Wine as Ritual

From Friday night pours to viral TikToks, a generation finds calm in the swirl of a glass.

Step into a natural wine bar in Los Angeles on a Friday evening and you’ll see couples lingering over glasses of cloudy orange wine, friends clinking stems, and servers describing bottles with poetic detail. The same mood spills onto TikTok, where influencers stage European-style café moments with rosé in the frame. Beyond the screen, natural wine festivals are packed and grocery aisles keep stretching wider, proof that Gen Z is chasing unique varietals and organic labels with the same energy we once saved for craft coffee. Together, these snapshots reveal something bigger: wine’s rise isn’t just about popularity or market trends—it’s answering a deeper craving.

In a moment thick with socio-political unrest and fatigue, wine has become a cultural pause button, a ritual that softens the edges of chaos and stress. It’s less about tannins and tasting notes, more about seeking calm—a small act of leisure in a world that rarely feels within our control.

The list of crises feels endless—housing costs, political polarization, inflation headlines, the rise of artificial intelligence (AI). These big forces stack up in smaller ways every day: paychecks stretched thin, commutes dragging on, groceries more expensive than ever. Against this backdrop, Millennials and Gen Z have little faith that systems will deliver solutions. So we look for grounding elsewhere. Enter ritual—and wine slips easily into that role. The pop of a cork after a long day, the swirl of a glass catching the light: it’s not about tequila shots or sugary cocktails anymore, but about slowing down, creating ceremony, and being present.

I was first introduced to the world of wine in 2014, during my PhD program, by one of my closest friends, Angelica. Up until then, I was a tequila girl through and through—shots at the club, tequila with pineapple at casinos, or my rare favorite, tequila mixed with apple cider.

Tequila was about fast nights and loud chaos. But Angelica promised me that by the time we crossed that stage with our doctoral degrees, I’d be a wine girl. She was a natural wine expert, the kind of person who could guess a bottle blind at dinner. Whenever we went out, I let her order for me. Sometimes, when I was traveling, I’d even send her photos of menus and ask what I should try. Slowly, I noticed the difference. Wine wasn’t something you downed; it asked you to slow down. To notice its smell, its texture, its taste. Over time, that pause became the thrill—the discovery, the way my palate began to shift, the way the moment itself felt richer.

By 2018, when we both walked the stage as doctors, she had been right: I was officially a wine girl. A red wine girl, proudly. I still don’t speak the language of sommeliers or consider myself an expert, but wine has become my ritual. Whether it’s a glass at happy hour, on a date, in an airport lounge, or tucked under my weighted blanket at home, the experience is the same: intentional, grounding, and wholly mine.

For me, the ritual usually looks like three or four glasses a week—just enough to savor without rushing. Sometimes it’s happy hour with a friend, but more often it’s a bottle I pick up on Friday and stretch through the weekend. I’ll catch myself daydreaming about it at work: walking through the door, slipping into fuzzy slippers, lighting candles, queuing up Insecure or whatever show I’m binging, and sinking into the couch with that first glass. Sometimes it’s paired with a pepperoni flatbread, sometimes a vegan donut, sometimes just a bag of chips—very high-brow, low-brow vibes. I always tidy up the house first so once the cork pops, there are no dishes, no laundry, nothing pulling me out of the moment. That’s when the ritual feels euphoric.

It’s a reasonably priced escape—a $5 Trader Joe’s bottle or a $25 Whole Foods pick—easy to grab, but worth so much more in the reward it gives back. And the fun of not being an expert is that I’ll try anything. I flip the bottle over, skim the description, and if it sounds intriguing, I go for it. Every pour is an experiment, a chance to taste something new. But in order to notice those differences—the texture, the way it hits the back of my throat, the mood it creates—I have to be fully present. That’s the gift: wine doesn’t just fill a glass, it fills a moment.

Wine is now part of the repertoire—the same way yoga, a long workout, or even the simple act of cooking can drop me into presence. Each one grounds me in its own way, but wine carries its own kind of calm: slower, softer, more indulgent. The pop of a cork, the swirl in my glass—it’s a small ritual of control in a world that feels anything but. And I’m not alone. Across this generation, wine has become a ritualized antidote to chaos, our way of carving out presence and escape.

Sometimes it’s a miniature adventure—standing in a vineyard, sundress twirling at sunset, glass in hand, soaking in smells and textures like you’ve left the everyday behind. Other times it’s simpler: the couch, the candles, the choice to tune out the noise and sink into your own world. Every generation has had its version of this. In the 18th century, people crowded into coffeehouses to debate and dream. In the 1960s it was psychedelics, Woodstock, and Eastern spirituality—communal escapes that made sense in the chaos of civil rights struggles, Vietnam, and distrust in government. The 1970s rolled in with yoga, disco, hot tubs, and self-help groups—turning inward to “find yourself” against a backdrop of disillusionment. By the 1980s, it was consumption: cosmos, martinis, aerobics, and Wall Street excess. Work hard, play hard.

And then came the 2020s. Pandemic and political exhaustion shrank our world overnight. Grocery runs became scavenger hunts, doorknobs got bleached, neighbors eyed with suspicion. We were afraid, isolated, and stripped of control. That’s why the little rituals mattered—sourdough starters, FaceTime calls, streaming binges, sea moss gel videos. These weren’t just distractions; they were lifelines. Easy, accessible pleasures—like wine—offered presence and indulgence at the same time, a way to feel tethered when everything else was spinning loose.

Wander into a dinner party, a candlelit apartment, or even a backyard gathering, and chances are there’s a bottle of wine on the table. Wine has become more than a drink—it’s a connector. It flows in the background of our shared moments: group dinners with multiple bottles open, friends clinking glasses, laughter spilling as freely as the pours. In these spaces, wine isn’t about status or tasting notes—it’s about marking time together.

Scroll through Instagram and you’ll see wine culture staged as a performance of leisure and identity. The pours framed against sunsets, charcuterie spreads doubling as visual art, memes about “wine o’clock” winking through oversized glasses. Wine shows up as aesthetic, playful, educational, communal—and most importantly—accessible. Cans, boxes, Trader Joe’s finds: indulgence is no longer reserved for connoisseurs. Wine can be a $200 Napa cabernet or a $5 grocery-store grab. Both belong to the same story.

In today’s consumer culture—where identity and happiness are constantly curated through purchases and shared experiences—wine occupies a unique position. It’s indulgent but approachable, ancient yet reinvented, personal yet communal. More than a symbol of status, it functions as ritual, intimacy, memory, and presence.

And that’s where I land: wine, for me and for so many of us, isn’t about expertise or prestige. It’s about claiming a small, intentional pause in a life that often feels unmanageable. The bottle on the table, the glass in hand, the laughter spilling between sips—wine reminds us that even in uncertain times, we can still slow down, savor, and be fully here.