Now, picture this: a 32-year-old former barista from Glasgow, three months into a year-long teaching contract in Chongqing, has just had her student ask, “Do you like pandas more than people?” while scribbling a poorly drawn dragon in her notebook. She laughs, writes back, “I like you more than pandas, actually.” That moment—small, sweet, slightly absurd—captures the real magic of being an English teacher in China. Not the myth of the “failed dreamer,” but the quiet, daily act of connection: teaching grammar through memes, explaining idioms using TikTok dances, and learning about *xiaolongbao* from a student whose family runs a tiny dumpling shop. These aren’t people stuck in a dead-end job—they’re cultural translators, accidental comedians, and emotional support systems all rolled into one. The LBH label? It’s like calling a chef a “microwave cook” because they're working in a food truck.
And let’s be real—how many people in your home country are doing *that*? How many are waking up to a city that’s still half-asleep, walking through alleys filled with the smell of soy sauce and street vendors calling out “Baozi!” in Mandarin, just to stand in front of 30 third-graders and try to explain the difference between *present perfect* and *past simple*? Not many. Most people in the West are stuck in cubicles, drowning in spreadsheets, or waiting for a promotion that never comes. But here, in China, English teachers are building real relationships—sometimes with students who teach *them* more than they ever teach the students. A 28-year-old from Melbourne once told me she learned more about emotional honesty from a 10-year-old boy who wrote a poem about missing his grandma in Sichuan. That’s not failure. That’s depth. That’s *life*.
Sure, the stereotype persists—LBH as a badge of shame, as if teaching English in China is some kind of last resort. But let’s compare it to real failure: the person who stayed home, gave up on change, and never tried. The LBH isn’t the one who left. The LBH is the one who packed a suitcase with a visa, a broken grammar book, and hope in their backpack, and flew across the world to find something new. That’s not a loser. That’s a pioneer. Maybe not in the grand historical sense, but in the small, beautiful way that defines modern courage: showing up, even when you’re scared, even when you’re unsure, even when the internet mocks you for it. The irony? The very people who label others as “losers” are often the ones still stuck in the same job, the same city, the same life—while the LBH is learning to say “wǒ ài nǐ” with a smile, even if it’s pronounced like “wah ai ni.”
There’s also the matter of self-perception. Some LBHs internalize the label, and that’s where the real damage lies. But the moment you start asking questions—*Why do I feel this way? What am I really doing here?*—the label starts to crack. Suddenly, you realize: you’re not just teaching English. You’re teaching curiosity. You’re introducing students to a world beyond the Great Wall, even if you’re not from that world yourself. You’re the bridge between cultures, the one who explains why “break a leg” doesn’t mean you should actually break a leg. You’re the person who stayed when the visa ran out, who volunteered at a rural school for fun, who taught a kid how to write an email to a pen pal in Toronto. That’s not failure. That’s legacy.
And let’s not forget the humor. The absurdity of the situation is part of the charm. You’re explaining gerunds to a 12-year-old in Nanjing while a street performer plays a flute outside the window. You’re laughing because you’re not the teacher—you’re the *participant* in a global, chaotic, beautiful classroom. You’re not escaping life. You’re living it—loudly, messily, beautifully. The LBH label? It’s just a joke. A lazy one. A tired one. Like saying every backpacker is a “has-been.” But you? You’re not lost. You’re *found*—in the middle of a bustling Chinese city, in the middle of a language you’re still learning, in the middle of a life you’re building one lesson at a time.
So, to every English teacher in China—yes, even the ones who still get called LBH behind the bar at the weekend party—here’s my truth: you’re not a fallback. You’re a front-runner. You’re the ones who chose adventure over stagnation, connection over comfort, and the unknown over the familiar. You’re the ones who turned “I don’t know” into “Let me try.” The world may call you a loser, but the students you’ve inspired, the friendships you’ve built, the way you’ve grown in the process—those aren’t signs of failure. They’re proof that sometimes, the most heroic thing you can do is just show up, speak a little broken English, and say, “Hey, let’s learn together.”
In the end, I don’t care what the internet says. I don’t care about the labels, the memes, or the tired jokes about “failed careers.” Because I’ve seen the real story—the one behind the classroom doors, the one in the laughter between lessons, the one in the way a student writes “Thank you, teacher. You are my hero” in a notebook with a crayon. That’s not a loser. That’s a hero. And if being an LBH means being brave enough to start over in a country where you don’t speak the language, then count me in—because I’d rather be an LBH than a ghost in my own life.
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Chengdu, Chongqing, Melbourn, Nanjing, Sichuan, Toronto,
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