When we finally reach the summit and she is so happy, my fatigue fades away
Amid slowing growth and rising youth unemployment, China is witnessing the emergence of an 'emotional value' economy—one where citizens pay not for goods or services in the traditional sense, but for the feeling of being seen, supported, and accompanied. From companion climbers ascending Mount Tai to blind-box collectibles engineered for dopamine release, a market now valued in the trillions of yuan is quietly rewriting what commerce means in a society navigating profound economic and cultural transition. It is a story as old as human longing, now given a price tag.
- With youth unemployment at 16.3% and millions of graduates entering a compressed job market, a generation is turning inward—spending on comfort and connection rather than aspiration.
- A companionship economy has materialized almost overnight: companion climbers, themed dining, cartoon-branded everyday goods—each selling not a product but a feeling.
- The market is no small footnote—projected to reach $662 billion by 2029, it is growing in direct proportion to economic anxiety, a correlation economists are now tracking closely.
- Psychologists warn that the dopamine mechanics driving blind-box crazes and summit-sharing services can tip from comfort into compulsion, raising the question of who truly benefits.
- The deeper disruption may be cultural: sociologists call this a break from China's hierarchical social traditions, a society learning—and paying—to feel recognized.
On the 7,500 stone steps of Mount Tai, a 24-year-old named Xiao Meng is completing his 200th ascent—not alone, but beside a paying client whose bags he carries, whose spirits he lifts, and whose hand he extends when the climb grows hard. He is a 'pei pa,' a companion climber, and his profession—charging around $100 a day—barely existed two years ago. Since graduating from a sports university, he has found steady, meaningful work in a field born from a simple but profound shift: people are now willing to pay for how something makes them feel.
This shift has a name in China—'qing yu jia zhi,' or emotional value—and it has moved well beyond a marketing phrase. It erupted into mainstream consciousness through Pop Mart's collectible blind-box craze in 2024 and has since spread across commerce: restaurants offer themed atmospheres, ordinary products carry cartoon characters, and an entire companionship economy has taken root. The numbers are striking. China's emotional consumption market was valued at roughly 2.72 trillion yuan in 2025 and is projected to surpass 4.5 trillion yuan by 2029.
The backdrop matters. China's economic growth target is at its lowest since 1991. Youth unemployment stands at 16.3 percent, with 12.7 million more graduates entering the market this year. ANZ Bank's senior China strategist has drawn a direct line between narrowing job prospects and rising emotional spending—as opportunity contracts, the hunger for comfort, recognition, and connection expands to fill the space.
Xiao Meng's work is a vivid illustration of that hunger. Clients have asked him to organize 24 companion climbers for atmosphere, haul durians up the mountain, carry flowers for a marriage proposal, and bring a weighing scale to mark a personal milestone. The work is emotionally demanding—sustaining another person's spirit across thousands of steps is its own kind of labor—but he finds it genuinely uplifting.
Sociologists see something larger at work. Shanghai University's Ji Yingchun calls it a 'truly revolutionary' cultural shift—a society moving away from hierarchical, patriarchal frameworks toward one willing to pay for the experience of being seen. Yet psychologists urge caution. The same dopamine mechanics that make blind boxes thrilling and summit-sharing meaningful can become addictive. The pleasure is real, but it is also engineered. Whether China's emotional economy is genuinely meeting human needs—or simply monetizing them while deeper structural anxieties go unaddressed—remains the question no price tag can answer.
On Mount Tai's 7,500 stone steps, a 24-year-old named Xiao Meng is halfway through his 200th ascent of the sacred mountain. He moves steadily upward, carrying two bags—his own and his client's—past other hikers struggling against fatigue. When his client falters, he extends a hand. "As long as clients want to climb, we guarantee that we can bring them to the peak, 100 per cent," he says.
Xiao Meng is not a tour guide. He is a "pei pa"—a companion climber—and his job exists at the intersection of China's economic anxiety and a cultural hunger for something money can now buy: emotional value. He does what guides do: explains history, takes photographs, ensures safety. But he also holds hands, keeps conversation flowing, offers endless encouragement, and sometimes carries exhausted climbers for short stretches. He charges 700 yuan—about $100—per day, a rate that reflects genuine market demand. Since graduating from a sports university last year, he has found steady work in a profession that barely existed two years ago.
