From Fearless to Filtered: A Millennial’s Journey Through Time and Content

It is an inescapable fate that one day we shall reach an age where, with a weary sigh, we turn to someone much younger and say the most aging of all phrases, "Well, back in my day." The very moment those words leave our lips, a most curious transformation occurs. Our hair, once youthful and full of vigor, bursts forth in streaks of gray as if nature itself hastened to mark the occasion. Sunspots blossom like forgotten constellations upon our hands, and our once nimble fingers now fumble as they try, in vain, to send a simple PDF. We find ourselves muttering "huh" with increasing frequency as if the very fabric of time has turned against us. A curse, no doubt—transforming us from spry youth to an old has been.

Yet, for all we think we know about aging, there’s an unexpected gap in the roadmap of adulthood. We’re taught what to expect after high school, after college, and once we hit 40. But somewhere between 27 and 38, the path fades into uncertainty. By 27, we’re supposedly meant to be settled—married, with kids and a mortgage—but times have changed. The housing market has skyrocketed, career paths have become less linear, and the once-clear milestones of adulthood feel increasingly out of reach. This same uncertainty mirrors our generation’s divide over the rise of generated content. Some embrace it as a creative revolution, a new frontier of expression, while others cling to the familiar, struggling to bridge the widening gap between nostalgia and an ever-accelerating digital world.

Like all things in life, I find myself caught in the middle—seeing both sides, unable to choose. I sit on the fence, my legs dangling and growing numb from indecision. I'd rather lose my feet than plant myself on a side I can't fully support. I blame my indecisiveness on being born in early June.

This hesitation extends beyond personal dilemmas and into the broader debate over generated content. Before anything else, we must agree on who sets the generated content standard. The answer is simple. The essence of generated content lies in its creation by the poor and the youth, for the poor and the youth. It is a tool of subversion, critique, and satire aimed at dismantling traditional social conventions. However, as one ages, this content gradually becomes less comprehensible. The very norms it once challenged evolve, and those who once engaged in its rebellion find themselves drifting from its message. As their wealth increases, their priorities shift, and the once-familiar chaos of youth gives way to the comforts of stability. Suddenly, keeping up with the ever-changing cultural landscape feels like a struggle. In simpler terms, “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” and for those who’ve finally carved out their perfect corner of the world, the last thing they want is for the walls to start shifting. `

Generated content is nothing new. Its rise has always been met with resistance from older generations who fear it will steal their jobs, dull young minds, and destroy human connection. Yet, history repeats itself—every new form of expression, from the printing press to radio to the internet, has faced the same skepticism. What was once dismissed as disruptive or dangerous inevitably becomes the norm, shaping culture rather than erasing it. 

I believe the panic over generated content has nothing to do with humanity’s well-being and everything to do with the existential crisis of aging. Older generations don’t fear the content itself—they fear the relentless capitalist treadmill it fuels, demanding they either keep up or fade into irrelevance. And let’s be honest, nothing stings quite like realizing you’re no longer the one setting the trends. Each viral moment is just another reminder that your cultural expiration date is approaching, and with it, the slow, creeping march toward the grave.

The issue with generated content isn’t that it exists, but how capitalism wrings it dry—exploiting its creators, then turning around to scold the youth for consuming too much. New content comes easily to the poor and the young because they’re the ones creating it—effortless, second nature—while the rich and aging must work to stay relevant, studying trends, mimicking what others do naturally, and scrambling to keep up with a culture that no longer revolves around them. And those who failed to claim their fair share of the profit? They’re the ones quickest to accuse the next generation of gluttony.

Let’s take Shakespeare, for example. His influence on the English language is undeniable—he invented, adapted, and popularized hundreds of words and phrases still in use today. But what often gets lost in the narrative is how he did it. He didn’t just pull these words out of thin air; he borrowed them from the everyday speech of common people, particularly the energetic, expressive, and exaggerated way young women spoke. Ah, yes—nothing says genius quite like a creepy old white guy stealing from the exuberant chatter of young girls and claiming it as his own. Some things really never change, do they?

Anyway, in Elizabethan England, formal speech was influenced by Latin and French, while everyday conversation—especially among the lower classes—was more fluid and experimental. Shakespeare, ever the keen observer of young girls, borrowed from these lively speech patterns to create dialogue that felt fresh and relatable. Many of the slang-like words he introduced, such as "swagger," "gossip," and "bedazzled," reflect how young people, especially women, communicated. His heroines, like Juliet, Beatrice, and Rosalind, spoke with wit and flair, playing with language just as modern teenagers do on social media. By embracing and elevating the slang of his time, Shakespeare not only made his plays more engaging for contemporary audiences but also reshaped the trajectory of the English language itself. His influence set a precedent for language as something living and evolving—driven not by strict academic rules, but by the creativity of those who use it most freely, the poor and the youth. If he were alive today, he’d likely still be pulling from the way teenagers talk, turning viral slang into poetic verse, and ensuring that the next generation of English speakers keeps his legacy alive, whether they realize it or not. 

I picked up that little crumb of knowledge from the AP English teacher I TAed for in junior year of highschool—a man in his late 40s with a dog, a wife, no kids (by choice), and a preference for spending his weekends hiking rather than grilling with a group of flannel-clad dads.  In return for my astuteness during his lectures, he had me grade all 67 of the AP seniors' finals. The topic? Shakespeare. Naturally.

He also graciously gifted me a copy of Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris, likely inspired by my one-person comedy show of uncontrollable laughter during his reading of Santaland Diaries before Christmas break. That book, of course, lit the spark that made me want to be a writer. In a way, this teacher single-handedly destroyed any chance I had of becoming rich, ensuring I’d remain forever tangled in the cycle of generated content.

And for all the arguments in favor of generated content, I always come back to this—I think of that book, tossed carelessly onto the passenger seat of my ‘94 teal Mustang. I think of seventeen—of a world untouched, unfiltered, unwatched. The windows down, letting the thick spring air wrap around me as I drove. My Mustang hummed beneath my hands, its worn seats warm from the sun. Fearless played through the stereo, melodies slipping into the folds of dusk while Shasta Lake caught the last light, gold and fire dancing on the water. There was no buzzing, no blinking, no digital leash—just the hush of a world that wasn’t watching. No one asked where I was, no need to prove I had been there. Just the open road, the lake, and a quiet kind of freedom that settled deep in my bones, a freedom only a girl untouched by digital expectation could know. And I can’t help but say, “well, back in my day.”