After today, I will no longer follow TikTok Refugees. Here, I will write a reflection diary.

Before writing this diary, I tried listening to a few podcasts about the internet industry, but their information wasn’t very accurate. For instance, someone claimed, “TikTok’s Chinese version, Douyin, has opened registration for overseas phone numbers,” which has already been proven not accurate. Additionally, some said that tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of users had migrated to Xiaohongshu (RedNote), but I find this hard to believe.

First, I tested different phones in various regions, and the homepage recommendations were almost identical (including some screenshots shared online; I saw the same content myself). Second, I followed many international users and tried to initiate conversations, but there was no actual interaction. I noticed some people posted several videos on their first day and then never updated again. I’m unsure whether they were real users. Third, one of my American friends registered a Xiaohongshu account. Without labeling themselves as “TikTok refugees,” he didn’t receive any attention or interaction, and their first post gained no exposure.

It’s possible that some TikTok influencers are skilled at navigating traffic (and many guide websites were created). They directly show their faces, post “Ask me anything,” or share fishing or cat-related photos and videos. Some even gain massive exposure and followers by singing popular songs. However, my friend’s attempt was unsuccessful.

Similarly, searching for “TikTok refugees” on American social media shows a small number of users praising the friendliness of Xiaohongshu’s community and expressing their willingness to stay. However, the majority of videos or posts I’ve come across are by Chinese influencers explaining “Xiaohongshu guides” in English. Personally, I feel this topic remains niche within the English-speaking community.

This brings me to another phenomenon. Many Chinese influencers simply copy popular videos from Douyin onto TikTok or Instagram. Apart from audiences in Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan, Southeast Asian Chinese communities, and Chinese international students, these posts rarely attract attention from other locations. Even on X (formerly Twitter), content from Chinese bloggers doesn’t gain much traction among English-native audiences, despite being translated into English. In terms of entertainment, the only content I know that has successfully gone viral internationally is Li Ziqi, Genshin Impact, and Black Myth: Wukong. Even the meme “Chicken You’re So Beautiful” hasn’t crossed cultural boundaries.

Because of this, I question the significance of the so-called “China-US content moderators.” The workers pulling multiple shifts, delivery riders, or rural middle-aged and elderly populations likely don’t care about these topics. Meanwhile, the Xiaohongshu crowd—who are said to be well-educated, middle-class, trend-savvy, and even financially independent globetrotters—comes across as somewhat inexperienced during these “content comparisons.” Some Americans, in turn, mock posts on Xiaohongshu where U.S. users talk about working multiple jobs, struggling to afford food, or healthcare, as if these posts are meant to level the playing field between the U.S. and China. But whether this represents the broader lower-middle-class reality is uncertain.

On another note, the Oxford University Press announced the 2024 Word of the Year: “Brain Rot.” It refers to the decline of mental and intellectual states due to excessive exposure to low-quality online content. In the U.S., besides suspicions about TikTok being a Chinese app, many people outright reject short-form video content. Likewise, in China, there are plenty of people who remain wary of online platforms and don’t want their children exposed to such content.

Returning to my personal experience, I need to learn languages and knowledge, and I must do a lot of reading. This process is lonely—it involves no friends, no shared memories of time spent together. If I watch short videos, time passes quickly, leaving me impatient and anxious because I’ve accomplished nothing. I prefer consuming long-form content, so blogs and podcasts work well for me. However, I eventually gave in to short videos and meme culture, and more recently, borderline-content videos. Still, spending an entire day posting videos or replying to comments is something I can’t do—unless I’m getting paid.