Micah Zarin's Blog

I humbly propose we begin administering low-dose lysergic acid diethylamide to all American children, ideally sometime between the ages of 10 and 14. Right around the age when they’ve just begun to suspect that adults are full of shit but haven’t yet developed the language to articulate why. Call it preemptive epistemological enrichment. Call it science class. I don’t care. Just put it in the juice boxes and stand back.

Because what, truly, are we doing right now? For real. Let’s just walk it through. We give them state-mandated packets on the water cycle and then ask them to pledge allegiance to a flag. We teach them that mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell but don’t teach them what to do when the inside of their brain feels like a disused bowling alley echoing with the faint laughter of a man who does not exist. We make them run the mile. We give them five-paragraph essay rubrics and call it “critical thinking.” No. No no no. The children are not okay. Their frontal lobes are still in beta testing and we’re feeding them Lunchables and screen time and letting them decide what kind of person to be based on how many people heart-react their BeReal. This is malpractice.

So here’s the idea: a drop. Just one. Maybe two, if they’re in Honors Algebra. Not enough to send them to God. Just enough to let them peek under the wallpaper. I’m not talking about turning them into full-time interdimensional salamanders. I’m talking about a gentle, curated detonation of the self. Let them walk into seventh period and realize that the kid they thought was annoying is actually made of stardust and repressed paternal trauma. Let them sit through a book report and feel time fold in on itself like a dying accordion. Let them feel the mitochondria. Then let them go home and eat a grilled cheese and sob about it. That’s education.

And please, don’t moralize at me about safety. Have you been to a middle school recently? There is more psychological chaos in the average seventh-grade gym class than in an entire ayahuasca retreat populated exclusively by divorced men from Marin County. You want to talk about risks? These kids are raw-dogging puberty with no tools except Snapchat and orthodontia. At least LSD comes with a sense of perspective.

Think about the long-term outcomes. Less TikTok brain. Less blind consumerism. Imagine a generation of kids who, instead of screaming at each other about Instagram stories, sit cross-legged and say things like “I just think the boundary between self and other is a little porous.” Imagine an eighth-grade boy realizing he doesn’t want to make fun of the quiet girl — he wants to ask her what she thinks happens after death. Imagine standardized testing replaced by collective ego death and a collaborative mural.

I know what you’re thinking: but what if some of them go weird? What if they never come back? First of all: weird compared to what? The current alternative is Johnny becomes a crypto bro at 17 and develops a caffeine addiction before he gets his learner’s permit. The bar is in hell. Second: fine. Let them get weird. We need weird. The future is melting and we’re all on a sinking ship yelling about college admissions. Weird is the only dignified option left.

I am not saying LSD will save us. I am not even saying it will work. But neither is what we’re doing now. The children are hollow-eyed and overstimulated and building PowerPoints about ancient Mesopotamia while spiritually dying inside. Give them a chance. Let them press their tiny hands to the fabric of reality and hear it whisper back.

Let them trip balls, respectfully