Luo Yonghaos Intense TOEFL Preparation | Generated by AI
Luo Yonghao (often called “Old Luo”), the Chinese entrepreneur behind brands like Smartisan and a former internet celebrity, has a well-known backstory about his early struggles in Beijing that aligns closely with the anecdote you described. While the specifics of “locking himself in” a rented apartment for TOEFL prep aren’t always phrased exactly that way in every retelling, the core elements—intense, isolated self-study in a Beijing rental, motivated by financial desperation, and culminating in a job at New Oriental Education (XDF)—are a staple of his “rags-to-riches” narrative. He often shares this as part of his motivational speeches and interviews, framing it as a turning point from aimless odd jobs to a stable, high-earning career as an English teacher.
The Backstory
In the late 1990s, Luo was in his late 20s, a high school dropout from Jilin province with no college degree. After stints in South Korea selling knockoff health products (including dubious “vigour pills” for men), he returned to China broke and directionless. He bounced between hustles: hawking second-hand books, flipping smuggled cars, running a failing lamb skewer stall, dabbling in futures trading, and even writing unpublished novels. By 1999–2000, he was crashing in cheap Beijing rentals, scraping by on pennies, and feeling the pressure of turning 30 without prospects. Friends and family saw him as a “wastrel,” and he later admitted to contemplating suicide amid the failures.
Luo’s big break came when he realized New Oriental (XDF), then a scrappy English training school founded by Yu Minhong, was a goldmine for teachers. Top instructors pulled six-figure salaries (huge money in 2000s China, when Beijing apartments cost ~5,000 RMB per square meter). But XDF’s entry bar was high: candidates needed strong TOEFL/GRE scores to teach exam prep classes, as credibility was everything. Luo, whose English was functional but far from fluent (self-taught from comics and odd jobs), had zero formal quals. He decided to grind it out.
The Intense Prep Period
Around December 2000, Luo holed up in a dingy rented room near People’s University in Beijing—a typical “birdhouse” (tiny, partitioned flat) common for migrants. He stocked the mini-fridge with instant noodles, canned food, and cheap booze to minimize trips out. For the next several months (accounts vary: 3–6 months of near-total isolation, not a full year), he essentially barricaded himself inside. He later joked about “locking the door from the inside” to avoid distractions or the temptation to quit, treating it like a self-imposed boot camp. Days blurred: 12–16 hours of drilling TOEFL vocab, listening tapes on a clunky Walkman, practicing essays by hand, and memorizing GRE logic puzzles. Breaks were rare—maybe a quick alley walk or bike ride, but he avoided social spots to dodge embarrassment over his dead-end life.
It was grueling. Luo described blacking out from exhaustion, surviving on chain-smoked cigarettes and black coffee, and battling self-doubt. Financially, he was down to his last few hundred yuan, borrowing from friends just to pay rent. The isolation amplified the stakes: no safety net, no cheerleaders. He framed it as a “do-or-die” pact with himself—pass the tests, or stay broke forever.
Landing the Job
By mid-2001, Luo emerged gaunt but victorious. He aced the TOEFL (exact score unconfirmed, but high enough for XDF standards) and nailed a mock GRE section. He fired off a bold cover letter to Yu Minhong, boasting his “raw charisma” despite no degree. Auditions were rocky: two flops where nerves tanked his delivery. On the third try, he channeled his natural wit—cracking self-deprecating jokes about his dropout past and Northeast accent—into a killer demo lesson on GRE sentence completion.
Yu, pragmatic as ever, hired him on student feedback potential. Luo started as a junior lecturer in fall 2001, teaching GRE/TOEFL classes. His style exploded: humorous rants on life, idealism mixed with profanity-laced “Old Luo quotes” (e.g., “Life’s like a GRE fill-in: pick the least wrong option”). Bootleg recordings went viral online by 2003, making him XDF’s star. He earned 50,000–100,000 RMB/year initially (top-tier pay), lecturing weekends only—enough to quit the grind and build a cult following.
The Legacy of the Story
Luo left XDF in 2006 over a pay dispute (he demanded more for his fame; Yu refused), launching his own school and later ventures like the blog Niubol and smartphones. But he retells this tale constantly—in speeches like An Idealist’s Entrepreneurial Story (2010–2012 tours) and his 2010 memoir My Struggle—as proof of grit. It’s motivational fodder: “I locked myself away because excuses kill dreams.” No dramatic Hollywood lock-in (he wasn’t literally imprisoned), but the self-quarantine vibe resonates in China, where XDF symbolized upward mobility for hustlers.
If it’s not quite matching what you recall, it might blend with similar tales (e.g., his pal Li Xiaolai did a similar TOEFL lock-in). Luo’s full arc—from TOEFL hermit to billionaire (briefly)—is peak underdog porn.
Wikipedia: Luo Yonghao
MBA Think Tank: Luo Yonghao Bio
PingWest: New Oriental as Entrepreneur Cradle
163 News: Luo’s XDF Journey