Any Chinese parent or student fixated on education — so, basically, most Chinese parents and students — knew the name Zhang Xuefeng. As China’s most famous education influencer, Mr. Zhang was known for dispensing ruthlessly blunt advice about how to maximize a student’s chances at success.
The liberal arts? Only good for service jobs, he declared. Finance? Don’t bother unless your family has connections. Fast-talking and sharp-tongued, to his detractors he was cynical and utilitarian. But to his tens of millions of fans, he embodied a rare willingness to acknowledge the harsh realities facing less privileged students, especially in the face of steep inequality and a slowing economy.
So when Mr. Zhang suddenly died on Tuesday at age 41, of cardiac arrest, it prompted an outpouring — not only of shock, but also of reflection.
On social media, people asked: Had he steered young Chinese to better lives or discouraged their idealism? What did his abrupt death, after he had long complained of being exhausted and overworked, say about China’s hypercompetitive work culture? And if life was so unpredictable, did planning so carefully — for success that seemed increasingly out of reach — even matter?
“Zhang Xuefeng’s lesson to lost young people: Enjoy your life,” was one of the top hashtags on Chinese social media on Wednesday, where news of Mr. Zhang’s death dominated discussion. “Excessive self-discipline” was another, a response to state media reports that Mr. Zhang had collapsed after going for a run in Suzhou, the city in eastern China where he lived.
Another popular education influencer, Zhu Wei, posted a long tribute online, praising Mr. Zhang’s vigor and sincerity. Mr. Zhu urged his own students to slow down in their pursuit of test scores and jobs.
“But I also know, what’s the cruelest thing about the age of internet traffic? It’s that nothing lasts even a month before it’s forgotten,” Mr. Zhu wrote. “Everyone will soon go back to their usual state, endlessly striving and slogging, never able to stop.”
Mr. Zhang was born in a small town in northern China. His real name was Zhang Zibiao, though he later adopted the name Xuefeng. He tested into a middling university, where he studied water supply and drainage, for which he had little enthusiasm, according to interviews he gave. After graduation, he turned to tutoring and college counseling.
He shot to fame in 2016, for a video in which he — in what would become his signature rapid-fire, snark-infused patter — summarized China’s top 34 universities in seven minutes. He started a consulting company where he helped students choose majors, internships and careers based on cold-eyed considerations of their test scores, family backgrounds and whether they prioritized money or stability. His livestreams attracted hundreds of thousands of views, and his courses could cost thousands of dollars.
His celebrity came as much from his advice as his willingness to provoke. A comment in 2023 that parents should knock their children unconscious rather than let them study journalism, because of the weak job prospects, set off days of online debate. Critics said he misunderstood the point of education, or was suggesting that poorer students shouldn’t follow their dreams.
“I come from an ordinary family,” Mr. Zhang wrote in response. “If you come from a wealthy family, you have more choices, you can’t choose wrongly. But most families aren’t that well-off, and when choosing a major, you have to choose one that’s suitable and will put food on the table.”
For the most part, Mr. Zhang’s outsize persona fueled his popularity, and his business. The Paper, a Shanghai-based outlet, wrote in a profile of Mr. Zhang that the furor over his journalism remarks made his fans only more devoted: “The comment section is dominated by one voice: The poor need Zhang Xuefeng.”
After another controversy, Mr. Zhang started selling a T-shirt that said “I was wrong, I apologize.”
But he had recently landed in bigger trouble. In September, his social media accounts were blocked from posting or adding new followers, during a campaign by China’s cyberspace administration to erase what it called “excessively pessimistic” sentiment.
Mr. Zhang was among a list of influencers targeted, according to China’s state broadcaster, which said that he was being punished for using “vulgar language for an extended period” during a livestream.
But some observers speculated that his true offense was speaking bluntly about young people’s economic anxieties, at a time when the government has tried to hide high youth unemployment rates and accused young people of being too picky about jobs. (Others thought Mr. Zhang was being penalized for cheering on an invasion of Taiwan. The Chinese government, though it claims Taiwan, often censors what it deems overly hawkish sentiment.)
Mr. Zhang recovered his accounts a month later and returned to streaming multiple times a week. The morning he died, he did a broadcast then went for a run, as was his habit.
His death was announced by his company in a post on social media. He is survived by his wife and a daughter, according to Chinese media.
Siyi Zhao contributed research.
Vivian Wang is a China correspondent based in Beijing, where she writes about how the country’s global rise and ambitions are shaping the daily lives of its people.
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