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China is getting older—the National Bureau of Statistic’s seventh national census， released this May， showed there are now more than 264 million over-60s in the country， representing 18.7 percent of the population. While society debates how to deal with an aging citizenry， the elderly are getting on with adapting to a modern China vastly different from the one they grew up in. Grandmas and grandpas are earning millions of online followers by livestreaming fashion tips and life advice， or escaping loveless marriages to explore the world after decades of work. But millions more find no peace in old age， with grandparents increasingly drawn to the cities to become primary caregivers for their grandchildren， and suffering isolation， exhaustion， and social dislocation in the process. Comfortably retired or working flat-out to help their children， China’s elderly are redefining the meaning and consequences of old age.
退休是否意味著退居幕后，安享平静生活？在今天，有的老人为了照顾孙辈成为“老漂”一族，也有人在旅程中不断发现自我，还有人玩转社交媒体，分享生活和体验，成为新晋“网红”。退休生活不止一种，他们正在积极地定义这一人生的全新阶段。
Under one roof
As elders become their grandchildren’s primary caretakers， they face migrating to the city in their old age
At 3：20 p.m.， Zhang Meihua can usually be found waiting at the school gate to pick up her 6-year-old granddaughter， clutching a basket full of fresh produce from the market. On the way home， she collects her other granddaughter， aged 3， from a relative’s house， then keeps an eye on both girls while cooking and doing housework until her husband， son， and daughter-in-law return home from work.
“Home” for Zhang these days is a 10-square-meter room in Beijing’s Haidian district crammed with two bunk beds， a small wooden table， and a gas stove. Until six years ago， though， Zhang and her husband lived in a spacious two-story farmhouse in Bozhou， Anhui province. After their first granddaughter was born， the couple moved to the capital to ease the burden of childrearing on their son and daughter-in-law. The family finances were tight， even with both parents working full-time， so Zhang’s husband， then in his late 50s， took up a job as a street cleaner to help out.
Traditional Chinese culture has long touted the concept of “four generations under one roof” as the ideal family structure， and 61-year-old Zhang claims migrating in their twilight years to be with their adult children is something “all” older people in her village do. “We don’t have jobs， just a few plots of farmland， so we might as well help our kids as much as we can，” she says. According to the National Health and Family Planning Commission， about 18 million senior citizens over 60 years old， accounting for 7.2 percent of China’s total migrant population of 247 million as of 2016， have left their hometown for first-tier cities like Beijing for reasons such as job-seeking， retirement， and supporting their children.
The size of this elderly “floating” group climbed from over 5 million in 2000 to more than 13 million recorded in 2015， even as the total number of rural-to-urban migrants declined. A study from the Commission reveals that 43 percent of the elderly migrants—colloquially known as 老漂族 （l2opi`oz%， “elderly drifters”）—are moving to help raise their grandchildren in a way that eases the burden of their overworked children.
In a 2004 paper titled “Responsibility Ethics and Family Nursing of Urban Residents，” Yang Shanhua， a sociology professor at Peking University， noted that these trends are based on traditional Chinese beliefs that parents have an obligation to help out their offspring financially， physically， and emotionally， even after they start their own families and careers. These ideas tend to be much more prominent in the countryside. “In my hometown， [it’s believed] an elderly person should take care of their grandkids. If not， others will call them heartless， and say they deserve it if their kids abandon them in their old age，” says Zhang.
But behind this seemingly idyllic family support structure， elderly migrants face a variety of struggles. A report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences on “Beijing Social Governance and Development” in 2016 noted that elderly migrants can become “invisible” in their adopted homes because of differences in language and social habits， and lack a sense of belonging and trust. A 56-year-old retiree from Hebei province surnamed Liu， who was initially reluctant to talk to TWOC， confesses that she avoids talking to strangers because she fears being scammed or shamed. “Once， I tried to get a word in with a group of grandmas who were chatting while watching their grandkids， but everybody fell silent， and some laughed at my accent， and then they changed the subject，” recounts Liu.
