It was one of those nights you don’t forget. The air was calm, the road unusually quiet, and I was lost in my thoughts when I stumbled upon a scene that froze me in place. A young man – barely older than me, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three -was lying by the edge of the highway. His arms sprawled out carelessly, his shirt dusty, and beside him rolled an empty bottle. For a moment, I thought he was dead.
I rushed to his side, my heart pounding louder than the cars that whizzed past. I bent down, shook him gently, and whispered, “Bro, are you okay?” No response. His body felt so light in my hands, weaker than I imagined a grown man could be. At times, he felt lifeless, and I caught myself holding my breath, praying silently that he would move. When he finally groaned and stirred, a wave of relief washed over me. I lifted him slowly to his feet, supporting his wobbling frame as he struggled to keep his balance. His eyes were glassy, his words slurred, and he smelt of alcohol stronger than any cologne.
As I guided him to the side of the road where he could sit safely, a thought kept ringing in my head: how did we get here as Gen Z? How did alcohol -something meant to be enjoyed responsibly -become the very thing dragging so many of us down?
I have never believed alcohol itself is the enemy. A drink, when taken in moderation, can be part of joy and celebration. Families toast at weddings, friends share a cold beer after long days, and sometimes a glass of wine over dinner softens the edges of life. Alcohol has been with humanity for centuries -a companion in both grief and festivity. But what I saw that night wasn’t joy, it wasn’t laughter, and it wasn’t bonding. It was the face of excess. It was the harsh reminder that when alcohol crosses from moderation into dependence, it no longer connects us- it destroys us. That young man, asleep on a dangerous highway, could have been crushed under a speeding car. He could have lost his life, not because alcohol is evil, but because his relationship with it had spiraled out of control.
I carried that image with me for days. It made me look around at my peers differently. And I realized: the scene on the highway was not an isolated one. Alcoholism, in subtle but alarming forms, has woven itself into Gen Z’s daily life. It shows up at house parties where bottles are lined up like trophies before the music even starts. It shows up in campus rooms where students drink to drown the weight of exams or heartbreak. It shows up in casual hangouts, where saying no to a shot is seen as rejecting the group itself. And it doesn’t stop there. Social media has made drinking look glamorous. Every scroll reveals influencers raising glasses on yachts, musicians rapping about expensive bottles, and friends capturing “lit” nights for TikTok. In our feeds, alcohol is not a substance – it’s an accessory, a lifestyle, a filter for fun. The more we see it, the more normal it feels. And the more normal it feels, the less we see the danger creeping in.
The boy on the highway wasn’t just drunk; he was a symbol of deeper truths about why my generation turns to alcohol so recklessly. Behind the memes and laughter, many young people are carrying invisible burdens – depression, unemployment, financial pressure, climate anxiety. Alcohol offers a quick escape. It silences the storm, even if only for a few hours. At the same time, peer pressure makes it hard to resist. I’ve seen it countless times: someone hesitates to drink, and instantly the chants begin –“Come on, just one shot!” The fear of missing out, the need to belong, makes it easier to give in than to walk away. For some, the bottle is not about taste; it’s about acceptance. And then there is the culture of experimentation. Gen Z loves adventure, loves to try new things, and alcohol becomes one of those things excused with a simple phrase: “YOLO – you only live once.” Add to this the fact that the taboos around drinking have weakened and alcohol has become cheaper, sweeter, and more accessible, and you see why our relationship with it is so fragile.
That night on the highway forced me to ask: where is the line between fun and destruction? It is easy to say “I’m just enjoying myself” – until enjoyment becomes dependence. Until laughter turns into blackouts. Until alcohol is no longer an occasional visitor but a daily requirement. Alcoholism in Gen Z doesn’t always look like a homeless man clutching a brown paper bag. More often, it looks like a bright student who cannot study without a drink, or a young worker who drinks every night “to forget.” It looks like people who are full of potential, but slowly losing control while pretending they are fine.
As I helped that young man sit safely away from the highway, I couldn’t stop thinking: he could have been me, or one of my closest friends. His weakness in my arms was not just physical – it was symbolic. It was the weight of a generation struggling to handle the very thing we have normalized. I don’t blame him. I don’t even blame alcohol. The problem lies in the relationship we’ve built with it. Alcohol is good when used responsibly, but in excess, it quietly steals our time, our health, and sometimes our lives.
That night taught me something deeper than any lecture could: alcoholism isn’t just about bottles. It’s about emptiness, pressure, and a search for belonging that too often leads us to dangerous places. I walked away shaken, but also awakened. Gen Z must learn to reclaim alcohol as a companion, not a master. We must talk openly about moderation, about responsibility, and about the courage to say no without shame. Because if we don’t, the next lifeless figure on the highway may not be a stranger. It could be a friend. It could be me.
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