In 2026, the internet seems obsessed with 2016. It makes sense. There were a lot of great things about that year — the music, the memes, the feeling that culture was happening everywhere all at once. But when I think about the year that really stays with me, the one that feels warm instead of loud, I don’t think of 2016. I think of 2006.
In 2006, doomscrolling didn’t exist. You found things instead of being fed things. CDs were how we listened to music, flip phones were at their peak, and texting cost money — so you didn’t do it unless you meant it. Being “chronically online” wasn’t a concept because being online wasn’t a place you lived. It was something you visited, briefly, and then left behind.
That was the year High School Musical came out. Hannah Montana had just come to life. Culture felt shared but simple, exciting without being overwhelming.
I was in kindergarten in 2006.
There was no such thing as an internet brain — just vibes and juice boxes. My biggest concerns were who got the purple crayon, whether it was naptime yet, and waking up early for Saturday morning cartoons. Life was small, and that was the magic of it.
I got to draw ugly pictures and be proud of them. My parents were proud too. There were no likes, no comparisons, no sense that creativity needed to be impressive to matter. I played in the backyard with my sister, letting my imagination run wild. I took care of my babydoll like it was real. I dressed up my Polly Pockets and built entire worlds that existed only because I believed in them.
Nothing needed to be documented. Nothing needed to be optimized. I didn’t know what was happening in the world, and I didn’t need to. Adults handled the big things. My job was just to play, to imagine, to exist.
When people romanticize 2006 now, I don’t think they’re really talking about flip phones or CDs. I think they’re talking about a time before everything demanded our attention, our opinions, our performance. A time when it was okay to be bad at things. When being present was enough.
I don’t want to go back to being five years old. But I do miss the freedom of that year — the simplicity, the safety, the permission to create without being watched. Maybe that’s what we’re all really nostalgic for when we talk about the past. Not a year. But a feeling.