In some cases， caregiving takes a physical toll. Wang Rui， a 67-year-old retired chairman of a labor union in a liquor factory， left Harbin for Beijing in 2014 to take care of her newborn grandson. Because Chinese citizens can only get reimbursed by state medical insurance if they are treated in the same locality as their household registration， Wang’s medical expenses are exponentially higher in the capital. “I have high blood pressure and other chronic diseases， and last year when I was in the hospital， my daughter had to pay all the expenses since my insurance isn’t available in Beijing，” clucks Wang， who also has to pay for medicine out-of-pocket. Living with their adult children also leads elders to lose their autonomy. Zhang complains that her son and daughter-in-law rarely talk with her in the evenings， preferring to watch short videos on their phones—unless it’s to squabble with her about dinner plans， money， or childrearing methods. Elderly grandparents and young parents， raised in different eras and often under vastly different economic circumstances， may have diverging ideas of how best to educate and communicate with children， or even how to dress and feed them.
Zhang says after every quarrel with her daughter-in-law， she resolves to quit being the family’s nanny and go home， only to relent when her granddaughter calls out for her. Amendments to China’s family planning policy in 2015， which allow urban couples to have a second child， also ended Zhang and her husband’s dream of escaping their adopted home. Before this， “I used to console myself that， after just a few years， once my granddaughter started kindergarten， I could go back home and never be a punching bag again，” she sighs.
Living in an unfamiliar city can be a lonely experience for seniors. “In our spare time， we just stay at home， watch TV or go to the market，” says Wang， who tells TWOC she misses being able to stroll out of her home， pay visits to neighbors in her hometown， and go on outings with her friends and relatives.
The mental toll of migration among the elderly is underreported. In an interview with local news in 2017， Quan Yanling， a psychologist at Shaoxing Central Hospital in Zhejiang province， estimated that over 70 percent of elders treated for depression and anxiety in her department every day are primary caregivers of their grandchildren， and suffer from the stress of childcare， exhaustion， and inattention from their own children.
Grandparenting has also been linked to sleep problems. Elders like Zhang often sleep in the same room as their grandchildren， take care of their needs during the night， and get up early in the morning to cook breakfast for the family. Zhang Changyong， director of the Hubei Sleep Research Society in Wuhan， found that around 30 percent of the 30 to 40 elders his department treats every day for insomnia were affected by caring for grandkids.
Migration can even lead to separation of elderly couples. After 38 years of marriage， Yang Yanping and Wang Gang from Lu’an， Anhui， now have to live apart in order to take care of the grandsons born to their two children， who live in different cities. “I’m worried about his high blood pressure，” the 59-year-old Yang says of her husband， “but how can we play favorites among our grandsons？” Some cities have started initiatives to help migrant elders find a community in their adopted home. “Lots of elderly migrants lead monotonous lives， doing the same kind of chores every day—grocery shopping， cooking， and taking care of kids，” stated a notice in a residential committee this April in Dongguan， Guangdong province. The committee started a choir， a smart phone study group， and monthly health care activities to add variety to seniors’ lives outside their family duties.
Wang says she finds happiness by being with her daughter and son-in-law， whom she missed while living in the northeast， and watching her grandchildren grow up. “Every time when I get ill， my children take me to the hospital without any delay. If I was back in my hometown， I might just put off going to the doctor，” she says. “During the pandemic， when I had difficulties getting a [mobile] health code [used for entering public venues]， my daughter helped me learn to use a smart phone.”
Still， Wang has mixed feelings about whether to stay or go. “My daughter and son-in-law are very considerate， but in the end， this is not our home，” she says. “We miss home so much…But [our daughter] is our only child. If we don’t help her， who will？ And， we love our grandson so much. We’re reluctant to leave him after all this time.”
Liu is still counting the days until she can go back to Hubei. “Here， I have to be careful with everyone and everything. One day， when they no longer need me， I will go back home，” she says as her grandson sits in the baby carriage， babbling.
– Yang Tingting （楊婷婷）
Old Fashioned
The elderly livestreamers making a splash in a youth-focused online world
Surfing the web and becoming an internet celebrity are pursuits usually associated with the young， but one group of elderly in China are becoming the darlings of netizens for the energy and unique charm they bring to the online world.
