In China’s hyper-competitive urban dating scene, even romance is starting to sound like a job interview. A new social media trend has emerged in which young people “refer” their ex-partners to new prospects the way colleagues recommend candidates for a corporate position — complete with strengths, weaknesses, salary details and brutally honest performance reviews. In a country where internal job referrals, or neitui (内推), can make or break a career, the logic has now migrated into love. Welcome to dating in the age of HR.
The trend reportedly began with a viral post from a young woman asking online for an “internal referral for a boyfriend.” The phrasing struck a nerve. Within days, others began playfully — and sometimes seriously — offering up former partners as if they were mid-level managers changing companies. Posts included age, height, job, income bracket, personality traits and the reason for the breakup. Some even added disclaimers: “Emotionally stable but avoids conflict,” or “Great cook, bad at long-term planning.” A few read like LinkedIn endorsements; others like exit interviews.
At first glance, it looks like satire. But beneath the humor lies something more revealing about modern Chinese romance. Dating app fatigue is real. Many young urban singles complain about exaggerated profiles, married men posing as bachelors, ghosting culture and endless small talk that leads nowhere. In that climate, a recommendation from someone who has actually dated the person feels like quality control. If a former girlfriend says, “He’s kind, just not ambitious enough for me,” that carries more weight than a carefully filtered selfie and a vague bio.
The language of referrals also reflects a broader social reality. For decades, Chinese matchmaking relied on intermediaries — from family-arranged xiangqin (相亲) blind dates to neighborhood aunties who knew everyone’s marital status. Today’s ex-referral trend feels like a digitized, peer-driven update of that system. The difference is tone. Where traditional matchmakers highlighted only virtues, former partners often provide balanced — sometimes uncomfortably candid — assessments. Transparency becomes a selling point.
But this transparency is inseparable from market logic. Urban life in cities like Shanghai, Beijing and Shenzhen already feels transactional: apartments are priced like futures contracts, résumés are optimized like investment portfolios, and marriage conversations often include mortgage discussions. It is perhaps unsurprising that love now borrows vocabulary from performance appraisals. In a slowing economy with high youth unemployment and rising living costs, few want to “invest” emotionally without due diligence. Romance, too, requires risk management.
The trust crisis is key here. Surveys in recent years have shown growing skepticism among young Chinese about marriage and long-term commitment. Women, in particular, face intense timelines — the lingering stigma of shengnü (剩女, “leftover women”) still shadows those over 30 — while simultaneously enjoying greater financial independence than previous generations. Men face pressure to own property and demonstrate stability before proposing. In such a high-stakes environment, uncertainty feels expensive. A referral reduces that uncertainty. It offers social proof.
Yet the trend raises uncomfortable ethical questions. Does the person being “referred” consent to having their romantic résumé circulated? What happens when a bitter breakup produces a damaging public review? Critics argue that the practice commodifies people, turning them into second-hand goods evaluated for resale. The humor can mask the cruelty. A witty post about an ex’s flaws may go viral, but reputational harm lingers.
There is also a gender dimension. Are women more likely to publicly recommend former boyfriends as “good but not for me”? Are men comfortable being assessed like consumer products? The framing often reveals lingering double standards about emotional labor and domestic competence. A man praised for cooking is “rare”; a woman praised for being caring is “expected.” Even in satire, traditional norms leak through.
Still, the popularity of the referral trend suggests a deeper longing: not for efficiency alone, but for credibility. Young people are not necessarily trying to industrialize intimacy. They are trying to avoid being deceived. In a digital ecosystem saturated with curated identities, a former partner’s testimony feels refreshingly real. It carries context, history and accountability.
In the end, “Love in the Age of HR” is less about cold calculation than about adaptation. Chinese urban singles are navigating intense social pressure, economic uncertainty and technological overload. If borrowing corporate language helps them feel safer in matters of the heart, it may be less cynical than it sounds. The referral post, with its bullet-point honesty and awkward sincerity, reflects a generation that has learned to evaluate everything — careers, apartments, friendships — through systems of review and recommendation. The question is not whether romance should sound like a performance review. It is why so many feel it must.
Oh darling, of course we’ve reached the point where your ex writes your dating reference letter.
In a country where neitui — internal job referrals — can fast-track your career, why shouldn’t it also fast-track your love life? If HR can vet your résumé, surely your former girlfriend can vet your emotional stability. Efficient. Transparent. Very modern. Very… corporate.
But let Auntie ask: when did romance become a performance appraisal?
I understand the impulse. Dating apps are a jungle. Married men posing as single. Single men posing as billionaires. Billionaires posing as poets. Ghosting has become a national sport. So yes, a testimonial from someone who actually survived a relationship with you sounds reassuring. “He’s kind but avoids conflict.” “She’s ambitious but allergic to compromise.” Finally — honesty.
This generation is tired of wasting time. In cities where apartments cost a lifetime of savings and marriage still feels like a KPI before 30, love is not just butterflies — it’s risk management. Emotional due diligence. Why invest in a man without checking his previous quarterly performance?
And yet, my spicy children, there’s something slightly chilling about circulating your ex like a pre-owned luxury handbag. “Lightly used, good condition, no major defects.” Are we empowering transparency — or perfecting commodification? Consent, anyone? Did he agree to become your LinkedIn endorsement for romance?
Also, notice the gender undercurrents. When women write these referrals, they often sound measured, fair, almost generous. “He wasn’t right for me, but he’s decent.” That’s emotional labor even after breakup. When men do it? Sometimes it slips into rating territory. As if women are software updates: version 2.3, improved cooking skills, unstable mood patches.
Still, I refuse to sneer. Beneath the satire, I see something tender: a hunger for trust. Young people don’t want perfection. They want verified humanity. In a world of filters and curated bios, an ex saying, “He’s flawed but kind,” feels revolutionary.
Capitalism may have colonized your bedroom, but you are also rewriting the rules. If referrals are what make you feel safer, so be it. Just remember: no one is a CV. No one is a KPI. And no one deserves to be reduced to bullet points — not even that emotionally unavailable Scorpio you dated for three years.
Love is not a corporate merger. It’s still a gamble.
But if you must do background checks, at least spell his name correctly in the recommendation.