Why I Still Love K-pop at 45

 

The Beginning: A Slow Unfolding

I don’t remember the exact moment I first encountered K-pop. It wasn’t a sudden discovery—it was more like background music in the soundtrack of my digital life. I’d see mentions of Taemin and BigBang while scrolling Tumblr during my Supernatural fandom days. I remember hearing about BTS around the time they debuted. But for years, K-pop was something I observed from the sidelines—never something I listened to myself.

That all changed in August 2020.

The pandemic had brought everyday life to a screeching halt. I was bored, yes—but also quietly grateful not to be working. Underneath that surface calm was something heavier: burnout. Not the kind that goes away with a nap, but the long, foggy kind that makes everything feel muted. I’d felt disconnected for a while—creatively, emotionally, and even musically. I’ve always loved music, but radio pop felt flat to me, and my usual favorites weren’t sparking much joy. I was also in a fandom rut—a Supernatural convention I had looked forward to in Italy was cancelled, and I felt unmoored without a community to orbit.

But then came reaction videos.

Watching other people discover music I’d loved for years—sometimes since childhood—felt strangely healing. Their joy was contagious. I wanted to rediscover that feeling for myself. Unbeknownst to me, my sister had been feeling the same way. One day we just decided: let’s do it. We created a YouTube channel and began recording reactions to all kinds of music. One of our very first reactions was BTS’s “DNA.”

It was fun. I liked BTS a lot—but my sister didn’t want to focus just on K-pop, so our videos drifted toward other genres. Eventually, as work slowly returned and our schedules filled up, the channel fizzled out.

But I wasn’t done.

I couldn’t quite let go of BTS.

I found myself rewatching the same videos we had reacted to—but this time, watching other people react to them. And somehow, my love deepened. I fell further and further down the rabbit hole. By February 2021, during a new lockdown, I gave in fully. I started from the beginning—listening to BTS’s music, watching their content, learning their story. And for the first time in a long time, I felt emotionally awake.

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The Hook: I Wasn’t Expecting to Stay

At first, it was just the music. BTS sounded different. The production was richer, more thoughtful, and far more dynamic than the Western pop I’d grown tired of. Their sound had depth—both emotionally and musically. I wasn’t expecting much, honestly. I had assumed K-pop would be all bubblegum, glitter, and surface-level flash. And sure, some of it is. But BTS? Their songs had substance.

Then I started paying attention to the lyrics.

Even in translation, there was nuance, meaning, vulnerability. These weren’t just catchy hooks—they were emotional messages about loneliness, pressure, mental health, and youth. I’d been drifting creatively and emotionally for a while, and suddenly here was a group of artists who were not only talented, but honest in a way that caught me off guard.

And then came the performances.

I’ve been a lifelong fan of boybands—Take That, Backstreet Boys, NSYNC. I know the formula. But BTS shattered that. The level of detail, precision, and passion in their live stages was like nothing I’d ever seen. The choreography, the stamina, the staging—it wasn’t just performance. It was craft.

And just when I thought I’d figured them out, I started watching their behind-the-scenes content. The funny compilations. The chaos. The quiet kindness. The vulnerability. Their personalities pulled me in even deeper. And that was it—the final nail in the coffin.

There was no way I was ever leaving this fandom.

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The Heart of It: Why It Still Matters

Once I fell down the BTS rabbit hole, it didn’t stop there. I kept hearing names like BIGBANG, SHINee, EXO, GOT7, and BTOB—groups connected to BTS through inspiration, generation, or sometimes even fanwars. At first, it was curiosity. I didn’t expect any group to take the place BTS holds in my heart (and I still don’t). But I’ve always been a lover of music, first and foremost. So I decided to explore.

That exploration turned into something more. I launched a new YouTube reaction channel, dedicated solely to K-pop. I started reacting to these other groups—and through that process, I found a community. I started live streaming. People showed up. They laughed with me, cried with me, fangirled with me. And somewhere in all that energy, I rediscovered myself.

K-pop brought back something I thought I’d lost: joy in music.

But it also brought more than that.

It inspired me to dance again.
To create art again.
To write again.
To dream again.

Even more surprising? It gave me courage.

I went to my very first K-pop concert—alone. In a different country.
For an introvert like me, that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago.
But something about this music, this energy, this shared passion—it makes you braver.
It whispers, you’re not weird for loving this. You’re alive.

And that bravery mattered in ways I could never have predicted.

In August 2024, I was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. I went through chemo. Radiation. Months of illness and uncertainty. I’m cancer-free now and healing, but I’m still unemployed, still rebuilding. And through it all—K-pop was my lifeline.

When I was exhausted and scared, I watched Run BTS episodes or fan compilations.
When my energy was low, the music lifted me.
When I doubted I’d feel like “me” again, something about those songs—the emotion, the effort, the hope—reminded me that healing was possible.

K-pop helped me survive.

Even with all its industry flaws—and there are many—K-pop continues to inspire me. It keeps my spirits up. It gives me something to look forward to. It connects me to myself and to others. And ironically, despite how focused it is on perfection and image, it’s helped me stop caring what others think.

Because joy is too precious to dim for anyone.

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What K-pop Taught Me at 45

K-pop has taught me that just because you’re a grown-up doesn’t mean you have to grow up—at least not in the way society wants you to. There’s this unspoken idea that certain interests are only for teenage girls, and that if you’re over 30 and still fangirling, something must be wrong with you.

I don’t buy that.

I'm in my 40s—and I refuse to let anyone make me feel small for loving something that brings me joy. If it lights you up, if it gets you through the hard days, if it makes your heart beat a little faster—then it matters. And you’re never too old for things that matter.

To anyone who feels “too old” to be a fan, I’d ask: Why?
Then I’d dismantle every reason they give.

Fandom doesn’t have an expiration date. In fact, I’d argue it gets better with age.

When you’re older, you have perspective. You see the emotional layers. You understand the weight of lyrics, the courage it takes to be vulnerable, the beauty in effort. And let’s not forget: you have grown-up money. You can buy the merch. You can book the concert ticket. You don’t need anyone’s permission.

And sometimes, it’s the simple things—like blasting K-pop while doing the dishes, or dancing in the kitchen—that remind me why I love it so much. The joy is pure. And the stream of content, music, and creativity is endless. You don’t outgrow it. You just grow with it.

💬 Your Turn:

So yes—I'm 45, and I still love K-pop.
Not despite my age, but because of it.

If you’re a fellow grown fan, I’d love to hear your story too:
What brought you to K-pop—or what keeps you here?
Let me know in the comments below.