Zhang Shaozhong， a 68-year-old retired rear admiral of the navy and former professor at the National Defense University， has gained more than 4 million fans on Bilibili， a video streaming platform popular with users born after 1995. Zhang posts videos of himself commenting on international politics and military affairs in a professional and witty style， and is nicknamed “Director of the National Strategic Fooling Bureau” due to his tendency to downplay China’s military strength， only to be contradicted by the latest news of the country’s weapons developments. On short-video platform Douyin， a 79-year-old woman under the handle “Grandma Wang Who Only Wears High Heels” has gained more than 16 million followers for her exquisite style—makeup， slim figure， red nail polish， and high heels—and her slogan， “Age is only a number; my wonderful life has just begun.” Grandma Wang typically uploads videos showing her outfits， occasionally offering life advice to her primarily young fan-base.
Young people make up the largest group of China’s internet users. The country’s top two short-video apps， Douyin and Kuaishou， each have more than 400 million monthly active users， and around 70 percent of those are younger than 35.
However， according to the state-run China Internet Network Information Center， over 26 percent of internet users are now over the age of 50， compared to just 9 percent five years ago. A 2019 report by the government-run China Netcasting Services Association found that the proportion of users over 50 on short-video platforms rose from 6.5 percent to 11 percent over the previous year， making them the fastest rising demographic of users on these platforms.
While many elderly internet celebrities gain popularity simply by subverting common expectations of the fashion sense and lifestyle of retirees， there are those like Professor Zhang and Grandma Wang who stand out due to the professional knowledge and life experience they’ve gained with age. Grandma Wang’s short videos have featured her talking about the safety of women， the relationship between genders， and how girls can protect themselves from sexual harassment， gaining millions of clicks.
The e-commerce industry has noticed the trend， partnering with senior influencers to host product reviews and make sales. In March of 2020， Grandma Wang made her e-commerce debut on Douyin， making 4.7 million RMB’s worth of sales in food and beauty products in four hours. Since then， Grandma Wang’s studio has maintained sales worth millions of yuan in product livestreams.
“Elderly internet celebrities are more likely to inspire trust due to their age， and this is their advantage，” Zhao Haiguo， owner of “Auntie’s Got Style，” a Douyin account with millions of fans， told China Newsweek magazine. To further capture internet users and consumers over the age of 50， Zhao has started a business that hires seniors to make short videos， and promote products when they become popular.
However， not all elderly internet celebrities want to monetize their fame. Wang Xinghuo， one of the founders and operators of “Glamma Beijing，” a WeChat public account with over a million followers， told China Newsweek that she had rejected offers from many livestreaming companies that requested several videos from her per week， which she believed is too demanding for someone her age. According to the 70-year-old Wang， her purpose for operating the account is only to break the public’s stereotypes of the elderly. A former civil servant， Wang’s life had revolved around work and family when she was younger， but retirement gave her the opportunity to sign up for a modeling course for seniors， where she met the other three co-founders of the account.
Whether posing with her friends in qipao in Beijing’s fashionable Sanlitun district， or showing her affectionate interactions with her husband， Wang sees her videos as a way to finally pursue her own dreams. “‘Granny’ is just a self-modest label; I’ve never thought my age was a problem，” she told journalists at Beijing Fashion Week. “As long as your heart is clear and bright， you can always have a new start in life.” – He Yingzi （賀樱子）
Motoring On
A woman’s solo road trip is inspiring other retirees
The beige tent measures 1.4 meters in width and 2.4 meters in length， and 57-year-old Su Min set it up all by herself on the roof of her white car. For more than 200 nights， she has slept in this tent alone without a husband to take care of， housework to finish， or endless ridicule to endure.
The former housewife from Zhengzhou， Henan province in central China， has been driving alone across the country since September 2020， after she decided to leave an abusive marriage of 30 years. “The first half of my life has been mainly about enduring; I was a wife， a mother， and a grandmother，” Su tells TWOC. “One day， I made up my mind to live for myself.”
In the past eight months， she drove largely alone through Xi’an， Chengdu， Chongqing， Kunming， Shangri-La， and Haikou， traversing China from north to south， east to west. Along the way， she shot videos of beautiful scenery and of DIY life on the road： How to set up a tent on the roof of a car， how to hang clothes under a tent， and even how to cook in a parking spot.
Leaving home was not an impulsive decision for Su. At 23， in order to escape from being a caretaker for her younger brothers at home， she married a man whom she had met only twice before their wedding. For the next 30 years， Su did the housework while enduring physical abuse from her husband， who once hit her with a chair. She raised their daughter， and later cared for their grandson. In 2018， she was hospitalized for depression after she tried to harm herself by stabbing her own chest during an argument with her husband.
