Why Australia's Sober Teens are Our Most Radical Generation Yet

For decades, Australians have treated alcohol as a social passport. To refuse a drink was to risk ridicule. “C’mon, just one” was as much a part of adolescence as acne and awkward school photos. But something is shifting, and it’s happening in the very demographic most marketers assumed would keep the grog flowing: our young people.

Across Adelaide — and increasingly across the nation — Gen Z is turning its back on booze. They are gathering for matcha raves instead of beer barns, swapping shots for sober socials, and asking a revolutionary question: do we actually need alcohol to connect, belong, and have fun?

As a psychologist who has spent decades working with young Australians, I find this trend nothing short of thrilling. In an era where anxiety, depression, and self-harm rates among young people remain unacceptably high, the fact that more teenagers and twenty-somethings are making conscious, health-positive decisions about alcohol is a story worth celebrating.

Why the change? For one, this generation has grown up watching their parents drink — and not always in healthy ways. They’ve seen the fallout: family fights, risky behaviour, the emotional toll of dependency. Unlike previous generations, they’re prepared to say, “No thanks.”

They’re also more health-savvy than any cohort before them. These are young people raised on wellness apps, brain science TikToks, and a cultural shift that frames alcohol not as a rite of passage but as a carcinogen, a depressant, and a sleep-wrecking agent.

And then there’s the economic reality. With cost-of-living pressures biting, the price of a night out on alcohol looks increasingly absurd. Why fork out $18 for a cocktail when you can buy a green tea, feel sharp the next morning, and still make it to uni tutorials or work shifts on time?

The benefits for mental health are obvious. Alcohol is a depressant. It amplifies anxiety, lowers mood, impairs judgment, and increases impulsivity — a dangerous mix in a cohort already navigating intense academic, social, and digital pressures. Removing alcohol from the equation makes space for genuine connections and healthier coping strategies.

As one young Adelaidean put it, “Drinking is inconvenient. You can’t drive, you can’t do things, you’re kind of confused.” That kind of clarity is gold for young people trying to hold down jobs, pass exams, and manage friendships in an increasingly demanding world.

What’s fascinating is how quickly culture is adapting. Venues now stock sophisticated alcohol-free beers and mocktails. Daytime parties powered by tea or kombucha are no longer niche but mainstream. In fact, businesses ignoring this shift risk losing an entire generation of customers who simply don’t see intoxication as entertainment.

Compare this to 10 years ago, when choosing soda water over sauvignon blanc was seen as suspicious. Now, it’s a sign of maturity. We’ve gone from “prove you can hold your drink” to “prove you can hold a conversation without one.” That’s real progress.

Of course, we must be careful not to romanticise this completely. Some young people will still misuse alcohol, and binge drinking remains a stubborn part of our culture. But for the first time in my professional life, I can see a real cultural tipping point.

If we want to support it, parents should resist the urge to pressure kids into drinking “like everyone else.” Schools should include sober socialising as a legitimate and positive lifestyle choice in health education. And policymakers must keep investing in public health campaigns that reinforce the benefits of moderation or abstinence.

There’s something deeply hopeful about this story. For years we have labelled Gen Z the most anxious generation in history. And yet, in their rejection of alcohol, they are showing extraordinary resilience and clarity. They’re rewriting what it means to be young in Australia: less about hangovers and regret, more about agency, authenticity, and mental health.  That’s not boring. That’s brave.  So let’s drop the outdated stereotypes about “kids these days” and recognise what’s really happening. A generation is quietly staging one of the most radical health revolutions of our time. They’re not losing out on fun. They’re gaining freedom. And for once, it’s the adults who could stand to follow their lead.

TikTok and the Teenage Self-Diagnosis Epidemic

By Dr Michael Carr-Gregg

If you’re a parent, teacher, or policymaker and you’re not worried about TikTok’s role in adolescent mental health, you should be.

Right now, millions of young Australians are bypassing GPs, psychologists, and psychiatrists — and turning instead to influencers and algorithms for answers about their wellbeing. Google has been replaced by TikTok. Evidence has been replaced by anecdotes. And self-reflection has been replaced by self-diagnosis. The results? Confusion, contagion, and in some cases, catastrophe.

The research is damning. Less than 15% of mental health content on TikTok comes from professionals. Over half of ADHD videos are misleading. Autism, trauma, and DID content is riddled with errors. Algorithms push this material at teens even if they aren’t searching for it.

During COVID, we saw a wave of functional tic disorders linked directly to TikTok content. That’s not awareness — that’s algorithm-driven iatrogenesis. Iatrogenesis is the unintended causation of a disease, injury, infection, or other harmful complication as a direct result of medical intervention or treatment, including diagnosis, therapeutic procedures, drugs, errors, or negligence. It reflects any adverse effect on a patient that is not considered part of the natural course of their underlying condition but instead results from external activities. 

Adolescence is a perfect storm: identity confusion, peer pressure, and a brain wired for risk-taking. TikTok dangles easy answers: vague “symptom lists” that fit anyone (the Barnum effect), confirmation bias delivered on demand, and a culture where mental illness is normalised — even glamorised. Be clear, the platform doesn’t just reflect teen struggles, it shapes them.

To be fair, social media isn’t all bad. I am a big fan of the work of Dr Julie Smith a UK psychologist. Dr Smith began documenting her insights in short TikTok videos in 2019 after realizing that lasting therapeutic knowledge often feels inaccessible. She wanted to empower more people outside the therapy room by distilling psychological concepts into quick, digestible content. Her creative use of props (think overflowing "stress buckets", trauma filled waste paper baskets, fish tanks, or finger-trap metaphors) makes complex concepts like emotional regulation and anxiety relatable—without sacrificing clinical accuracy. Teaching through visual metaphors is a hallmark of her content, has resonated so well that she’s amassed millions of followers and is a trusted voice.

Unfortunately research shows that not all the content is as good. Parents report fractured relationships. Schools see distracted, distressed students insisting they “have” disorders based on TikTok clips and clinicians like me, spend valuable session time unpicking myths spread by influencers.

We don’t need another moral panic. We need action:

Parents: Talk with your kids about what they’re watching. Model healthy screen use. Don’t outsource mental health care to an app.
Schools: Make media literacy as fundamental as maths. Enforce phone-free classrooms.
Clinicians: Ask about social media use at intake. Offer credible alternatives.
Platforms: Stop pretending. Enforce algorithm transparency. Flag unverified health content.

TikTok is not going away. But if we leave our kids’ mental health in the hands of algorithms and amateurs, the cost will be enormous.

Young people deserve better. They deserve professional help, credible information, and adults willing to guide them through the noise. Self-awareness is healthy. Self-diagnosis on TikTok is not.