I’m a Gen Z doomspender – I have given up on saving for a house or kids

There is a certain type of grown-up who will shake their head and waggle their finger whenever they hear that young people are spending their money on things like matcha lattes. “I was under the impression,” they will say with mock irony, “that Gen Z couldn’t afford anything”. Or perhaps: “How do they expect to get on the property ladder if they’re wasting all their money on that green muck?” But, as the older generation are well aware, matcha is relatively cheap and houses are not. The first rung of the proverbial property ladder is high nowadays, and most Gen Zers like me have accepted that we won’t be hoisting ourselves on to it any time soon. It’s incredibly difficult to save for anything substantial in the current economic climate, which is why many in my generation have given up on their nest eggs and turned to a more alluring proposition: “doomspending”. Trend forecaster Sean Monahan defines this phenomenon as “spending frivolously with no concern for future financial consequences”. The thinking is that there’s very little point squirrelling away a few hundred pounds from your salary each month – which would require dedication and penny-pinching – because at the rate inflation is going, that money will be worth hardly anything in a few decades’ time. This summer has been particularly apocalyptic, with wildfires burning in Europe and a drought declared across three-quarters of England’s brown and not so pleasant land. All that can make one feel a little bit existential, and spending a little cash can be a good distraction. Shorts The fiscal picture for my generation is pretty bleak. Research from the Office for National Statistics found that in 2025, the average home in London sold for 10.6 times more than the average annual earnings, while rent in the capital has gone up by 50 per cent in the last decade. Wages have stagnated, and those of us who went to university are, on average, in £60,000 worth of debt for a degree that was scuppered by a pandemic and, in some cases, our teachers striking. Meanwhile, AI is hoovering up entry-level jobs. This all contributes to what Dr Amin Samman, an expert in the philosophy of finance at City University, defines as “financial nihilism”. The decline in real wages and the thinning out of the job market has given young people a sense of malaise that can lead them to “stop following economic common sense”. There’s some logic to this: financial prudence no longer begets the same rewards that it used to, so what’s the point in saving? Instead, Gen Zers are increasingly making what Samman describes as “yolo bets”: investments in high-risk stocks and volatile cryptocurrencies that could dramatically change their fortunes. A Vanguard study in July found that a third of Gen Z investors are picking crypto as their first punt. Doomspending is common among my peers. “I deny myself almost nothing,” says my friend Zoe Kessler, 28, who works in advertising. Aside from the obligatory daily iced latte which adds up to around £140 a month, she spends £50 getting her nails done every three weeks, and, if she has “a really bad hangover”, she’ll go for an £80 massage. “I see them all as little self-soothing things,” she says. “Life is hard, nine to fives are stressful.” Plus, the world feels dark and scary, and Zoe reckons that having brightly coloured nails that match her drink or vape of choice can act as a sort of “adult pacifier”. Such indulgences are part of a wider phenomenon with a fittingly childish name: “little treat culture”. Because most of my agemates can’t afford truly expensive things like houses and/or children, we are spending our money on small, luxurious dopamine hits like a high-end beauty product or overpriced pastry. Last week, there were hours-long queues for a viral Australian frozen yoghurt parlour which has just opened in London. The frozen yoghurts sold there can cost £20 with all the toppings. Zoe Kessler, 28, reckons that having brightly coloured nails that match her drink or vape of choice can act as a sort of ‘adult pacifier’ I walk the particularly spindly financial tightrope that is being a freelance journalist and renting in London. My credit card allows me to be quite Pollyannaish about my bank balance until a certain point each month when I have to visit my Monzo savings pot, cap in hand. The indulgences I allow myself are certainly not befitting of my current net worth. I eat at nice restaurants every couple of weeks, which usually costs about £70, and I have been on multiple holidays this summer. My housemates and I have been on a gut health journey which calls for lots of kimchi, kombucha and kefir. Unfortunately, the holy trinity does not come cheap: a jar of kimchi from the Planet Organic that is ruinously close to my house costs £12.49. We decided it was only fair that our two cats joined us on the journey, so we feed them a special gut health kibble with the kind of millennial packaging that makes it twice as expensive. I also refuse to drink bad wine except in an emergency and I would never buy eggs that had sad yellow yolks – I want the Burford Browns. Essentially, I don’t really believe in putting my future self before my present self. What if I get hit by a car or something? Of course, for all the doomspenders, there are those who are taking the opposite approach to alleviate their economic anxiety. Bloomberg reports that some Gen Zers are “retirement-maxxing”: making sacrifices today so that they can enjoy life later on. This has sparked an online movement known as Fire (“financial independence, retire early”). One of its proponents is 25-year-old Londoner Mia McGrath, who helps her 350,000 Instagram followers practise “frugal chic” habits, like wearing less make-up, doing their own nails and re-wearing party dresses. The persistence of the cost of living crisis has necessitated a degree of frugality in my social circles, or so they say. When I speak to my friend Sorcha, a civil servant, she laments being priced out of the independent clothing brands she used to love. But, she admits, “I do spend £130 on eyelash serum because that is more immediately important to me than a house”. The only people she knows who have managed to buy a property either work in finance or have had help from their parents. “I’ve got past making myself feel bad about it, and I’d rather just spend the little I have each month,” she says. “I don’t look into the future too much, because I think it’s a bad idea. It’s too scary,” says my friend Lola, a freelance writer-director who is often found at the checkout till transferring money from her savings into her current account. It is disturbing to think that generations after us may still be cobbling together cash for rent each month and buying a cinnamon bun and an iced drink to feel less sad about it. Although, the world will probably be uninhabitable by that point anyway, so at least I’ll be glad I went to Spain three times this summer.