For her daughter’s sake， Su never considered divorce. In 2015， she saw an online video of a middle-aged woman traveling alone， and decided to try it herself. She took various part-time jobs over two years， and took out a loan to buy a car for over 100，000 （which she has now paid back by herself）， despite her husband ridiculing every step of the plan. Her first destination after leaving home was Chengdu， where she reunited with an old friend. Su’s videos of her travels have resonated with other older women， who leave comments that commiserate about their unhappy marriages， and with younger women who express their sympathy for their mother. The message that appears most frequently in the comments is： “I hope my mother can live for herself.” Of any group worldwide， women over the age of 55 have the highest rates of depression at 7.5 percent， according to a World Health Organization study released in 2015. The same demographic in China was identified as high risk for depression by a 2018 mental health study by the Peking University No. 6 Hospital and the Peking University Institute of Social Science Survey， which also recorded a higher rate of depression among the rural population （3.7 percent） than the urban population （3.4 percent）.
Su’s journey quickly attracted netizen interest. Her tragic backstory emerged after a documentary described her life in detail. Today， Su has more than 1.35 million total followers on social media—including platforms like YouTube， Douyin （TikTok）， and Weibo—she was taken on a tour by the director of Shanghai Disneyland when she arrived in the city. On International Women’s Day in March， online luxury goods vendor Net-a-Porter invited Su to shoot an advertisement showcasing independent women in different occupations. “I’ve folded 73，219 pieces of clothing in my life; this is the first time I’m packing for myself，” read the words on the screen as footage shows Su ironing her clothes and picking up her car keys to leave.
Su’s own personality has also changed. Her clothes have gradually become more colorful： pink， orange， red， and apple green. “My husband always laughed at me and made me think I was worthless，” she says. “I am more confident now， because out here， I can adapt to any lifestyle.” She hasn’t decided when to go home—maybe in a few years—but tries not to think about that day. If her husband still doesn’t respect her after she returns， she tells TWOC she might consider leaving him for good.
Since March， four other women of Su’s age have joined her self-driving tour. They come from all over China， and have been following Su since her first video. The group plans to drive to Tibet and Xinjiang by October， spend the winter in the warm cities in the south， then tackle other routes across China in the coming year.
“When we’re together， we’re always discussing travel plans. We don’t discuss each other’s family or the past，” says Su. “We went out to find freedom.” – Liu Yi （劉怡）
退休是否意味著退居幕后，安享平静生活？在今天，有的老人为了照顾孙辈成为“老漂”一族，也有人在旅程中不断发现自我，还有人玩转社交媒体，分享生活和体验，成为新晋“网红”。退休生活不止一种，他们正在积极地定义这一人生的全新阶段。
Under one roof
As elders become their grandchildren’s primary caretakers， they face migrating to the city in their old age
At 3：20 p.m.， Zhang Meihua can usually be found waiting at the school gate to pick up her 6-year-old granddaughter， clutching a basket full of fresh produce from the market. On the way home， she collects her other granddaughter， aged 3， from a relative’s house， then keeps an eye on both girls while cooking and doing housework until her husband， son， and daughter-in-law return home from work.
“Home” for Zhang these days is a 10-square-meter room in Beijing’s Haidian district crammed with two bunk beds， a small wooden table， and a gas stove. Until six years ago， though， Zhang and her husband lived in a spacious two-story farmhouse in Bozhou， Anhui province. After their first granddaughter was born， the couple moved to the capital to ease the burden of childrearing on their son and daughter-in-law. The family finances were tight， even with both parents working full-time， so Zhang’s husband， then in his late 50s， took up a job as a street cleaner to help out.
Traditional Chinese culture has long touted the concept of “four generations under one roof” as the ideal family structure， and 61-year-old Zhang claims migrating in their twilight years to be with their adult children is something “all” older people in her village do. “We don’t have jobs， just a few plots of farmland， so we might as well help our kids as much as we can，” she says. According to the National Health and Family Planning Commission， about 18 million senior citizens over 60 years old， accounting for 7.2 percent of China’s total migrant population of 247 million as of 2016， have left their hometown for first-tier cities like Beijing for reasons such as job-seeking， retirement， and supporting their children.
