Why So Many Young Men Stay Boys

They Never Leave What’s Familiar

A few years ago, when I was writing my fraternity book, I noticed an odd trend among college-age men: many of them chose to attend colleges where they already knew people. Once on campus, they would often join fraternities filled with their high school friends. As a GenXer, I found this curious. When I was their age, part of the adventure of college was precisely not knowing anyone—a blank slate that forced you to build relationships, confront discomfort, and develop resilience. But for these young men, that sense of adventure seemed entirely absent. They were building their adult lives on one operating principle: stay safe, stay familiar.

I’ve come to believe that this approach to young adulthood reflects a deeper crisis. Every young man, if he is to grow, needs what I call an Abram experience—the kind of journey God demanded of Abraham when He told him, “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you” (Genesis 12:1-3). In other words, leave everything you know and enter into something unknown—something full of uncertainty, risk, and even danger.

Oddly enough, one American religious group understands this principle well: the Mormons. Every year, they send tens of thousands of young men into unknown cities and foreign countries, often speaking unfamiliar languages, to face rejection and adversity while doing ministry for two full years. They are thrown into circumstances where they must adapt, struggle, and grow. It works. It produces remarkably self-assured, disciplined, and mature young men. In stark contrast, American Protestants—particularly Evangelicals—offer nothing even remotely equivalent. And it shows. We regularly produce fragile young men whose lives are defined by an immature pursuit of what is easy, safe, and comfortable—lives characterized by hedonism and materialism.

We are now witnessing the consequences of this cultural failure across every corner of American society. A generation of young men between the ages of 18 and 24 is drifting through life, trapped in extended adolescence. Some are enrolled in college, some are living at home and not doing hard work—but across all contexts, the crisis is the same: they are not being exposed to enough real risk, challenge, or responsibility to mature into capable men.

The failure is not primarily one of laziness or incompetence. It is a failure of formation. We have engineered a culture that allows young men to extend the comforts of childhood indefinitely. Instead of forcing them to confront the disorientation and pressure that historically forged maturity, we insulate them from hardship with a steady diet of familiarity, safety, and predictability. The result is millions of young men who may look like adults on the outside but are still boys internally.

The problem begins with how young men make decisions about these critical years. They select colleges where their friends already attend. They choose majors based not on solving real-world problems, but on predictability and salary expectations. Even their social lives are designed to replicate the comfortable patterns they’ve known since adolescence. These choices are not inherently immoral, but cumulatively, they amount to an intentional avoidance of the exact challenges that would make them stronger.

Parents often encourage these decisions because they believe it will ease the transition into adulthood. But they are inadvertently collaborating in their son’s extended adolescence. Real adulthood does not emerge out of comfort—it is forged through separation and struggle.

This isn’t simply cultural opinion or conservative nostalgia; this is a truth deeply embedded in both ancient wisdom and modern science. Throughout history, healthy societies have recognized that manhood requires separation—a break from the safety of childhood into the discomfort and danger of the unknown. A boy who grows up in Philadelphia and attends Grove City college with a group of his high school friends from his Christian school is not separating.

The Bible’s Model

The Bible, however, offers a striking pattern for how God formed many men. He consistently calls many of them away from comfort and into real risk.

Consider Abraham. His story doesn’t begin with crisis but with a secure life in his father’s household. Yet God says to him: leave your people, your country, your family, and go into the unknown (Genesis 12:1-3). Abraham’s greatness was born not out of stability, but dislocation. He faced real danger—famine, political threats, infertility, family conflict—all while clinging to God’s promises.

Elisha, similarly, was not called out of difficulty but out of prosperity. When Elijah summoned him, Elisha was plowing his fields—a life of stability and wealth (1 Kings 19:19-21). He responded by slaughtering his oxen and burning his plows, cutting off every exit back to safety. His future was one of risk, political danger, and deep spiritual responsibility.

Isaiah experienced his own dislocation in a vision of God's holiness (Isaiah 6:1-8). His old religious routine was obliterated. His calling forced him to confront a rebellious people who would largely reject him. His life became one of ongoing rejection, loneliness, and costly obedience.

