Editor’s note: Fuying Education, based in the eastern Zhejiang province, specializes in training parents how to communicate with, and better encourage, their adolescent offspring. However, the company has proved controversial, and in July it was fined for false advertising. Here, several parents and children share their experiences with its “smart parenting” approach.

Thinking about his son, Shen Fangzhu’s eyes begin to well with tears. “I feel like I’ve let him down,” he says, his sobs cutting through the silence of the classroom. Looking on are more than 100 parents who, like Shen, are desperate for guidance on how to mend their relationships with their pubescent children.

It’s April, and Shen is addressing his classmates — made up of judges, company executives, doctors, and other professionals, mostly women — during an evening training course led by Fuying Education, in Hangzhou, the capital of the eastern Zhejiang province. The company offers a range of courses that promise to turn struggling mothers and fathers into “smart parents.”

Earlier, this group of mature students had listened to one course instructor, Xu Huixin, who works in the health care industry, talk on the problem of depression among under-18-year-olds in China, during which she quoted some startling statistics and described adolescence as an “illness caused by parents.”

At Fuying, the mantra is “Fix yourself, not your child.” However, as those who have gone through the company’s training program have ultimately discovered, that’s easier said than done.

Touch of class

Shen’s 14-year-old son, Yixuan, was sent away to boarding school during elementary school. It was meant to help him become more independent, but every weekend, he’d return home in tears and plead not to be sent back to the dormitory. Shen says he always refused his son’s request.

When he reached adolescence, Yixuan became irritable and rebellious, and even attempted to run away, resulting in the police being called in to help trace him. Afraid that his son could end up like his niece, who had to have her stomach pumped after downing an entire bottle of antidepressants, Shen decided to secretly read the conversations his son was having with friends over the WeChat instant messaging app. When Yixuan found out, it led to a major argument.

It’s at this point in retelling the story that Shen breaks down in tears. “I want to challenge myself and change myself,” he tells his peers in the Fuying class. “I want to impact his life through mine. I want to set an example for him, and show him that Dad can do it too.”

His message appeared to resonate deeply with the other parents, most of whom were dealing with similar issues with their children — some were skipping school, others were fighting nonstop with their siblings, or exploding in anger over the slightest disagreement, and a few had even threatened to harm themselves or others with knives. These parents had come to find a cure.

To progress through the program, students are given weekly homework assignments — such as practicing a genuine Duchenne smile, identified by wrinkles in the corner of the eyes — and must accumulate points by studying the course materials on AIBM, an app launched and operated by Fuying Education. As an incentive, the past week’s top 10 performers are commended at the start of each session. Parents are required to spend at least 30 minutes on AIBM outside class, although Shen says he studies for up to two hours a day, sometimes even at work, prompting some colleagues to tell him that they feel he’s become obsessed.

One class that’s especially popular among parents teaches them how to get children to cooperate without shouting. Xu starts by promoting a three-step technique: One, take stock of the situation; two, calm down; and three, practice empathy. Then, she asks the group to role play based on a hypothetical situation, such as a child spending too much time on their cellphone, to show the contrast in attempting to change behavior by using compassion rather than insulting language.

For many parents, the class is an eye-opening experience. “Before, I only thought about myself, completely ignoring the child’s perspective,” says Shen, who took part in multiple role-playing activities during the course, including one in which the parents with the worst tempers were invited on stage to scold their classmates. With the lights dimmed, the students had to imagine themselves bearing the brunt of the abuse. “Why are you so stupid? If you do not study, then what are you good for? You’re such a disappointment!” Shen, again in tears, scribbled in his notebook a list of “unacceptable phrases” to avoid using in conversations with his son.

Back at home, Shen followed Xu’s advice and called a 20-minute family meeting with his wife and son, which resulted in an agreement that Yixuan would be allowed to play on his phone for 30 minutes a night once he’d completed his homework. The three of them also had to speak on their strengths and weaknesses, with Shen conceding that he can be authoritarian and bad-tempered. When Yixuan insisted that his actions would speak for him, his mother chimed in with skepticism. However, remembering his training, Shen quickly followed up with, “I believe in you, son.” He then hung a copy of their agreement on the wall.