The size of this elderly “floating” group climbed from over 5 million in 2000 to more than 13 million recorded in 2015， even as the total number of rural-to-urban migrants declined. A study from the Commission reveals that 43 percent of the elderly migrants—colloquially known as 老漂族 （l2opi`oz%， “elderly drifters”）—are moving to help raise their grandchildren in a way that eases the burden of their overworked children.
In a 2004 paper titled “Responsibility Ethics and Family Nursing of Urban Residents，” Yang Shanhua， a sociology professor at Peking University， noted that these trends are based on traditional Chinese beliefs that parents have an obligation to help out their offspring financially， physically， and emotionally， even after they start their own families and careers. These ideas tend to be much more prominent in the countryside. “In my hometown， [it’s believed] an elderly person should take care of their grandkids. If not， others will call them heartless， and say they deserve it if their kids abandon them in their old age，” says Zhang.
But behind this seemingly idyllic family support structure， elderly migrants face a variety of struggles. A report by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences on “Beijing Social Governance and Development” in 2016 noted that elderly migrants can become “invisible” in their adopted homes because of differences in language and social habits， and lack a sense of belonging and trust. A 56-year-old retiree from Hebei province surnamed Liu， who was initially reluctant to talk to TWOC， confesses that she avoids talking to strangers because she fears being scammed or shamed. “Once， I tried to get a word in with a group of grandmas who were chatting while watching their grandkids， but everybody fell silent， and some laughed at my accent， and then they changed the subject，” recounts Liu.
In some cases， caregiving takes a physical toll. Wang Rui， a 67-year-old retired chairman of a labor union in a liquor factory， left Harbin for Beijing in 2014 to take care of her newborn grandson. Because Chinese citizens can only get reimbursed by state medical insurance if they are treated in the same locality as their household registration， Wang’s medical expenses are exponentially higher in the capital. “I have high blood pressure and other chronic diseases， and last year when I was in the hospital， my daughter had to pay all the expenses since my insurance isn’t available in Beijing，” clucks Wang， who also has to pay for medicine out-of-pocket. Living with their adult children also leads elders to lose their autonomy. Zhang complains that her son and daughter-in-law rarely talk with her in the evenings， preferring to watch short videos on their phones—unless it’s to squabble with her about dinner plans， money， or childrearing methods. Elderly grandparents and young parents， raised in different eras and often under vastly different economic circumstances， may have diverging ideas of how best to educate and communicate with children， or even how to dress and feed them.
Zhang says after every quarrel with her daughter-in-law， she resolves to quit being the family’s nanny and go home， only to relent when her granddaughter calls out for her. Amendments to China’s family planning policy in 2015， which allow urban couples to have a second child， also ended Zhang and her husband’s dream of escaping their adopted home. Before this， “I used to console myself that， after just a few years， once my granddaughter started kindergarten， I could go back home and never be a punching bag again，” she sighs.
Living in an unfamiliar city can be a lonely experience for seniors. “In our spare time， we just stay at home， watch TV or go to the market，” says Wang， who tells TWOC she misses being able to stroll out of her home， pay visits to neighbors in her hometown， and go on outings with her friends and relatives.
The mental toll of migration among the elderly is underreported. In an interview with local news in 2017， Quan Yanling， a psychologist at Shaoxing Central Hospital in Zhejiang province， estimated that over 70 percent of elders treated for depression and anxiety in her department every day are primary caregivers of their grandchildren， and suffer from the stress of childcare， exhaustion， and inattention from their own children.
Grandparenting has also been linked to sleep problems. Elders like Zhang often sleep in the same room as their grandchildren， take care of their needs during the night， and get up early in the morning to cook breakfast for the family. Zhang Changyong， director of the Hubei Sleep Research Society in Wuhan， found that around 30 percent of the 30 to 40 elders his department treats every day for insomnia were affected by caring for grandkids.
Migration can even lead to separation of elderly couples. After 38 years of marriage， Yang Yanping and Wang Gang from Lu’an， Anhui， now have to live apart in order to take care of the grandsons born to their two children， who live in different cities. “I’m worried about his high blood pressure，” the 59-year-old Yang says of her husband， “but how can we play favorites among our grandsons？” Some cities have started initiatives to help migrant elders find a community in their adopted home. “Lots of elderly migrants lead monotonous lives， doing the same kind of chores every day—grocery shopping， cooking， and taking care of kids，” stated a notice in a residential committee this April in Dongguan， Guangdong province. The committee started a choir， a smart phone study group， and monthly health care activities to add variety to seniors’ lives outside their family duties.
