I was 10 years old in 2016, in 5th grade, and my biggest responsibility should’ve been remembering to bring my Harry Potter book to school or my rainbow loom set. Instead, I was keeping up with the most chaotic year in modern pop culture and politics.

Most of my cultural education happened in the backseat of my cousins’ car. Drives meant Views on repeat, “One Dance” blasting through speakers to the point each lyric became engraved in my mind, “Childs Play” playing while I watched my cousin go word for word as she was reciting the bridge. I was wondering if we were actually going to go to The Cheesecake Factory. Kanye West was unraveling the internet with The Life of Pablo, and I didn’t know what any song meant, but I knew “Ultralight Beam” meant something serious because no one ever skipped it. Beyoncé’s Lemonade wasn’t just an album. Who is Becky?  Why did everyone suddenly become an expert analyzing elevator footage? It was dissected like a national event. Frank Ocean reappeared with Blonde and at ten I couldn’t explain why “White Ferrari” made everyone emotional. Rihanna dropped ANTI. Iconic. I didn’t fully understand what any of it meant, but I knew it mattered, because everyone older than me, and everyone online, acted like it did.

Pop culture in 2016 wasn’t background noise. It was everywhere.

When “I Don’t Wanna Live Forever” came out in December, it somehow felt as if a pop culture god had personally asked me as a fifth grader what two artists I love and granted me a wish. That song was MY WORLD. I loved Zayn Malik. I loved Taylor Swift. Hearing their voices together felt monumental. Music didn’t just exist; it happened.

And then there was the internet, no longer just funny videos and scrolling. Social media in 2016 stopped being purely fun and started becoming heavy, those effects linger today. Memes and trends start moving at lightning speed, like they do in the status quo. Kylie Lip Kits sold out in seconds, proving that Instagram could turn desire into demand instantly. Stranger Things debuted, and suddenly Netflix wasn’t just something you watched, it was culture itself.

But reflecting on the past ten years the biggest shift didn’t come from pop culture alone. It came from politics.

Donald Trump was elected president in 2016, and suddenly politics wasn’t something reserved for adults or news. It was everywhere, on Twitter, on Facebook, in memes, at dinner tables. What seemed like distant issues unfolding in the background were happening in real time, online, mixed in with a couple of album drops and viral videos.

Somehow, I was absorbing all of this at 10 years old. I grew up in a world where political awareness wasn’t optional. While other generations eased into political consciousness, mine was dropped into it mid-scroll.

I remember it becoming real in middle school, the week before the election, when my school held a mock election to teach us how voting worked. It felt harmless at first, but then the principal announced the results over the loudspeaker. I heard Trump’s name, and I remember the shock, not just that he had won our mock election, but how many of my classmates voted for him. Adults called him “good.” Meanwhile, this was the man promising a Muslim ban. “Muslim ban” are two words that sent shivers down my spine as a 10-year old first generation American.  I knew my family was here legally. I knew we were “safe” on paper. And still, I was scared. 

And now, at 19, I look around and my heart breaks. I think about 5-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos, who was taken by ICE alongside his father in Minnesota as he returned home from preschool, in a country he and his family came to seeking safety. I think about Renee Good, Alex Pretti, Geraldo Lunas Campos, and the many more innocent lives that have been taken away or wrongfully accused. I think about how politics didn’t just enter my life early, it arrived with consequences, and it taught me far too young that safety in this country has always been conditional.

Now, I’m a college sophomore, still following many of the same conversations, Trump, ICE, protest, power, just with more vocabulary and academic language to back it up. What’s strange is not that I’m still paying attention. It’s that I’ve always been paying attention.

So when people mention how so much has changed since 2016, I believe them. It’s because I never knew a world without it. I didn’t slowly grow into a politically charged, hyper-connected society. 

Now, when I scroll past friends posting about  2016, I still think about car rides, overheard conversations, songs I didn’t fully understand yet but memorized anyway. I remember how that year quietly shaped how I experience culture, politics, and the internet.

And even with all of that, I’m grateful for the awareness it gave me. Growing up in that moment taught me how to pay attention. To read between the lines of what I consume, to question what’s being sold to me as normal, and to sit with complexity instead of turning a blind eye. I grew up learning how culture and power move together.