When the date 11/11 lights up the skyline of Shanghai — a sea of LED-advertisements, live-stream shopping hosts, and parcels flying from warehouses — what you’re really witnessing is not just a sales frenzy but a symphony of singles saying, “Here I am”. In China, the festival known as Singles’ Day (双十一 Shuāng Shíyī) has morphed over three decades from a cheeky dorm-room celebration into a full-blown cultural performance of identity and defiance.
The origins are humble. Back in 1993 students at Nanjing University coined the date 11 November because the four “1”s in 11/11 looked like bare sticks (光棍 guānggùn) — Chinese slang for unmarried individuals. What began as a self-ironical “Bachelor’s Day” slowly invited singles to celebrate their status, rather than hide it. Over time, the stigma that had once hovered over the so-called “leftover” men and women (剩女 shèngnǚ, 光棍 guānggùn) began to meet a counter-narrative: one of self-worth, community and spending power.
The transformation is remarkable. In 2009, the e-commerce titan Alibaba Group officially turned 11/11 into a promotional spectacle, and what once might have been a mild gesture of self-treating became the planet’s largest online shopping day. By the most recent estimates, the event channels hundreds of billions of US dollars in sales — the “anti-Valentine’s” becomes a mainstream expression of solo power.
Beneath the surface of discounted smartphones and midnight flash sales, however, lies a deeper cultural shift. In a society where marriage and family continuity long shaped young adults’ lives, singledom was once framed as a deviation. Chinese society has often used metaphors like “bare branches” to describe men (and women) who are unmarried past a socially-approved age. Yet Singles’ Day turns the “bare stick” into a symbol of independence rather than invisibility. It invites singles to treat themselves, gather with peers, party, shop, and — just as importantly — declare their value outside the couple/marriage axis.
Culturally, the date also straddles opposing forces. On one hand it nods to Confucian-rooted expectations of marriage, lineage and family; on the other it rides the surge of urbanisation, rising education levels, greater female independence and changing desires. Researchers have shown that for single professional women in China the mechanism of status change is often not public activism but consumer-assertion — to treat oneself, to signal autonomy, to resist the stigma. The ritual of buying, gifting oneself, partying with other singles or streaming live, becomes a collective act of identity affirmation: I am single, and I am visible.
The commercial engine remains visible. In the 2025 iteration, platforms such as JD.com and Alibaba kicked off the festival as early as October 9 and ran it until November 11, making this the longest “Double 11” campaign ever. And while the event still often serves as a barometer for China’s consumer confidence — as domestic spending slows, growth has become more cautious. But even in a weaker economy, singles still show up. The point is less about massive spending alone and more about being part of something visible.
In stretching the duration, involving livestreams, influencer drops, instant-delivery gimmicks and interactive gaming, the modern Singles’ Day builds a celebration out of what once might have carried shame: singlehood. It flips the narrative. Singles treat themselves to a “我 单身，我 精彩” (“I’m single, I’m fabulous”) attitude, if you will. The day has become a kind of social license to focus on the self, to rehearse independence, to reject the idea that being unpartnered equals incomplete.
At the same time, Singles’ Day isn’t without its paradoxes. The spectacle of consumerism invites critique — that treating oneself through purchasing is still bound up in capitalism, that the pressure to spend can be heavy, and that the underlying social stigma has not entirely vanished. But the fact this day exists, flourishes, and has invaded global retail calendars signals that singlehood in China has ascended from the margins toward mainstream. As one opinion piece suggested, the day may well go global — because the solo lifestyle, once exceptional, is becoming the default in many societies.
So next time you see 11 November pile-up footage of packages, neon deals and livestream hosts shouting “抢 go, go!”, remember: it’s more than commerce. It’s a collective wink from singles who say: we’re seen, we’re celebrating, we’re self-authoring. In Mandarin: 光棍节 has become 双十一 — from “bare sticks’ day” to “we’re here”.
Oh, darlings — every year when November 11 rolls around, I can almost hear the sound of a billion shopping carts clicking across China, echoing like champagne corks at a self-love party. Once upon a time, the word guānggùn (光棍 — bare stick) was whispered like an insult. Today? It’s printed on tote bags, flashing in neon, and proudly hashtagged under “#SingleAndThriving.” What a glorious rebellion against the tyranny of matchmaking aunties and the national obsession with wedding photos in matching red silk!
I remember when being single past thirty in Asia was treated like a social disease. Aunties at dinner tables would lean across the fish soup and ask, “Still no one special, ah?” Now, this Auntie winks and answers: “Oh, many specials — just not permanent fixtures.” Singles’ Day has become the revenge of the independent, the confident, and the romantically untethered. It’s no longer a joke. It’s a movement.
Yes, yes, I know — the capitalist machinery hums behind every shopping cart. Alibaba’s numbers make Cupid look like a poor intern. But come on, loves — if we’re going to spend, why not spend it on ourselves? A lipstick that says “I love me,” a pair of shoes that walks away from bad dates, a gadget that doesn’t snore or mansplain.
What thrills me most is how this day flips the script on shame. For too long, single women were labelled shèngnǚ (剩女 — leftover women), as if we were expired milk cartons. Now, we’re luxury goods — rare, premium, with impeccable taste. And the men, too, those who reject the family pressure to “settle,” are finally claiming space to define their worth beyond salaries and marriage certificates.
So yes, 11/11 is loud, commercial, and over the top — but so what? Beneath the flashing deals and livestream hype is something beautifully subversive: a generation saying, “I choose me.”
As for me, Spicy Auntie? I raise my chili-red lipstick and toast to all who sleep diagonally on their beds, who buy flowers for their own tables, who refuse to apologize for loving freedom.
Say it with me, sweethearts — with full confidence and perfect contour:
“Wǒ dānshēn, wǒ jīngcǎi!” (我单身，我精彩!) I’m single, I’m fabulous!