After finishing his first semester on the parenting course, Shen found an essay that his son had written: “He’s no longer the same towering, strong figure I once imagined. Since I entered middle school, he’s worried about me more … even as his work pressure has increased. … He gives so much to our family. Maybe I should also make some changes to myself.” Re-reading this aloud also had Shen reaching for the tissues.

Family ties

Cao Jia moved to Hangzhou from his native northeastern China in 2008 to open a photography studio. He got married, had a child, and in 2018 was declared bankrupt. He has taken part in every workshop offered by Fuying Education, and has clocked up more than 44 hours of study time on its app. Every day, he reads the program’s “parents’ code” to his son, now 14 or so, listing aloud the 12 major changes and 45 minor changes all parents should make.

For a homework assignment, parents are told to post colorful notes in prominent places around the home to encourage their children, highlighting their strengths. They are given a list of 50 “classic compliments” and 52 lines of flattery. Cao wrote 131 notes to his son, covering the walls in pink, yellow, and blue sticky notes.

After filing for bankruptcy, Cao divorced his wife, moved to a rented apartment with his son, and found a job as a real estate agent. However, soon after, his son began feeling sick, complaining of pain in his stomach, back, and joints. After visiting two hospitals and seeing no improvement in his condition, Cao took his son to Sir Run Run Shaw Hospital in Hangzhou, where the chief physician suggested the issue could be psychological. Cao was furious. “I’d rather stop seeking treatment than have my son diagnosed as mentally ill,” he says. “If my son has a problem, I should be the one who sees a psychologist — it’s me who has the problem.”

Cao’s son eventually had to take a leave of absence from school, which was around the time Cao turned to Fuying Education. After reading claims by the company’s founder, Wang Jinhai, that its program had helped more than 100,000 families “leave confusion behind,” he signed up for three courses: Empathy Camp, The Art of Speaking, and 30 Lectures on Adolescence. Classes were held Monday through Saturday.

He quickly filled notebook upon notebook with thoughts and suggestions. Cao felt he had already gone through enough pain, but his problems were mounting. His son had said that he hated him, and that he didn’t want to live anymore. The parenting course led him to believe that he needed to address his own issues through learning before he could help “cure” his son.

Cao also came to idolize Wang, who, according to the company’s marketing materials, rose from impoverished beginnings to earn a doctorate from the prestigious Zhejiang University. His motto is, “The more relaxed the parents, the harder the children work.”

However, along with its army of devoted fans, Fuying Education has also courted controversy in recent times. According to a report in March by a domestic media outlet, an outfit specializing in investigative reporting, the company operates through a multilevel marketing model, a legal yet often-maligned practice in which individuals are encouraged to sell products as well as recruit others in “downlines,” from who they take a percentage of their sales. In addition, in July, Fuying was fined 36,000 yuan ($4,995) for violating China’s advertising laws after providing false information in its advertisements.

This does not, however, appear to have dampened enthusiasm for its products. For many parents, Fuying’s courses have simply become a way to “recharge their batteries” and vent their anxieties, which are usually associated directly or indirectly with their child’s performance in school. While some had children who were struggling, others were equally concerned about their high-achieving offspring burning out.

Shen’s worries stem from concerns over what his son Yixuan will do after leaving education. Despite being an easygoing salesman for a state-owned enterprise, at home, he would constantly lecture his son and observe every little thing about his behavior. However, he realized that, in reality, his anxiety about his son was actually anxiety about himself. Last year, Shen’s company began laying off employees, and his salary was reduced, creating uncertainty. He realized that, before joining the parenting course, he was attempting to deal with his anxiety by “putting out fires before they even started.”

Bitter medicine

“Do you think your mother has improved?” When confronted with this question last year at a dinner party in Dongyang, Zhejiang, attended by several parents enrolled in Fuying Education classes, 17-year-old Zhou Ran felt she was in an impossible position. “I guess so,” she replied, conscious of the watchful eyes all around. The honest answer would have been “No.”