Wang says she finds happiness by being with her daughter and son-in-law， whom she missed while living in the northeast， and watching her grandchildren grow up. “Every time when I get ill， my children take me to the hospital without any delay. If I was back in my hometown， I might just put off going to the doctor，” she says. “During the pandemic， when I had difficulties getting a [mobile] health code [used for entering public venues]， my daughter helped me learn to use a smart phone.”
Still， Wang has mixed feelings about whether to stay or go. “My daughter and son-in-law are very considerate， but in the end， this is not our home，” she says. “We miss home so much…But [our daughter] is our only child. If we don’t help her， who will？ And， we love our grandson so much. We’re reluctant to leave him after all this time.”
Liu is still counting the days until she can go back to Hubei. “Here， I have to be careful with everyone and everything. One day， when they no longer need me， I will go back home，” she says as her grandson sits in the baby carriage， babbling.
– Yang Tingting （楊婷婷）
Old Fashioned
The elderly livestreamers making a splash in a youth-focused online world
Surfing the web and becoming an internet celebrity are pursuits usually associated with the young， but one group of elderly in China are becoming the darlings of netizens for the energy and unique charm they bring to the online world.
Zhang Shaozhong， a 68-year-old retired rear admiral of the navy and former professor at the National Defense University， has gained more than 4 million fans on Bilibili， a video streaming platform popular with users born after 1995. Zhang posts videos of himself commenting on international politics and military affairs in a professional and witty style， and is nicknamed “Director of the National Strategic Fooling Bureau” due to his tendency to downplay China’s military strength， only to be contradicted by the latest news of the country’s weapons developments. On short-video platform Douyin， a 79-year-old woman under the handle “Grandma Wang Who Only Wears High Heels” has gained more than 16 million followers for her exquisite style—makeup， slim figure， red nail polish， and high heels—and her slogan， “Age is only a number; my wonderful life has just begun.” Grandma Wang typically uploads videos showing her outfits， occasionally offering life advice to her primarily young fan-base.
Young people make up the largest group of China’s internet users. The country’s top two short-video apps， Douyin and Kuaishou， each have more than 400 million monthly active users， and around 70 percent of those are younger than 35.
However， according to the state-run China Internet Network Information Center， over 26 percent of internet users are now over the age of 50， compared to just 9 percent five years ago. A 2019 report by the government-run China Netcasting Services Association found that the proportion of users over 50 on short-video platforms rose from 6.5 percent to 11 percent over the previous year， making them the fastest rising demographic of users on these platforms.
While many elderly internet celebrities gain popularity simply by subverting common expectations of the fashion sense and lifestyle of retirees， there are those like Professor Zhang and Grandma Wang who stand out due to the professional knowledge and life experience they’ve gained with age. Grandma Wang’s short videos have featured her talking about the safety of women， the relationship between genders， and how girls can protect themselves from sexual harassment， gaining millions of clicks.
The e-commerce industry has noticed the trend， partnering with senior influencers to host product reviews and make sales. In March of 2020， Grandma Wang made her e-commerce debut on Douyin， making 4.7 million RMB’s worth of sales in food and beauty products in four hours. Since then， Grandma Wang’s studio has maintained sales worth millions of yuan in product livestreams.
“Elderly internet celebrities are more likely to inspire trust due to their age， and this is their advantage，” Zhao Haiguo， owner of “Auntie’s Got Style，” a Douyin account with millions of fans， told China Newsweek magazine. To further capture internet users and consumers over the age of 50， Zhao has started a business that hires seniors to make short videos， and promote products when they become popular.
However， not all elderly internet celebrities want to monetize their fame. Wang Xinghuo， one of the founders and operators of “Glamma Beijing，” a WeChat public account with over a million followers， told China Newsweek that she had rejected offers from many livestreaming companies that requested several videos from her per week， which she believed is too demanding for someone her age. According to the 70-year-old Wang， her purpose for operating the account is only to break the public’s stereotypes of the elderly. A former civil servant， Wang’s life had revolved around work and family when she was younger， but retirement gave her the opportunity to sign up for a modeling course for seniors， where she met the other three co-founders of the account.
