Idle hands, ageing hearts: China’s ‘full-time grandchildren’ trend exposes deep youth unemployment crisis

In recent months, a curious phenomenon has emerged across Chinese social media platforms and households: young people proudly declaring themselves “full-time grandchildren.”

At first glance, the label seems heartwarming, even quaint — a nod to filial piety in an ageing society.

But beneath the surface, it reveals a more sobering reality: China’s youth are increasingly shut out of the labour market, resorting to caring for grandparents not out of cultural tradition, but from economic necessity and a shrinking horizon of opportunities.

This trend is not just an internet quirk. It is emblematic of a deeper malaise afflicting China’s post-pandemic economy.

The term “full-time grandchild” refers to unemployed or underemployed young adults — often recent college graduates — who return to their family homes and spend their days assisting elderly grandparents.

In exchange, some receive stipends from their families, a form of informal, intergenerational financial support that fills the vacuum left by the formal economy.

While Chinese society has long upheld the Confucian ideal of revering the elderly, the contemporary rise of this role is driven not by cultural resurgence but by bleak economic conditions.

According to data from China’s National Bureau of Statistics, urban youth unemployment among 16- to 24-year-olds officially stood at 15.3% in June 2024, down from a peak of over 21% in 2023 — but analysts and independent observers suggest the real figure may be significantly higher, especially when accounting for those who have given up looking for work altogether.

The Chinese government, in a controversial move, stopped releasing youth unemployment data for a time in 2023, citing the need to refine its methodology.

That decision only fuelled suspicions that the problem was larger than the official statistics let on.

The reality on the ground paints a troubling picture: a generation of young people, armed with degrees and digital literacy, now finds itself underutilised, disillusioned, and economically dependent.

This crisis has many roots.

The prolonged effects of China’s zero-COVID policy severely disrupted economic activity and job creation across sectors.

Graduates from Chinese universities flooded the job market in record numbers, only to find a limited number of positions, particularly in desirable white-collar industries.

At the same time, Beijing’s crackdown on technology companies and the tutoring sector — traditionally significant employers of young talent — further tightened job prospects.

The property sector’s prolonged slump only compounded the slowdown.

For many young Chinese, becoming a “full-time grandchild” is a creative, if reluctant, response to these conditions.

It is a way to maintain a sense of purpose and structure in the absence of stable employment.

Some find solace in the role, enjoying quality time with ageing grandparents and using social media to document their daily routines — cooking, walking in parks, playing mahjong — turning intergenerational care into a performative, monetizable act.

Yet this lifestyle, for all its charm, underscores the loss of agency that defines the current generation.

The post-90s and post-00s cohort in China grew up in an era of booming growth and global connectivity. They were taught to aspire, to compete, and to excel.

Their parents sacrificed heavily — financially and emotionally — to secure their education and opportunity.

To see these aspirations now redirected into household caretaking duties, often framed with irony or humour, is a quiet indictment of the system’s failure to absorb its most educated citizens.

The generational contract is now being renegotiated, not through policy reform, but through resignation.

In traditional Chinese society, the elderly cared for grandchildren while the middle generation earned wages.

Today, that pyramid has flipped in many families, with elderly pensions helping support idle youth.

This inversion may offer short-term psychological refuge, but it raises urgent questions about the long-term social and economic viability of China’s demographic structure.

Moreover, the “full-time grandchild” trend is reflective of broader social anxieties among China’s youth.

Over the past few years, phrases like “lying flat” and “letting it rot” have gained traction, signalling a growing refusal among the younger generation to participate in the hyper-competitive rat race of Chinese society.

Rather than chase unattainable housing goals, gruelling “996” work schedules, and state-defined notions of success, many are opting out altogether.

Being a full-time grandchild is simply the latest manifestation of that disillusionment.

This attitude is not born solely of entitlement or laziness, as some state media narratives might suggest.

It is, in large part, a rational response to diminishing returns on investment — educational, emotional, and economic.

Despite attending prestigious universities and mastering multiple skills, many graduates find themselves either underemployed or entirely jobless. Others accept low-paying, temporary gigs far below their qualifications.

In this climate, offering emotional labour at home in exchange for familial support can seem like the most dignified option available.

Ironically, the very technological platforms that define China’s digital economy have become both escape valves and amplifiers of the youth crisis.

Apps like Douyin (China’s version of TikTok) and Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book) are filled with posts by young “full-time grandchildren” documenting their days with elderly relatives, gaining followers and, in some cases, sponsorships.

This blend of economic desperation and online entrepreneurship blurs the line between caregiving, lifestyle branding, and passive rebellion.

At the heart of it all lies a sense of emotional displacement.

Many of these young people do not believe they are failing — they feel they have failed.

The implicit social contract — study hard, work hard, succeed — has broken down. In its place is a fragile intergenerational dependency that masks a deeper societal imbalance.

While policymakers and economists debate macroeconomic levers and industry adjustments, China’s youth are forging their own micro-economies of care, content, and survival.

Their choice to become “full-time grandchildren” is not merely a coping mechanism — it is a quiet protest against a system that promised much and delivered little.

The “full-time grandchild” may be a charming trope, even a loving act. But it is also a mirror — one that reflects a generation caught between dreams and disappointment, and a country grappling with the cost of its own contradictions.