Loneliness And The Sober Generation

    While enjoying a round of golf recently, one of my frequent playing partners and I were walking down the fairway (Thats right; if physically able, real golfers walk.). All of a sudden he looked at me as if about to confess something alarming. He is a little younger than I am which, at times, makes our conversations very interesting…like this one! It seems he had discovered that his youngest son had “done a little drinking” in college. Not reckless drinking. No blackouts. Just the ordinary experimentation that has historically accompanied adolescence. He waited for my reaction. I think I surprised him by saying, “Honestly, that may not be the worst sign.” Now, before you guys go crazy…bear with me. 

    I know that sounds counterintuitive in an era when headlines celebrate the collapse of teen drinking. A widely circulated survey from the Institute for Family Studies, drawing on the University of Michigan’s Monitoring the Future survey, showed the percentage of 12th graders who have ever consumed alcohol falling from 92% in the late 1970s to just 47% today. On its face, that seems like unambiguous progress. 

    And in more than a few ways, it is. Fewer drunk-driving deaths and lower rates of substance abuse among teenagers are unquestionably good developments. No serious person should romanticize collegiate under-age, or binge, drinking. Trust me…I know what I’m talking about. 

    But social trends rarely move in isolation. When a behavior collapses this dramatically, it is worth asking not only what disappeared, but what disappeared with it. What if part of the decline is not a story of healthier teenagers, but of more isolated ones?

    Today’s teenagers socialize less than previous generations. They date less. They have sex less. They hang out less. They attend far fewer parties. One report found that 12th graders now spend roughly an hour less per day taking part in live, in-person social interaction than their Gen X predecessors, and teen loneliness has climbed sharply since 2010. Much of ordinary adolescent social life has migrated onto phones and screens. The gods help us. 

    Here is the awkward part. Many parents don’t love drinking, and the idea of their children drinking is not one they welcome. I am not defending that behavior. But as an interested social observer, for lack of a better phrase, I watch personal and social ties fail to form among young people. I see the social anomie up close: the loneliness, the disconnection, the absence of the friendships that once shaped a life. The parties and big events that knit young people together are not as plentiful as they were decades ago. The point was rarely the alcohol. The point was belonging. The above mentioned survey may be a proxy for something we cannot afford to lose.

    For generations, drinking functioned—clumsily, imperfectly, and sometimes dangerously—as part of broader rituals of social cohesion. Parties, bars, tailgates, and weddings created opportunities for friendship, romance, vulnerability, and collective memory. Alcohol was often incidental to the deeper social function those spaces served. Today, those spaces are disappearing faster than we are replacing them.

    This is especially visible among young men. The US Surgeon General’s 2023 advisory on our epidemic of loneliness and isolation warned that disconnection carries health risks comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Yet we ignore the mundane social mechanisms that once pulled young Americans into regular face-to-face interaction.

    Not every fraternity party was healthy. Not every night out was wise. But many of those experiences forced young people into physical communities where they learned to navigate awkwardness, flirtation, rejection, humor, conflict, and friendship. Screens, by contrast, allow endless retreat.

    A teenager alone in his or her room scrolling TikTok until 2:00 a.m. may be physically “safer” than one at a noisy gathering. But physical safety is a poor metric of human flourishing. A culture that systematically removes opportunities for embodied community will eventually produce loneliness, alienation, and social fragility.

    This is why the collapse in drinking should not automatically be read as a moral triumph. The question is not whether drinking declined, but what replaced the social world that drinking once accompanied. In many cases, the answer is nothing.

    That vacuum matters. Communal rituals, even imperfect ones, help sustain social trust and belonging. Americans already suffer from declining civic participation, collapsing institutional membership, and weakening friendship networks. Churches, bowling leagues, volunteer organizations, and civic clubs have all weakened over time. Informal social life has eroded alongside them.

    Young people are not simply drinking less. They are gathering less. Ironically, a teenager who occasionally attends parties may be healthier than one who never leaves the house. The friendships and memories that come from those gatherings can outweigh the cheap beer or bizarre mixed drink. In the end, I told my concerned golfing partner that he should be relieved: His son sounded socially connected and capable of participating in normal adolescent life.

    None of this is an argument for encouraging underage drinking. It is an argument for perspective. Public health metrics cannot capture the full texture of a thriving polity. A society can reduce certain risks while becoming lonelier, more withdrawn, and less connected.

    The deeper challenge is not merely reducing harmful behaviors. It is rebuilding the social infrastructure that gives people reasons to gather. If drinking disappears but friendship disappears along with it, we should hesitate before calling that progress.

Write to Peter: magtour@icloud.com