Every two months since March 2020, I have declared the pandemic over. “Grow up, Covid’s over now,” I say to no one in particular. The pronouncement comes more in hope than expectation; the truth is, I’m miserable and desperate for all this to end. The only lingering concern is that the bright 22-year-old I was two years ago is gone for ever; and, like masks on the tube and vaccine scepticism, the perpetually tracksuited homebody I’ve become is the new normal.
I’m not alone in feeling I’ve lost my groove. According to a study by the Prince’s Trust, happiness and confidence among 16- to 25-year-olds has slumped to a 13-year low. It goes without saying that Covid is a significant cause of the malaise. Most of the house parties, let alone nightclubs, festivals and holidays, have been cancelled, often before they were organised in the first place. Not only does this mean more time spent alone, staring blankly at the screen that seems to be permanently 20cm from my nose, it also means nothing to look forward to: no reward for all the effort I put into college, university and trying to get a job. Where once the end of exams meant parties and trips abroad with friends, it is now marked with depressing Zoom drinks – if indeed it is at all.
For those young people of school age, disruption to education is now beyond repair. According to a report by the Institute for Fiscal Studies, today’s children in the UK face losing £350bn in lifetime earnings as a result of the deskilling and widening inequalities that losing so much time at school cost them. For those at university, the profound unfairness of having your place there dictated by algorithm, only to arrive and spend your freshers’ week confined to grotty, overcrowded accommodation would surely do it. Covid disruption, to both teaching and students’ social lives, has created a sense that the current generation has been denied the full experience. The news that students in England will now be expected to pay back loans over 40 years instead of 30 means there is a very real question over whether university is even worth it any more.
The years aged 21 to 25 are traditionally defined by the excitement of taking our first steps into professional life in our first “proper” jobs. Today’s young people may never have met their colleagues and, with hybrid working here to stay, there’s a decent likelihood they never will. What were once the prime years to go out, get drunk, sleep around and make lasting friendships with colleagues have instead been defined by a grim sense that maybe life will never return to normal.
Social media is full of people posting messages such as: “My birthday this year doesn’t count. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still 22.” It’s a cry for help, a begrudging acceptance that some of the best years of our lives have been lost to the virus.
While I’m optimistic that my groove can be salvaged, deep down I fear that Covid is the least of the problems facing my generation. A decade of low growth and stagnant wages means an ever greater chunk of our pay is required to keep a roof over our heads. For all that young people are publicly urged to cut out flat whites and Netflix subscriptions if we want to get on the property ladder, our inability to buy houses is rarely due to a lack of will. In my experience, young people are totally obsessed with homeownership, in part because the distant fantasy is so obviously more attractive than the alternative – decades of perpetual housesharing, all the while paying far more in rent than you ever would in mortgage payments.
In response, young people are increasingly atomised, often retreating into cohabiting couples or staying at home with parents to desperately try to save money. It is hardly surprising that I hear about so many friendship groups withering. In my case, without the social events and dynamics that formed the basis of some of my most important relationships, the joy I once found in them has faded. With so much distance between us all, we have forgotten the ties that bind us.
Still, I am one of the lucky ones. The alienating impact of the pandemic is far worse for those not in work, education or training, particularly those who lack the family support – emotional as well as financial – to continue socialising when between jobs. Of young people in those groups, about 25% report always feeling anxious, compared with 15% among those in work or study.
Being young has never been more expensive or emotionally exhausting. The Prince’s Trust report found 40% of young people say they are anxious about socialising with people, one-third say they don’t know how to make new friends and 35% say they’ve never felt more alone.
Just last weekend, I was talking to one of my friends about how quaint and 1990s the TV show Friends seems now: not because of the fashion or questionable politics, but because of the idea that your friends might be an effective substitute for your family through your 20s. Today’s young people simply can’t afford to waste their time or money hanging out at Central Perk. In effect, Friends’ enduring appeal (it is still one of the most consistently watched shows on Netflix) is that it makes people nostalgic for a time when being young seemed a lot more fun. They say youth is wasted on the young but clearly, being young isn’t what it used to be.
My hope for the long term is that our expectations adjust. Perhaps the pandemic has engendered a greater understanding of the unbearable pressure many young people are under, not least from themselves. And when pubs and restaurants were closed I know many discovered new talents and hobbies that will continue to bring them joy long after their clubbing days would have ended. I’m ending the pandemic in an optimistic mood. I may have lost two of “the best years of my life”, but I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to make new memories and salvage my best self in the process. After all, time is on my side.
Alex Mistlin is a commissioning editor on Guardian Saturday