Even Jesus, in His humanity, followed this pattern. Before beginning His ministry, He was led into the wilderness, where He fasted for 40 days, alone, vulnerable, and face-to-face with Satan (Matthew 4:1-11). The Son of God embraced real risk and deprivation as part of His preparation for leadership.

The apostle Paul’s journey followed the same arc. Once secure as a rising Pharisee, Paul’s conversion led him into a life of physical danger, persecution, betrayal, and profound hardship (Acts 9:1-19; 2 Corinthians 11:23-28). His entire life was lived in a permanent state of risk and sacrifice.

In every case, these men grew not because they avoided danger but because they endured it. They stood exposed, vulnerable, and often afraid—but entirely dependent on God.¹ That is what forged their maturity.

And now, the social sciences are confirming what Scripture has always taught.

One of the most striking pieces of empirical support comes from the 2010 research article "Whatever Does Not Kill Us: Cumulative Lifetime Adversity, Vulnerability, and Resilience," published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology. The study demonstrated that individuals who experience adversity—not overwhelming trauma, but manageable hardship—develop greater resilience, mental toughness, and long-term emotional stability than those who experience either constant trauma or no adversity at all. In other words, a life of total safety, easy, and comfort leaves people brittle and fragile.

Normalizing Long-Term Risk and Discomfort for Young Men

For young men graduating from high school, intentionally seeking out unfamiliar and challenging environments that require struggle, risk-taking, and dependence on God is profoundly beneficial. I would say it’s necessary for growth. Just as a sheltered life provides no opportunity to develop coping skills, these seasons of manageable adversity build a kind of "psychological immune system." The researchers describe it as a form of "stress inoculation"—by overcoming real, meaningful challenges, young men develop the resilience to face future adversities with greater confidence and stability.

This is why controlled experiences like weekend wilderness retreats, short-term mission trips, a “Modern-Day Knight” weekend, or even competitive sports fail to produce lasting maturity. They may simulate challenge but rarely expose young men to sustained vulnerability. A 5-day trip into nature with adult chaperones doesn’t come close to the months or years of separation, disorientation, and hardship that truly builds masculine character. These events may temporarily inspire, but they do not transform.

The biblical pattern was never one of brief discomfort—it was prolonged wilderness. Abraham wandered for years. Moses spent decades leading people through deserts. Joshua fought battle after battle. The disciples endured years of persecution. Paul lived most of his ministry one crisis away from death. And in each case, it was the sustained experience of risk, exposure, and dependence on God that forged real strength.

Real formation requires real exposure. That means being in environments where success is not guaranteed. Where failure carries real consequences. Where loneliness forces you to build new relationships from scratch. Where cultural norms are unfamiliar. Where there’s no safety net when things go wrong. Where you are forced, sometimes for the first time in your life, to fall to your knees and cry out to God for provision and strength.

I struggle to trust any man who has never been driven to his knees in desperate need.

The deeper tragedy of our moment is that parents often fear this exact kind of exposure. In their desire to protect their sons, they inadvertently prevent them from becoming men. They encourage decisions that preserve control, minimize uncertainty, and eliminate genuine risk. But comfort and easy not preparation for manhood; risk is. Comfort and ease guarantee immaturity and cowardice.

As Michael Meade wisely observed:

“If the fires that innately burn inside youths are not intentionally and lovingly added to the hearth of community, they will burn down the structures of culture, just to feel the warmth.”

We see this playing out everywhere: young men channeling their untapped need for danger and purpose into destructive outlets—addiction (video games, pornography, substance abuse, etc.), escapism, ideological extremism, crime, sexually assaulting women, and perpetual adolescence.

The path to manhood has never changed: separation, struggle, vulnerability, and return. If we want our sons to become the kind of men who can lead, love, and sacrifice, we must allow them to suffer. We must send them into the wilderness—not to destroy them, but to make them mature men.

Your son needs an Abram season in his life; without it, he risks becoming Peter Pan.

1. By vulnerable, I mean exposing oneself to the possibility of serious harm or even death.