Wu Xiao was in her third year of university when she joined the growing ranks of China’s “student streamers.” Despite a packed class schedule, she would wake at 4:30 a.m. every day to start livestreaming, chatting with fans for hours about the world of entertainment.

Despite the intense workload, she graduated top of her class in 2025, cheered on by a loyal online following.

Yet, while Wu’s on-screen persona was an ever-cheerful, energetic student, behind the scenes it was a much grimmer picture. “You’ve got to deal with a lot — constant stress, anxiety, job insecurity, all the hate and criticism online,” says the 23-year-old. “It’s an emotional rollercoaster.”

Student streamers have carved out an increasing share of China’s massive online audience in recent years — largely fueled, some say, by a desire among younger viewers to recapture their halcyon days in education.

To capitalize on the demand, young people have rushed to launch their own channels on streaming platforms like Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, while talent agencies and multichannel networks (MCNs) — which assist content creators in programming, products, digital rights, and other areas — have begun scouring social media for potential stars.

However, for most, converting effort into income has not been easy, with research suggesting that the strain of roles in the attention management industry can lead to livestreamers neglecting their physical health and real-world responsibilities.

Meanwhile, reports of conflicts caused by streaming in school dormitories are rising sharply nationwide, with roommates lodging complaints about constant noise and invasion of privacy.

Motivated by money

In ads seeking livestreaming talent, the ideal candidates for student streamers are typically described as “pure and sweet” with a “positive and uplifting” vibe, while their content and activities should highlight the college experience, such as streaming from their dorm room.

Qin Guang is an operations manager at an MCN that specializes in nurturing student streamers, helping refine their vocal style and persona. He describes the job as a mix of street performer and sales agent.

“It’s like busking — you trade your skills for the generosity of passing strangers,” he says. “And just as traditional salespeople sell products, livestreamers shift virtual gifts by providing emotional value. There’s no shame in it.”

As of December 2024, Chinese livestream platforms had a combined 833 million user accounts, according to the China Internet Network Information Center. Qin says that student streamers appeal particularly to viewers in their 30s, for whom university is still fresh in their memory.

“Viewers think college students are more innocent, reminding them of happier times or their first crush,” says Lin Siying, who has been livestreaming since the summer of 2024. The 20-year-old sophomore treats it like a part-time gig, spending about eight hours a week online in between her studies in Beijing.

“The pressures of finding a job after graduation are mounting,” Lin explains. “When you can’t seem to find the right path, livestreaming becomes a way to make money.”

A 2025 study by researchers at Huzhou University, in the eastern Zhejiang province, found that 30% to 40% of more than 1,000 student streamers were motivated primarily by financial gain.

When Lin started, she recalls reading comments on social media from other streamers, such as one who wrote, “If I knew I could make money this way, I wouldn’t have bothered pursuing further education.”

However, that first year, Lin didn’t even earn enough to cover her monthly rent, which was just over 1,500 yuan ($145). She had no option but to give up her apartment and move into a university dorm with other students, limiting the duration and variety of her content.

At Chinese universities, sharing a bedroom with three or more classmates is common. Qin says that most students are hesitant to livestream from their dorm — one, because of scheduled power outages at night, but mainly due to concerns about disturbing others.

During the ongoing fall semester, institutions across the country have seen growing complaints about livestreaming from dormitories. Among those to respond were Jianghan University’s School of Music in Wuhan, capital of the central Hubei province, which issued a notice on Dec. 30 banning the practice.

To avoid conflicts, Lin streams for only a couple of hours while sitting on her bed, always keeping her voice low. She also uses her earnings from virtual gifts to treat her roommates to meals, building goodwill.

Qin advises livestreamers to get their roommates involved, either as on-camera companions or as producers and planners.

For others, like Wu — who made enough money to stay in private accommodation while studying for a degree in internet operations in the northern Hebei province — being away from their peers can lead to feelings of isolation and loneliness. “The silence can be deafening once the stream ends,” she says.

