Some zoomers find their zen through mindfulness apps, wellness retreats, or silent meditation. Others find their Zyn at the gas station for $5.29.
Zyn, a brand of smokeless, spit-free nicotine pouches, has found its way into the bloodstream of my generation. NFL quarterback Baker Mayfield popped one in during a game. Tucker Carlson gushed about them on Theo Von’s podcast. On TikTok, “Zynfluencers” use specific slang like “deckies,” “lip pillows,” and “Zynachinos.” (My friend likes to say “Zynbabwes.”) Whatever you call them, one thing’s clear: Zyn is in.
The data agree. While e-cigarette use among young people has declined, dropping by nearly half a million users between 2023 and 2024, nicotine pouch use has held steady. According to the 2024 National Youth Tobacco Survey, roughly 480,000 young people report current use of nicotine pouches, and among those, nearly 70 percent reach for Zyn.
Who makes up the young Zyn faithful? Simply put: men, whom youth surveys show are more likely to be nicotine pouch users than their female peers. That fits a historic pattern—from the Marlboro Man to the Vape Guy, nicotine products have long leaned male. But I think young male Zyn users are compelled by more than tradition.
How do I know? Because, for a while, I was one of them.
I lost my nicotine virginity in a scene that would give a D.A.R.E. presenter goose bumps. An older student offered me a vape in our high school parking lot, and unfortunately, I just said yes. I still remember the first puff: the sting in my throat, the expectation, the possessing buzz. I was hooked. What started as a curiosity quickly turned into a reflex. Then a habit. Then a problem. By the time I entered college, I was ready to quit.
After a few failed attempts at quitting cold turkey, a friend advised weaning off vape with Zyn, so I tried it out. And they were right—sort of. The urge to hit a Juul soon faded, but the Zyn stayed.
And, honestly, I didn’t mind. I loved Zyn.
Why? A few reasons.
First, the subtlety. There’s no smoke, scent, bulky device, or social stigma. You could slip one in during class, at work, or even while serving at church. Zyn is invisible, is effortless, and causes no unnecessary condemnation.
Second, the efficiency. Unlike cigarettes, you don’t stop to Zyn; you Zyn so you don’t have to stop. The nicotine kicks up dopamine and sharpens focus, providing enough fuel to push through an all nighter, a double shift, or back-to-back deadlines. As one college student put it, “[Zyn] helps me narrow my focus onto what I’m doing in that moment and cut out distractions.” In this framing, Zyn isn’t a vice; it’s a productivity tool.
And lastly, the buzz (of course). Oh, the buzz. Not harsh or overwhelming, but steady and smooth. Zyn didn’t hit like a cigarette or haze my lungs like a vape. It sharpened me, just enough to take the edge off. For a few minutes, I felt more capable. I could do more and think faster and feel better and stress less and sleep less and work longer and push harder and …
Then, suddenly, I realized, I don’t feel anything at all. This tiny, white rectangle was no longer a tool, crutch, shield, or coping mechanism—it was a murderer.
That’s why I had to quit. And I think others should too.
It’s not that nicotine addiction in the church is novel (users included C. S. Lewis and Charles Spurgeon, to name a few) or even that I think nicotine use is necessarily immoral. But I’m particularly concerned about Zyn. Though it may be healthier for the body compared to cigarettes and vapes, it can be far more lethal for the soul.
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Why? A few reasons.
First, the subtlety. No smoke, no smell, no pause meant no one noticed my addiction. Not my friends, my classmates, or even my wife. While convenient for my image, that invisibility bred isolation; no one could call out what they couldn’t see. And like the psalmist, “when I kept silent, my bones wasted away” (Ps. 32:3).
Second, the efficiency. Zyn fed the illusion that I was managing life well when I was merely running on fumes. I felt sharp but hollow, busy but numb. I worked longer, slept less, and pushed through when I should’ve stopped. I convinced myself that I was working hard for God, that the output justified the pace. But if God gives sweet rest to the laborer (Ecc. 5:12), why did I feel so restless every time I tried to stop? By the time my Sabbath had devolved into pouch pit stops, I realized the truth: I’d been praying, “Establish the work of my hands” not to the God of Psalm 90 but to the god I kept sealed in a can. I was just a cog in the machine—rising early, staying up late, toiling in vain. I wasn’t flourishing; I was functioning.
And lastly, the buzz (of course). Oh, the buzz. What started as a reward slowly became a replacement. The emotional spectrum of real life faded until joy and sadness became having and craving. Zyn flattened everything: highs, lows, wonder, conviction. But this stoicism didn’t mean my soul was well; it was sedated. And the longer I lived like that, the less I needed to depend on anything outside myself, even God.
With my lips I honored my Lord, and with my lips I hid my master.
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It’s not just me. There are many Gen Z men in churches right now quietly dependent on nicotine pouches. Zyn keeps them steady, focused, and emotionally level so subtly that their use of it goes unchallenged. This kind of self-medicated serenity is especially tempting for men, who are already taught to hide weakness and to power through pain. Zyn presents itself as an emotional sponge, soaking up just enough stress or sadness to keep us composed, driven, and in control. For young men chasing achievement and terrified of vulnerability, it makes it easier to “man up,” bury our feelings, and push forward without ever confronting what’s underneath.
But over time, the truth surfaces: Zyn isn’t a sponge; it’s a soul-sucking leech. You stop bringing your needy self to God because the ache that once drove you to him is gone. Your soul no longer pants for living water (Ps. 42:1) because the buzz has numbed its thirst.
We’re trading spiritual dependence for a chemical calm, and we’re left with faith without hunger, worship without depth, and spirituality without surrender. We become what Jesus warned against—not whitewashed tombs but white-pouched ones.
If the church wants to disciple my generation well, it can’t ignore this. For many Gen Z men like me, the biggest obstacle to wholehearted devotion to Jesus isn’t on their phones or at their schools—it’s in their gums.
I’m still in the rehab process, but I’m walking toward freedom. And I hope I’m not alone.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a Zynner.
Luke Simon is a content strategist for The Crossing church in Columbia, Missouri, and MDiv student at Covenant Theological Seminary. He has written on Gen Z, technology, masculinity, and the church. You can follow him on X.