Whether posing with her friends in qipao in Beijing’s fashionable Sanlitun district， or showing her affectionate interactions with her husband， Wang sees her videos as a way to finally pursue her own dreams. “‘Granny’ is just a self-modest label; I’ve never thought my age was a problem，” she told journalists at Beijing Fashion Week. “As long as your heart is clear and bright， you can always have a new start in life.” – He Yingzi （賀樱子）
Motoring On
A woman’s solo road trip is inspiring other retirees
The beige tent measures 1.4 meters in width and 2.4 meters in length， and 57-year-old Su Min set it up all by herself on the roof of her white car. For more than 200 nights， she has slept in this tent alone without a husband to take care of， housework to finish， or endless ridicule to endure.
The former housewife from Zhengzhou， Henan province in central China， has been driving alone across the country since September 2020， after she decided to leave an abusive marriage of 30 years. “The first half of my life has been mainly about enduring; I was a wife， a mother， and a grandmother，” Su tells TWOC. “One day， I made up my mind to live for myself.”
In the past eight months， she drove largely alone through Xi’an， Chengdu， Chongqing， Kunming， Shangri-La， and Haikou， traversing China from north to south， east to west. Along the way， she shot videos of beautiful scenery and of DIY life on the road： How to set up a tent on the roof of a car， how to hang clothes under a tent， and even how to cook in a parking spot.
Leaving home was not an impulsive decision for Su. At 23， in order to escape from being a caretaker for her younger brothers at home， she married a man whom she had met only twice before their wedding. For the next 30 years， Su did the housework while enduring physical abuse from her husband， who once hit her with a chair. She raised their daughter， and later cared for their grandson. In 2018， she was hospitalized for depression after she tried to harm herself by stabbing her own chest during an argument with her husband.
For her daughter’s sake， Su never considered divorce. In 2015， she saw an online video of a middle-aged woman traveling alone， and decided to try it herself. She took various part-time jobs over two years， and took out a loan to buy a car for over 100，000 （which she has now paid back by herself）， despite her husband ridiculing every step of the plan. Her first destination after leaving home was Chengdu， where she reunited with an old friend. Su’s videos of her travels have resonated with other older women， who leave comments that commiserate about their unhappy marriages， and with younger women who express their sympathy for their mother. The message that appears most frequently in the comments is： “I hope my mother can live for herself.” Of any group worldwide， women over the age of 55 have the highest rates of depression at 7.5 percent， according to a World Health Organization study released in 2015. The same demographic in China was identified as high risk for depression by a 2018 mental health study by the Peking University No. 6 Hospital and the Peking University Institute of Social Science Survey， which also recorded a higher rate of depression among the rural population （3.7 percent） than the urban population （3.4 percent）.
Su’s journey quickly attracted netizen interest. Her tragic backstory emerged after a documentary described her life in detail. Today， Su has more than 1.35 million total followers on social media—including platforms like YouTube， Douyin （TikTok）， and Weibo—she was taken on a tour by the director of Shanghai Disneyland when she arrived in the city. On International Women’s Day in March， online luxury goods vendor Net-a-Porter invited Su to shoot an advertisement showcasing independent women in different occupations. “I’ve folded 73，219 pieces of clothing in my life; this is the first time I’m packing for myself，” read the words on the screen as footage shows Su ironing her clothes and picking up her car keys to leave.
Su’s own personality has also changed. Her clothes have gradually become more colorful： pink， orange， red， and apple green. “My husband always laughed at me and made me think I was worthless，” she says. “I am more confident now， because out here， I can adapt to any lifestyle.” She hasn’t decided when to go home—maybe in a few years—but tries not to think about that day. If her husband still doesn’t respect her after she returns， she tells TWOC she might consider leaving him for good.
Since March， four other women of Su’s age have joined her self-driving tour. They come from all over China， and have been following Su since her first video. The group plans to drive to Tibet and Xinjiang by October， spend the winter in the warm cities in the south， then tackle other routes across China in the coming year.
“When we’re together， we’re always discussing travel plans. We don’t discuss each other’s family or the past，” says Su. “We went out to find freedom.” – Liu Yi （劉怡）