In truth, since her mother had begun the program, life at home had become bizarre. Every day, at six or seven in the morning, Zhou’s mother would “start class,” reading motivational stories out loud in the living room, making sure that her son, Zhou’s younger brother, was listening. “I feel I’ve changed a lot, and I communicate well and encourage others,” her mother would say. But Zhou felt it was all fake, just “toxic positivity.”

On occasion, her mother would suddenly say, “You need to control your emotions. I learned that in class.” Yet from Zhou’s viewpoint, her mother was the one whose emotions ran the hottest. After midday naps, she would start yelling at her son, assuming he was secretly playing mobile games on his phone longer than allowed. He would remain silent, and she would shout.

Zhou first sensed something was off when notes of encouragement began appearing all over the walls. Each started “Dear Daughter,” and ended with “Keep it up on this new day.” Even the sticky notes were merchandise sold by Fuying Education. If her brother did poorly in a test, her mother would say, “I believe in you,” but to Zhou it all sounded like “twisted demands masked in praise.”

She says her mother has always been bad-tempered. If something went missing at home, her mother would accuse Zhou of taking it. If her grades fell, she would be beaten. She recalls one night, around 11 p.m., her mother barged into her room and hit her with a phone charger cable while she was messaging her classmates. She doesn’t expect her mother will ever change, and her biggest wish is to study far from home in the southern Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region after taking the gaokao, China’s college entrance exams.

Cao has spent tens of thousands of yuan on Fuying courses, yet his son has yet to return to school. Once, he woke in the early hours to find his son still playing the hit video game Black Myth: Wukong. His excuse was that his father’s snoring had disturbed his sleep. Such interactions were draining, Cao says, as he attempted to stay calm and use his training to alter his son’s behavior.

Shen also increasingly feels he and Yixuan are locked in a game of wits. He says he often receives calls at work from his son, not out of concern for him, but to gauge how much longer he can use his cellphone. The same happens whenever Shen goes out socializing.

Initially, each time his son exceeded the allowed screen time, Shen would remind himself to hold back his anger, slow his speech, and refer to their family agreement on phone usage. However, after four days of this, his patience ran out. He snatched the phone from Yixuan’s hands and began scolding him, sensing that it was his son’s way of testing the limits of the “smart parenting” approach.

Shen felt he’d been too lenient, and says he realized that if encouraging words were all he offered, his son would take it as approval of his behavior. “Without rules, without boundaries, I would be giving my son leverage over me. That would be when the medicine wears off,” he says. He began to question whether changing himself would really change his son. After so long enrolled in the parenting course, he still felt he was unable to penetrate his son’s inner world.

From Yixuan’s perspective, adolescence has been a tumultuous time with “all kinds of thoughts coming up,” none of which he feels he can share with his father. He says his biggest headache is social interactions, and that gaming helps “ease the pain from stress and education.”

He recalls that, as a child, his father would punish him for mistakes by making him stand outside for hours, sometimes naked. Once, wearing only shorts, a delivery driver asked why he was out there. He says he still can’t forgive Shen for that. He feels his father’s participation in a parenting course is simply in line with the sentiment “I raised you, be grateful.” Yet, one benefit did come, he says — it led to Shen agreeing to let Yixuan become a student athlete and follow his interest in running.

At a ceremony to mark the end of a semester for Fuying students, Shen invited Yixuan to hear him deliver a speech about his regrets and hopes for the future. However, just before it began, Yixuan developed acute gastroenteritis and was taken to the hospital by his uncle. Rather than accompany his son, Shen chose to attend the ceremony instead, feeling that it would be “ruined” if he didn’t.

As usual, the event had been meticulously prepared, with a role-play performance that saw parents shouting at other parents pretending to be children, and a group singalong of the much-loved 1980s song “Tomorrow Will Be Better.” As a memento, one mother, who works as an auctioneer, handed out more than 40 pieces of calligraphy, on which were written the characters for “shut up.”

(Due to privacy concerns, pseudonyms have been used for all interviewees.)

Reported by Xu Qiaoli.

A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Vincent Chow; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Visuals from Vectorbum and soberve/VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)