My life has always had a soundtrack. Some songs mark a chapter, others a turning point, while a few hit me in waves like a gospel choir on a Sunday morning—a reminder of where I’ve been and where I hope to go. For better or worse, music has underscored my life’s messy, beautiful rhythm, serving as both therapist and hype man. Whether I was fumbling through first crushes in Beaumont or finding my voice as a Black, gay man in a world that wasn’t always ready to hear it, music has stayed faithful. Each melody, each lyric, has been a reflection of what was, what is, and what could be.

Let’s step into this playlist together. I promise it’s got a little bit of everything: heartbreak anthems, soul-stirring ballads, and beats I danced myself free to on sticky Chicago club floors. Grab your headphones—you might just hear parts of your own story too.

Hometown Blues: The Songs That Built Me
Growing up in Beaumont, Texas meant two things: family cookouts with Luther Vandross playing in the background and Friday night football games where Al Green might follow “Eye of the Tiger” on the loudspeakers. Life was simple, yes, but it wasn’t always easy.

My parents worked hard—Dad at the refinery, Mom at the hospital—and the soundtrack of our home echoed resilience and joy. They didn’t have time to say “I love you” in eloquent speeches, but love poured out in little ways: my mom humming Gladys Knight as she fried chicken for Sunday dinner, my dad tapping his foot to Otis Redding while fixing the squeaky back porch.

When I hear Luther croon “A House Is Not a Home,” it cuts through me every time. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I do now—he wasn’t just singing about love lost, but the struggle to build a space that feels wholly yours. For me, it always goes back to wanting a home where my authentic self is welcome. Luther taught me to carry that longing with tenderness, not bitterness.

The College Years: Beyoncé and Becoming
When I moved to Louisiana for college, my world didn’t just open up—it exploded. The campus vibrated with life, culture, and possibility, and, of course, Beyoncé’s B’Day. You can’t tell the story of my self-discovery without “Irreplaceable” or “Get Me Bodied.”

Freshly 18, I went on my first date with a boy. I was so nervous I could barely make eye contact (though, in fairness, meeting someone over cafeteria spaghetti isn’t exactly a cinematic start). But when “Upgrade U” played later that night, it hit differently. I wanted to be as confident as those horns blasting behind Bey’s voice. And y’all, I worked on that.

Beyoncé was the North Star as I navigated dating, friendships, and straight-up survival in a world where my Blackness and queerness often felt like too much for people to handle. Her music taught me that being too much isn’t something to apologize for—it’s a compliment. Carrying that energy, I waltzed into spaces I once thought weren’t made for me, head high even when my knees shook.

The Breakup Anthems: From Hurt to Healing
Let me tell you something I’ve learned the hard way: Not everyone deserves a seat at your table, no matter how charming they seemed at first. And sometimes, you’ve got to take the table, the chairs, and the damn rug and bounce.

After my first serious relationship ended—a quiet unraveling marked by unmet needs and unspoken truths—I pressed play on Toni Braxton’s “Un-break My Heart” like it was my job. That song is pain personified, right? But real talk: sometimes you have to sit in the heartbreak to find your way out. For weeks, I let Toni sing my sorrow, ugly crying in my little Houston apartment until I ran out of tears.

And then? I switched to Mary J. Blige. No More Drama. That’s the anthem you play when you’re ready to pack your bags and kiss mediocrity goodbye. The chorus kicks in like your best friend barging through the door, wagging her finger, saying, “Oh no, boo. We’re not doing this anymore.”

Breakups hurt. But every heartbreak—romantic or otherwise—teaches you something, even if it’s just this: You deserve the love you keep trying to give to other people. Mary said it, I lived it, and you can too.

Chicago Nights: Dancing Into Myself
I spent a year in Chicago working with arts nonprofits, but let’s be honest—the real education I got was on the dance floor. Picture it: a cramped but electric space, rainbow lights bouncing off the walls, and sweaty strangers yelling every word to Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”

Out there, twirling between house beats and Madonna’s greatest hits, I felt invincible. Chicago taught me to take up space—not just physically but emotionally too. I’d spent too many years shrinking myself to fit other people’s expectations, but under those disco balls, I stopped apologizing.

One night, a DJ spun Sylvester’s “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” and my chest swelled with something fierce and unapologetic. That track isn’t just a bop; it’s a whole philosophy. It taught me that sometimes, life isn’t about the “next step” or the “five-year plan.” It’s about living fully in the moment, stretching your arms wide and saying, “This is me. All of it.”

Today’s Tracklist: Love, Hope, and the Occasional Beyoncé Song
As I’m writing this, my Spotify queue is shuffling between H.E.R.’s “As I Am” and Jazmine Sullivan’s “Lost One.” Love songs still hold a central place on my playlist—not because I’ve unlocked some secret to romance (spoiler: I haven’t), but because they remind me what it means to keep trying.

Lately, I’ve also leaned on Brandi Carlile’s “The Joke,” a ballad that feels like an arm around your shoulder on a bad day. And when things get extra chaotic—which they often do—I go back to Donny Hathaway’s “Someday We’ll All Be Free.” It’s not just a song; it’s a prayer, a promise, and a lifeline.

From those long Beaumont nights to Chicago’s golden dawns, music has been my guide, my solace, and my rebellion. The tunes might change, but the heartbeat remains: a call to live authentically, love fiercely, and never, ever stop dancing.

So, what’s your soundtrack? Start building it. I guarantee there’s a song out there for every triumph, every tear, and every single time you needed a reminder that you’re mighty real too.