freelance platforms, and odd jobs in China’s enormous informal economy, which currently employs over 200 million people. The percentage of university graduates who prefer flexible work increased from 4.2 percent to almost 7 percent over the previous five years. Given that gig work frequently goes uncounted, it’s possible that figure underestimates the reality. Economists worry that although flexible work offers instant income, it tends to deteriorate skills over time and restrict earning potential in the long run. Unlike short-term unemployment, a generation’s detour into low-ceiling work is slower, quieter, and more difficult to reverse.

Beijing is paying attention to this. In July, the government began a six-month nationwide hiring campaign. There are plans to create 12 million urban jobs by 2026 through extensive training programs and AI-related job creation. The policy response, according to Sun, is “rational and proactive.” However, he also points out that resolving the structural problems will take time, possibly years. Whether policy changes can keep up with the rate at which the issue is expanding is still up for debate.

Fan claims he doesn’t see a very good solution. He’s still searching, though. “I can only accept the reality,” he declared. That phrase has a subtle, striking quality that is more akin to discipline than resignation. the tolerance of someone who has put in a lot of study time, adhered to the rules, and is now discovering that they don’t always hold true.