The term "emotional value," or "qing yu jia zhi" in Chinese, has become the catchphrase of the moment, capturing something deeper than a marketing concept. It describes the shift from paying for what something does to paying for what it makes you feel. The phenomenon exploded into mainstream consciousness during Pop Mart's collectible toy craze in 2024, when consumers spent significant sums on blind-box figures. Since then, the concept has metastasized across Chinese commerce: everyday products now carry cartoon characters, restaurants offer themed experiences, and a companionship economy has emerged—of which Xiao Meng is a visible symbol.
The numbers suggest this is not a passing trend. China's emotional consumption market was valued at 2.72 trillion yuan in 2025 and is projected to exceed 4.5 trillion yuan—roughly $662 billion—by 2029. That growth trajectory does not occur in a vacuum. China's economic growth target for this year is 4.5 to 5 per cent, its lowest since 1991. Youth unemployment sits at 16.3 per cent, with roughly 7.5 million of China's 30 million unemployed people aged 16 to 24. Another 12.7 million university graduates will enter the job market this year, further compressing opportunities. ANZ Bank's senior China strategist has identified a correlation between youth unemployment rates and emotional spending—as job prospects narrow, the appetite for comfort, connection, and psychological relief grows.
Xiao Meng acknowledges the emotional toll of his work. "If a client is feeling low and I have to keep cheering her up, that can be exhausting," he said. "But when we finally reach the summit and she is so happy, my fatigue fades away." His clients sometimes make unusual requests: he once organized 24 companion climbers for two clients who wanted a lively atmosphere, even hauling durians up the mountain. He has carried flowers for a marriage proposal and a weighing scale so a client could measure her weight before and after the climb. Yet he maintains boundaries—socializing with clients after the climb is off-limits. The work, he says, is uplifting. "Compared with perhaps many young people today who are idle or unwilling to work, this role is full of positive energy."
Sociologists describe this shift as profound. Ji Yingchun, a sociology professor at Shanghai University, frames it as a "truly revolutionary" cultural change. Traditionally, Chinese family and social life operated under patriarchal, hierarchical frameworks. The emotional economy represents a break from that structure—a society increasingly willing to pay for recognition, connection, and the feeling of being seen.
But psychologists offer a cautionary note. Selina Lin, a clinical psychologist, explains that emotional spending taps into core human needs: recognition and connection. Collectible toys and companionship services can serve as extensions of the self, fulfilling psychological hunger. Yet the mechanics of emotional consumption—particularly the dopamine rush triggered by opening blind boxes or achieving a summit with encouragement—can become addictive. The pleasure is real, but it is also engineered. As China's job market tightens and economic anxiety deepens, the question becomes whether this emotional economy is genuinely meeting human needs or simply monetizing them, offering temporary relief while masking larger structural problems.
Citações Notáveis
As long as clients want to climb, we guarantee that we can bring them to the peak, 100 per cent— Xiao Meng, companion climber
Compared with perhaps many young people today who are idle or unwilling to work, this role is full of positive energy— Xiao Meng, on the value of his work
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does a companion climber exist? Couldn't someone just climb alone?
They could, but many won't reach the summit without support. And that's not really the point. The companion provides something practical—safety, encouragement—but also something psychological. You're not alone in your struggle.
So it's about loneliness.
It's about connection, but yes, loneliness is part of it. Xiao Meng says some clients come from far away and would have regrets if they couldn't make it. Others just don't want to climb alone. The emotional value is in being witnessed.
And this is happening because of job anxiety?
The timing suggests that. Youth unemployment is at 16.3 per cent. Millions of graduates can't find work. When people feel unstable, they seek comfort. Emotional spending—toys, companionship, experiences—fills that gap.
Is that healthy?
That's the tension. A psychologist I read said emotional spending triggers dopamine, which feels good but can become addictive. It's real relief, but it's also a band-aid on something structural.
So China is essentially paying for feelings because the economy isn't delivering security.
That's one way to read it. The emotional economy is worth $662 billion by 2029. That's not frivolous spending. It's a market responding to genuine need—just not the kind that shows up in GDP growth.
What does Xiao Meng think he's doing?
He thinks he's helping people. He's proud of the work. He sees it as positive energy compared to young people who are idle. He doesn't frame it as a symptom of anything broken. He frames it as meaningful work.