What Is a Degree Worth If It Costs You Your Life?

There are stories that unsettle us not because they are extreme, but because they expose the fragile assumptions we build our lives upon. Zhao Dian, a 32-year-old man from China with five academic degrees, has chosen a path few would dare to follow: he walked away from security, prestige, and comfort to live as a homeless wanderer. His reason? To reclaim joy. In a culture where academic performance often defines identity, Zhao’s decision reads like a refusal letter to the system itself. He describes the education race as a “toxic cycle”—a relentless push toward excellence that can leave people disconnected from their own sense of purpose. Diplomas may open doors, but they cannot guarantee fulfillment. His days are simple. He showers in hostel bathrooms, eats meals at vegetarian restaurants that serve the needy, and washes his clothes at laundromats. Each month he scrapes by on roughly $14 of income, supplemented by modest savings reserved for basic necessities. There is no illusion of luxury, only the raw reality of living with less. And yet, there is a paradox here: by abandoning stability, Zhao has found a version of peace. He speaks of freedom from expectations, of no longer measuring his worth against grades, salaries, or titles. His life is a critique not just of China’s education system but of a global obsession with achievement. Critics might call his choice reckless, even irresponsible. After all, education is a privilege, and to discard its fruits feels almost like waste. But Zhao frames it differently. For him, joy is not a prize to be purchased by degrees or promotions—it is a state of being accessible only when one steps outside the race. This story unsettles because it resonates universally. How many of us chase goals that society tells us matter, only to feel hollow when they are achieved? Zhao’s life asks us to confront a haunting question: what is success worth if it costs us the very experience of living? Whether his path is sustainable remains uncertain. Survival with so little income is precarious, and his body will eventually demand comforts that principle cannot supply. Still, Zhao Dian’s choice is not meant to be a blueprint. It is a mirror—reflecting both the suffocating weight of expectations and the radical possibility of choosing otherwise.

This article is based on reporting from South China Morning Post, BBC, and local Chinese media outlets.