But trust me, if I lived in the '80s, I would definitely be the

The words of Julianne Hough come with a playful yet earnest longing: “But trust me, if I lived in the ’80s, I would definitely be the one going to the record stores.” Though light in tone, they carry within them a deeper truth about human connection to music, to culture, and to the rituals of discovery. In this confession, Hough reminds us that the act of seeking music was once a sacred pilgrimage, not the quick stroke of a finger on a glowing screen, but a journey into the temple of sound—the record store.

For the ancients, the pursuit of art was never merely consumption; it was devotion. Just as the Greeks walked to the amphitheater to hear the tragedies of Aeschylus, and the medieval faithful traveled to cathedrals to hear choirs resound, so too did the youth of the ’80s make pilgrimages to places where music was not simply acquired, but experienced. The record store was such a place—walls lined with possibility, aisles alive with curiosity, each album cover a doorway into another world. To step into it was to step into a library of dreams, where discovery required patience, listening, and wonder.

Hough’s words, though spoken across time, express admiration for that ritual. In her imagining, she sees herself not as passive, but as the seeker, the one who would venture into that marketplace of sound to uncover hidden treasures. This longing speaks to the eternal human desire for authentic discovery—for the thrill of finding something not handed by an algorithm, but chosen by hand, chosen by heart. She acknowledges a truth: that the value of art is not only in the hearing, but in the seeking.

History gives us examples of such devotion. Consider the Renaissance scholar who combed dusty monasteries to uncover forgotten manuscripts of Plato and Cicero. His journey was not unlike the youth of the ’80s flipping through vinyl, searching for a voice that would speak to their soul. Both sought treasure among the forgotten and the overlooked, and both acts transformed culture. Just as the recovery of lost texts revived the wisdom of antiquity, so too did those record store discoveries shape the movements of music, giving birth to the legends of rock, punk, and pop that still echo today.

But her words also remind us of something we risk losing in an age of instant access. When art is too easily summoned, we forget its weight. The ancients valued what they sought, for the quest itself gave meaning to the prize. Likewise, those who once saved their wages, walked into shops, and lingered over choices, felt the music enter not just their ears, but their lives. Hough’s yearning is, in truth, a recognition that meaning deepens when effort and ritual precede discovery.

The lesson is thus: do not let convenience rob you of wonder. Seek out your art with intention. Make the journey matter. Whether you search through shelves of vinyl, through shelves of books, or through the labyrinth of life’s experiences, do so with the spirit of the pilgrim, not the glutton. For what is too easily gained is too easily forgotten, but what is sought with patience becomes a treasure of the soul.

Practical actions follow: create rituals of discovery in your own life. Go beyond the instant playlist; visit the local bookstore, the art gallery, the library, the concert hall. Handle the objects of art, study them, linger with them. Speak to others who share your passions and learn from their recommendations. In doing so, you will make your encounters with beauty richer, deeper, and more enduring. And in this, you will live as Hough imagined herself—in the spirit of the ’80s record-seeker, who knew that art was not merely found, but earned through the joy of the search.