The Least Rock ‘n’ Roll Moment of All Time

And how thinking about it 25 years later made me realize how the ’90s screwed up our chance for a healthy love life

It started with a sing-along. Not the fun kind—this was French class in the ’90s, complete with photocopied lyrics, questionable pronunciation, and a teacher who looked suspiciously like Edvard Munch’s The Scream. We were teenage girls, dutifully chanting Celine Dion lyrics about casting spells and becoming “the others” who give him pleasure. At the time, it was just grammar. In hindsight, it was something else entirely

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Not exactly your finest moment

Name a moment in your life when you didn’t feel cool at all.

A moment when you stopped in your tracks and thought, Wait a minute… how did I get here?

Maybe it was the time you got poop on your fingers while changing a diaper. Or maybe it was when you caught yourself, on a Saturday night, emptying the dishwasher while happily listening to a gardening podcast. Or when you found yourself scoffing at Gen Z street fashion with the same contempt you once reserved for the old-timers—the ones who had crossed over into the land of ridiculous lost causes.

Mine involved a toothbrush and Celine Dion

I’ll give you one of mine. It popped into my head the other day, completely unannounced, and left me cringing and squirming at the mere memory. But more than that, it made me realize that some of my messed-up ideas about love and relationships started right there.

The trigger?

Celine Dion’s ’90s classic Pour Que Tu M’aimes Encore, which came blasting out of my tiny bathroom speaker while I was brushing my teeth.

Welcome back to French class

I was instantly transported back to high school French class, where the song wasn’t presented as an epic love ballad, but as a grammar lesson—used to teach us subjonctif, futur proche, and “exotic” vocabulary. All led by our teacher, whom everyone called The Scream, because he was the spitting image of Munch’s painting—hollow eyes, greyish skin, elongated face. Not actually tormented, but unsettlingly vacant. And, as it turns out, a lover of forced sing-alongs.

We all just… sang along

We sat in our uncomfortable chairs as photocopies were passed around. Then, verse by verse, we were coerced into singing a song that—looking back—celebrated a deeply messed-up version of love. The kind where a woman, completely unabashed, promises to erase herself, endure hardship, and reinvent her entire being… just to win a man back. All while inflating his ego and tending to his every whim.

The lyrics were… a lot

I’ll go searching for your soul

In the cold, in the flames

I will cast magic spells at you

For you to love me again

I will reinvent myself as queen

For you to keep me

I will remake myself

For the fire to return

I will become the others

Who give you pleasure

I will turn myself to gold

For you to love me again

It wasn’t just one bad song

This album sold over 4 million copies worldwide. Just saying.

And I bet—aside from my middle-aged male French teacher—most of the buyers were high school girls like me, desperately looking for any recipe that might help us cook up a decent batch of love. And according to Celine, the secret was simple: disappear. Don’t clutter the relationship with too many demands, hopes, desires, or—God forbid—a personality. Just sparkle quietly, and maybe you’ll be chosen.

Funny, until it’s not

The whole sing-along situation wasn’t exactly peak cool, but the real cringe was that I—and so many soon-to-be women—sang along happily. Without a second thought.

Because of The Scream.

A little wake-up call

It started as a memory—innocent, awkward, hilariously uncool.

But as I replayed the scene in my head, something else surfaced: the quiet, insidious messages that shaped a generation of girls. Messages about love, about our worth, and about what we were expected to trade in order to be chosen.

This isn’t just nostalgia.

It’s a reckoning.

And I bet you’ve had a moment like this too.

About the author

Sisse Jensen has worked in war zones and now writes about life after 40—divorce, fear, love, to step into a new universe far from the 9-5 grind, perfect families, and politely dying inside.

Let’s talk

If this essay spoke to you, or if you’re walking through your own midlife fears and changes, I’d love to hear from you. Reply to this email or leave a comment below. We don’t have to face these moments alone.

Teaser for the next essay:

“How to Make Sure You Only Fall for the Emotionally (and Geographically) Unavailable”

Turns out, I have extremely refined taste in men. So refined, they’re usually hanging off a cliff somewhere far, far away. Not once, not twice, but three times I’ve dated mountain climbers — from three different contries. You’d think I was collecting them like exotic stamps.

But don’t worry, I’ve now moved on… to a South American surfer. Progress? You tell me …