The cost of living and housing in China is forcing young people to move out of megacities

For decades, China’s youth have seen success concentrated in four key geographic areas: Beijing (the country’s political capital), Shanghai (the financial engine), Guangzhou (the manufacturing and export hub) and Shenzhen (the technology hub). The bright lights pointed the way forward, even if living in these megacities meant small apartments, exorbitant rents and endless workdays.

Today, that roadmap is beginning to shift. A growing number of young Chinese people are starting to explore smaller cities, where the pace is less frenetic and a work-life balance is more attainable.

This shift stems from a change in priorities. Stagnant wages, high youth unemployment, chronic burnout and increasingly realistic life expectations are pushing an entire generation — one marked by competitiveness and pressure — to seek a balance between ambition and mental well-being.

Changsha, Chengdu and Chongqing — cities known for their more relaxed atmospheres (at least, by Chinese standards) — have become magnets for young people who are tired of the fierce competition in the megacities, where the job market is also more saturated. Now, the so-called “second-tier cities” — prosperous and well-connected, but a step below in terms of political influence and economic size — have become places of refuge and personal reinvention.

At 33, Xiaoxiao feels like she has done everything expected of her: she earned a degree, received good job offers, became financially independent and got married. However, after a decade living in the capital of the Asian giant, she decided it was time to return to her home province of Hunan, in the south. “I love Beijing, but little by little, I felt the atmosphere changing. Nowadays, it’s harder for young people to lead a relatively comfortable and peaceful life there,” she laments.

Her interview with EL PAÍS takes place in a teahouse in Changsha, the capital of Hunan province, which is home to 10.6 million inhabitants. It’s known as the place where the founder of the People’s Republic — Mao Zedong — began his political activism (he was born in the rural town of Shaoshan, about 60 miles away).

Twenty-first century Changsha is a vibrant city, with wide avenues lined with skyscrapers and a bustling nightlife. Fueled by the boom in media and entertainment sectors, its permanent population has increased by more than three million people in the last decade, 80% of whom are under 35, according to official figures.

Xiaoxiao and her husband (originally from Inner Mongolia, in the north) spent a year weighing “what they would gain and what they would leave behind” when they moved. “Some friends didn’t understand [our choice], because we had high incomes and I had obtained a hukou [the certificate that determines which public services a person can access, based on their birthplace]. But even so, we decided to give up those conditions that seemed so good on paper,” Xiaoxiao shares. “Our life revolved around going from home to work and from work to home.” She’s a consultant and her partner is a programmer.

After six months in Changsha, neither of them regrets their decision. Among the reasons they cite are the price of housing, the expansion of their social circle, as well as the greater ease when it comes to enjoying outdoor activities. While in Beijing and Shanghai the median price per square foot is around 5,600 yuan (about $675), in Changsha it’s around 950 yuan ($110).

Like many women her age, Xiaoxiao is tired of constraints and social pressures. She also doesn’t plan on becoming a mother. She advocates a way of being in the world based on observing, experiencing and not setting limits. Xiaoxiao says that her future isn’t tied to Changsha, although she wouldn’t mind using it as a base (she and her husband just bought a house) and spending time in other regions. On the social media app Xiaohongshu (the Chinese equivalent of Instagram), she offers advice to people who are considering leaving megacities.

Chengdu, Xi’an, Wuhan, Hefei, Nanjing, Hangzhou and Chongqing have also seen a considerable increase in their population. A study by The Economist shows that, between 2019 and 2023, the number of residents in the country’s four wealthiest cities grew by an average of just 1.7%, while the population of the aforementioned cities grew at a rate of 18%.

Their strength in attracting talent lies in their high-level academic institutions, which are connected to the local economy and focused on practical training. Clear examples are Hefei — thanks to its scientific drive and companies linked to new quality productive forces (NQPF) — and Hangzhou, due to the pull of a technological ecosystem revolving around giants like Alibaba and artificial intelligence companies such as DeepSeek. According to a 2024 report by the job portal Liepin, more than 20% of Chinese university graduates preferred to work in a second-tier city, or even in smaller ones.

Each trip to one of these cities is like visiting a different world. Yue Zifeng, 25, says he had a breakdown in Shanghai after spending a year-and-a-half in the city. First, he worked for a video game company, then for one that recorded videos for Douyin (the Chinese version of TikTok). He remembers endless days, following the Chinese 9-9-6 pattern (9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week). He began to feel that something was wrong. “I was under a lot of pressure and had no time for myself.” He decided to quit. And, in January this year, he returned to the city where he had studied Language and Literature: Chengdu.

“Here, I feel at home,” Yue smiles, while having a beer at Home Plate, an American-style burger joint. “The people, their vibe, the atmosphere are chill.” To be precise, he says “chill” in English — a language he speaks fluently. He’s originally from Ürümqi, the capital of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. But he doesn’t like going back home. Yue wears a beret and has an ear piercing. He calls himself Vague.

Vague now works in a bar. He earns much less: he’s gone from making around 10,000 yuan ($1,200) in Shanghai to about 4,000 (around $500) each month. But mentally, he’s doing much better.

“Am I happy? I couldn’t say,” he shrugs. “[Although] now, I feel a bit at peace.” He says he doesn’t think about the future. He takes things one step at a time. He likes living in a city where nobody judges him.

Chengdu — the capital of Sichuan province in Southwest China — is known for its pandas and its ultra-spicy food. It has over 20 million inhabitants, though it moves at a different pace from typical big cities. It combines glass towers with traditional-style alleyways, which are crammed with tourists. It is famous for its club districts, for being the birthplace of Chinese hip hop and for its friendly atmosphere towards the LGBTQ+ community: “People here are tolerant,” Vague notes. He’s gay, in a country where it’s not easy to be openly queer.

The city boasts headquarters of well-known video game companies, such as TiMi Studio Group. This firm created Honor of Kings, one of the world’s most successful video games. And the phenomenon of Ne Zha 2 (2025) — the highest-grossing Chinese animated film of all time — originated in a local studio.

Chengdu is home to the country’s only science fiction museum, a building designed by Zaha Hadid in the shape of a spaceship. And, recently, when the king and queen of Spain landed in Chengdu as the first stop on their trip to China, the city hosted the 2025 League of Legends World Championship final, a massive e-sports event.

Local authorities are working hard to maintain this appeal. They’ve even implemented a housing support system to attract talent from other provinces, offering free short-term stays in so-called “talent stations,” low-cost rentals, and subsidized purchases of “talent apartments.”

Vague doesn’t have to worry about housing, however. He lives in an apartment that his parents bought for him. And he manages to get by on much less than he did in Shanghai. He feels that his generation has gone through a “super tough” period: they reached university at the same time as the pandemic, and they suffered through lockdowns on campus and in their hometowns (Ürümqi, his hometown, had one of the strictest lockdowns under the rigid zero-tolerance policy during the COVID-19 pandemic). “We lacked communication and the opportunity to experience life,” he sighs.

After graduating with youth unemployment at historic levels, members of this generation found out how difficult it is to find suitable work. They’re still looking.

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