All the Music You Loved at Sixteen, You’ll Grow Out Of... and Other Half-Truths

Not my best, just a little step forward from the rut I’ve been in.

With Lorde, Lady Gaga, Miley, Kesha, and Marina releasing new music, and Katy Perry making headlines (for all the wrong reasons, obviously), I found myself thinking about a certain Lorde lyric from her song Stoned at the Nail Salon:
"All the music you loved at sixteen, you'll grow out of."

When I picture myself at sixteen, I don’t remember being particularly happy. I spent my birthday at a routine dental check-up (which I didn’t mind—I love dentist visits). His assistant noticed the date on my chart and, ironically for a dentist, handed me a box of chocolates. Sweet sixteen, they called it. For me, it was more like solemnly-stressed-trying-to-keep-it-together sixteen.

I remember plugging my earphones into my old button phone with a purple cover and using my red earphones to drown out any noise, mostly my own thoughts. It wasn’t anything particularly special or an artist I wanted to gatekeep or any music I am embarrassed of, but a random mix of songs picked up from all over—tracks my seniors at boarding school played on loop, songs friends recommended, music we danced to at school events, and random discoveries from VH1 and MTV.

A truly random collection, but one I curated with care. Each song carried memories, and a surprising amount of effort to acquire.

Every few weeks, my aunt would visit with her smartphone and unlimited data. I’d log onto Billboard charts and download songs based purely on titles that sounded cute or artists I was fond of. I’d listen, keep the ones I liked, and delete the rest. Space on my modest SD card was precious after all.

Sometimes, I’d share my favorite songs with friends. We’d exchange artists, and when we were really obsessed over a track, someone with fast internet would write down the lyrics in their notebook and pass it around. A few of my friends even had entire notebooks filled with song lyrics. It was their collection, a little hobby they could share when asked what was interesting about them.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things. If I had one of something, I wanted the whole set. (Which explains my weakness for today's over-glamorized collectible culture. Looking at you, Labubus, Sonny Angels and Smiskis.)

Before I turned sixteen, I went through a phase of burning CDs filled with favorite songs and collecting DVDs of movies I loved. Sharing them with visiting cousins or friends brought upon so much excitement. A full CD case felt like completing a Pokédex or looking back at all the completed levels on Candy Crush.

Weirdly, I still enjoy collecting small trinkets and making a good playlist.

The means have changed. The silent disappearance of the Music app from phones pushed us towards more convenient paid alternatives, and the easy access to music has changed this whole process and, in fact, made it almost non-existent. My days-long ritual of downloading songs onto a computer, burning it onto a CD or MP3 player, and sharing songs via Bluetooth has been entirely replaced by an algorithm pushing top artists and viral TikTok tracks.

Capitalism made music discovery... boring.

When I was nine or ten, I remember sharing lyrics to songs from Barbie movies with a friend, particularly Barbie and the Diamond Castle. We swore we’d be best friends, just like the Barbies in the movie. Today, I can neither recollect what those Barbies were named, nor am I BFFs with the same person. We’re quiet Insta-mutuals now, exchanging birthday wishes, the occasional congratulations, or dropping a few hearts when one of us posts. But I still remember how that music, how that movie, impacted me. I recall those times fondly. I recall that time fondly without the nitty-gritty details of that time.

Strangely enough, I haven’t outgrown the music I loved when I was sixteen. But I have outgrown the version of myself that existed at sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, and every year that came before the one I’m living now.

Back then, I was quick to anger, quick to react, suffering from poor eating habits, and carrying a painful relationship with myself and everyone around me. I miss the little innocence and optimism I had. I didn’t have many skills or possessions, but I had fewer worries. But I somehow always felt inadequate, as if my life would begin once I entered university. It’s the over-consumption of unrealistic rom-coms probably, but as a teenager, you feel ready to conquer adulthood.

But if adulthood teaches you anything, it is to miss the days when you didn't have bills and endless responsibilities looming over you.

Now, I so badly wish I could choose the 15–20-year-old bracket when filling out forms. I complicated what could have been the most carefree days of my life by craving what I now have. Still, when I look back, I do so with gratitude—for surviving that stage—and relief, for never having to revisit it. It’s been a journey, but I am grateful for the destination while hoping that I don’t have to revisit the old pit-stops.

I’m proud to have kept my love for music, my playlists, my old iPods, even as I shed the versions of myself that were hurtful or unhappy.

Music stayed a constant.

The songs from then still spark joy.

When my dear friend Sophia drove me home from dinners (thanks, Alex and Sophia—take my heart), she played songs from the 2016–2017 era, and I found myself smiling without even realizing it.

When those songs play at stores, I bop my head and silently sing along.

During karaoke, I automatically choose songs from then.

Nostalgia doesn’t have to be uneasy just because we’ve grown.

It’s like keeping a favorite song, a statement piece, or a beloved heirloom.

You don't have to erase your past to appreciate how far you've come.

Turns out, you can shed old versions of yourself while appreciating what it led to—who you are today.

Recently, I even resurrected my old iPods. It took forever (and reminded me why I didn’t pursue a career in tech), but the satisfaction was immense.

When the songs finally played, it felt like a small, hard-earned reward.

These days, the closest I get to that feeling is making Spotify playlists for friends and getting it just right.

It makes me realise that the joy isn’t only in the music. It’s in the way it was shared, the ritual, the care, the hobby, and the art behind it that made it much more fun.

So maybe growing out of something isn’t the point.

Maybe keeping something is.

Not everyone will love the same songs I do, but anyone can understand loving something enough to carry it forward.

And that’s what I’ll keep doing.

For the music. For the memories. And for the girl I once was, who would be adequately proud of me today.