Too old at 35, ‘buried’ at 50

The future once seemed boundless for those who grew up during China’s reform era in the 1990s. Now in middle age, they are pinned between economic stagnation and institutional age discrimination. — Lisk Feng/The New York Times

HARRY Guo built a life that defined success in China.

Born in 1971, he came of age in the 1990s, when China deepened its economic reforms. He taught himself computing and found his way into jobs in multinational firms and then Chinese internet giants.

By his mid-40s, he was comfortably middle class. He and his wife paid off two mortgages early and sent their daughter to high school and college in Canada.

Then Guo was laid off.

Now 55, he has not had a job in more than two years. It’s not for lack of trying.

The supermarket near his Beijing apartment won’t hire cashiers over 50. The warehouse where he inquired about work turned him away.

During the boom years, when China’s economy was growing in double digits, career opportunities were abundant as Chinese and multinational companies competed for talent.

A job hop could mean a 30% raise.

The Chinese dream was the expectation that those who worked hard could have a better life than their parents’ and that their children’s would be better than their own.

Now that dream is unravelling.

There is little room for upward mobility and a strong downward pull. The housing market has contracted. Private investment has slowed. Multinational companies shuttered or scaled back their operations.

Layoffs have spread through technology, media, education and property-related industries since the pandemic, even though China’s official urban unemployment rate has hovered around 5% for years.

Across China’s cities, mid-career professionals who rode the reform-era boom are discovering that the labour market has little use for them.

They are too old for an economy that prizes youth, too expensive for firms under pressure and too financially committed – mortgages, tuition and ageing parents – to stop working.

Guo invoked a popular social media meme: “At 40 you’re dead professionally. You’re simply waiting to be buried.”

At 55, he feels he has already been interred.

Age discrimination is so normalised that it has its own name: the Curse of 35, a widely held belief that white-collar workers become liabilities rather than assets once they cross that age threshold.

Although Chinese law contains general prohibitions against employment discrimination, it does not clearly define or strongly enforce protections against age bias.

A recent WeChat post from a recruitment company in Chongqing was typical: a customer service role capped at 30, a bank call centre at 35, a semiconductor plant at 30, a warehouse sorting job at 45.

Chinese tech firms skew notably young.

According to 2021 data from the job platform Maimai, the average employee age at ByteDance, the parent company of TikTok, was 27; at Alibaba and Huawei it was 31.

In large US tech firms, the average employee age, according to one analysis, is 37.

One man, who asked to be identified only as Ma, spent more than two decades as a reporter and editor at a state broadcast station.

He had moved to Shanghai from Inner Mongolia in 2003, part of a wave of provincial talent drawn to opportunities in bigger cities.

During their peak earning years, he and his wife, who still works there, brought home roughly US$70,000 a year combined. They had two daughters, bought cars and traded up to a bigger apartment.

Then, around 2018, advertising revenue began to dry up. Ma’s work increased even as pay declined.

In 2022, he was diagnosed with a blood disorder requiring a bone-marrow transplant and time off.

He returned to work early, against his doctor’s advice, because he had heard that the broadcaster was restructuring and he feared losing his job.

He lost it anyway. On Dec 31, 2024, he recorded his final broadcast.

He now receives about US$280 a month in unemployment benefits. He buys discounted vegetables and meat.

He has applied for audio editing and journalism roles. No one has called back. He is 47.

“The moment you’re past a certain age, you become invisible,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or what you know.”

When asked him about his future, he said he’d rather not think about it.

In a second-tier city in northern China, a 39-year-old network infrastructure salesman had a career that followed the same arc. He asked to be identified only by his nickname, Benchi, which is the Chinese name for Mercedes.

He left his village for college, joined a major internet company and got married.

Benchi was laid off in 2023. After an eight-month search, he found a position paying roughly half his previous salary.

His wife, a full-time homemaker, wants to have a second child. He doesn’t see how they can afford it, and thinks they should cut back on expenses.

“I used to think next year will be better,” Benchi said. “Now I think about how to make sure what I have doesn’t collapse.”

Guo has made peace with his situation.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he said. “It’s like the Cultural Revolution or the ‘90s mass layoff of the state-owned enterprises. It’s a historical cycle. It just happens to be our turn.”

He now believes in making the greatest effort while preparing for the worst.

“When the Titanic is sinking,” he said, “all you can do is try to go down with some dignity.” — ©2026 The New York Times Company

This article originally appeared in The New York Times