Friendly faces

The Huzhou University study warns that streamers driven by profit risk becoming trapped in a “traffic loop,” in which the pursuit of views and virtual validation fosters a form of digital dependency. This can not only cause chronic exhaustion, posing a danger to physical and mental health, but also prompt them to resort to underhanded behaviors to attract subscribers, such as trolling or harassing others.

However, Lin and Wu — now a full-time livestreamer — argue that their job is more about providing emotional value.

Wu says that livestreamers don’t require professional-level talents, but they should be willing to sing and dance, while making money relies on their strong communication skills, high emotional intelligence, or good looks.

She treats her biggest supporters — which Wu believes are mostly high-achieving professionals — like real friends, making sure to share updates that don’t feel forced, as well as sending snacks or plush toys during holidays to show her appreciation. “If you’re too transparent about wanting money, people will sense it’s purely transactional and walk away,” Wu says, adding that the largest virtual gift she’s ever received from a viewer was worth 3,000 yuan.

On camera, Wu is a constant source of positivity, never letting a hint of frustration enter her voice. She knows her audience is drawn to her radiant energy. Yet, she is under no illusions about the nature of the relationship: she’s a “digital pet” to be observed from afar.

Lin, who earns about 1,000 yuan a month, says most of her viewers are just seeking companionship. She also takes time to connect with fans, sending private thank-you messages and offering a “friendly ear.”

Qin argues that while the barrier to entry is low, success is a matter of personal branding and strategy. “The dorm-room aesthetic is just a hook,” he explains. “The real draw is being charismatic and articulate. A streamer with those qualities could captivate thousands of viewers without any specific label.”

Yet the greatest obstacles are internal, largely stemming from the social stigma surrounding livestreaming. As many in China view the profession as low class, unstable, and even salacious, Wu says she regularly receives private messages from students — particularly those from low-income backgrounds — worried about being “exposed.”

When Wu chose a career in livestreaming after university, she had to reassure her parents that the industry was becoming more professional and regulated, and that she had a supportive agent backing her. Eventually, they came to understand. “They told me that in an era where everyone is a potential creator, integrity speaks for itself,” she says. “Work hard, we’re not ashamed of you. Stand tall and go for it.”

Take it or leave it

After graduation, Wu decided to stay on this path. She says that few student streamers stick with it for the long haul. Now, she livestreams for six to seven hours a day, finishing every session by taking a handful of medications to protect her throat.

In the early days, the physical strain paled in comparison to the mental anguish. Throughout 2024, before every livestream, she recalls being overwhelmed by an uncontrollable wave of sadness, panic, and dizziness. There were days when she earned as little as 5 yuan.

Yet she persevered, and by the spring of 2025 her subscribers were climbing and gifts were pouring in. Wu’s mental health began to stabilize, and she thought the sadness was behind her — but whenever the number of viewers dipped, or a fan criticized her, it came rushing back.

To help with feeling isolated from the real world, in September, Wu took a full-time job with an automotive company, selling cars via livestream. However, she quit after a month and returned to focusing solely on her entertainment channel.

Wu believes her outgoing charm and “girl-next-door” looks are perfectly suited to livestreaming, despite the online abuse. Offline, she reads and meditates, hoping to better understand her need for external validation and foster internal happiness.

At university, Wu was fueled solely by a desire to pay her tuition and support her parents. Now, she’s earning enough to survive, but she’s worried what will happen if her income begins to drop.

Lin, who has a couple of years until graduation, feels that if her livestreaming proves lucrative, she will continue it as a career. If not, she’s ready to walk away.

“No one should regret getting a degree,” she says. “The livestreaming industry runs on youth. When the money dries up, you’ll want an education to back you up.”

(Due to privacy concerns, all names in this article are pseudonyms.)

Reported by Yuan Lu and Sun Xiaowen.

A version of this article originally appeared in The Paper. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Visuals from Shijue/VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)