If you asked me who my favorite singer is, I’d probably tell you the answer is Lorde.

I got my first car just in time for my senior year of high school and named her Ethel. She was a 2001 Mitsubishi Galant passed down from my uncle with a loud engine and a gas tank that got 15 miles to the gallon, if I was lucky. She had no Bluetooth capacity. I loved that car.

Ethel would take me everywhere — to Sharetea for boba with my friends after school, to my job at In-N-Out Burger (please don’t ask for pictures of me in the little outfit) and, especially during the pandemic, to my family friend’s house in Chino Hills to pick up groceries.

Chino Hills is two cities over, and it’s most easily accessible by freeway. Here’s the thing — I didn’t want to drive on the freeway with Ethel, who always seemed a few joyrides away from breaking down entirely. Other than that, the most direct way to get from northern Orange County to Chino Hills is via Carbon Canyon Road. I would turn right onto Lambert Road and wait in traffic as the street slowly thinned out from six lanes to two, snaking through the hills.

Due to the lack of Bluetooth, I would listen to CDs while I drove. I kept my collection in a CD case I had made in Girl Scouts when I was seven, which was covered in bright yellow fabric and foam stickers of electric guitars and drum kits. My CDs were mostly comfort music: KT Tunstall’s “Eye to the Telescope,” Hozier’s self-titled album, the “Clueless” (1995) soundtrack.

At one point on Carbon Canyon Road, after winding my way up the side of a craggy hill with a falling rocks road sign, there’s one of the tightest S-turns I’ve ever taken. I would grip my steering wheel until my knuckles were white, cranking the wheel all the way to the right for the first turn, then all the way to the left and then back to the right again. How this is any less frightening than the freeway, I’ve never really been able to explain.

The CDs for this particularly harrowing drive were always Lorde — “Melodrama,” usually, or sometimes “Pure Heroine.” “The Louvre,” “Supercut,” “400 Lux” and “Ribs” (always, always “Ribs”) were all laced with the sort of cinematic nostalgia that felt perfect for conquering a tricky turn while driving alone in your hometown.

I’ll be honest, the last time I was really obsessed with Lorde was in middle school, right after her sophomore album came out. For 13-year-old me, “Melodrama” had been the perfect soundtrack to ride the bus home after a long day of feeling alone while in large groups and having debilitating crushes.

For 17-year-old me during senior year, however, the songs became about overcoming loneliness during the pandemic and trying to thrive under the imminent dread of going off to college in the fall. Lorde’s vulnerability and power woke me up; her voice reminded me that I was coming of age. Rapidly. I remember I would always get off Carbon Canyon Road a little sadder than I’d been getting on it. I now felt acutely aware that it might be the last time I blasted Lorde while taking that familiar sharp turn.

I’m a couple of years older now, and Lorde comes on my Spotify shuffle occasionally. I still like the way she rasps about killing time and forgetting how to swim, but it’s not quite the same. There is one lyric that still stands out to me, though. In “Perfect Places,” she sings:

“I hate the headlines and the weather / I’m 19 and I’m on fire / But when we’re dancing I’m alright.”

As a journalism student, this is bad to admit but I don’t read the news nearly as much as I should. It’s one of the fastest ways to make me anxious, and I’m preserving my health! The weather is fine. I’m 19. My mind is on fire; I overthink and underachieve on some days and underthink and overachieve on others. But I do love to dance.

I went to a salsa dance class with my girlfriend last week and I will say, I felt alright. I was nervous about it at first, but surprise! New things don’t have to be scary if you don’t let them. I started swaying my hips and counting my steps: one, two, three, rest, five, six, seven, rest, and it all got a lot easier.

I got a new car. Constantly filling up Ethel’s tank was getting pricey, and my cousin had a newer car that her family was outgrowing. It has Bluetooth, and I’ve made plenty of Spotify playlists to supplement my drives.

I’ve graduated from taking the winding road to my friend’s house. The freeway isn’t so daunting anymore. Nothing is that daunting anymore — I’ve realized that life is a lot easier when you care less and dance more.

I’ve also graduated from Lorde, for the most part. Every once in a while, “The Love Club” or “Hard Feelings/Loveless” will find its way onto one of my playlists, but her songs tend to remind me of a person I no longer am.

She’s not the artist I’ve listened to the most by any means, but she was the most formative. The way Lorde details the adolescent experience is unlike any artist I’ve heard. She was there when I was 13, and then again when I was 17, and I’ll probably start listening to her again in a couple years when I need to remind myself that I’m still growing up.

The next time I need to scream along to “Perfect Places,” I know I can get in my car, take the right onto Carbon Canyon Road, crank up the volume and start snaking my way through the hills to the sounds of Lorde.

“Jam Journal” is a rotating column featuring a new Daily Trojan editor in each installment commenting on the music most important to them. Alia Yee Noll is an arts & entertainment editor at the Daily Trojan.