If life were a movie, music would be its script. Think about it: you’re driving through those winding mountain roads, windows down, hair doing that wind-tousled thing movie characters always seem to nail, and some indie anthem is playing in the background. That’s the scene-setting, the emotional anchor, the thing you remember years later—the soundtrack. Music has that strange, magical ability to transform the ordinary into the cinematic, elevating car rides, heartbreaks, and first kisses into moments worthy of a montage.
For me, music has always been more than just the background; it’s been a guide. It’s helped me navigate the murky waters of adolescence, the confusion of young adulthood, and every romantic disaster and victory in between. My playlists are time capsules, little windows into who I was and what I felt at specific points in my life. It’s funny, though—your “life soundtrack” doesn’t just fall into place. You curate it along the way, mostly without realizing it. So let me take you through mine—the hits, the deep cuts, and a lesson or two these songs all taught me.
Act One: The Boulder Boy Days
Key Tracks: “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell, “Bloom” by The Paper Kites
Growing up in Boulder felt like living in a REI catalogue—endless mountain vistas, people meditating in nature, and the constant smell of sage in the air. My parents, who never met a political rally they couldn’t attend, were Joni Mitchell devotees. Our weekends? Hikes in the Flatirons with my mom humming “They paved paradise…” under her breath like it was a battle cry. To this day, if I hear Joni Mitchell, I’m instantly transported to a world of granola bars, second-hand Patagonia jackets, and debates over local recycling policy.
But adolescence wasn’t just about environmental protest songs. Discovering The Paper Kites was a revelation. I remember playing “Bloom” on loop during one of those quintessential teenage crushes—intense, impossible, and entirely lived out through stolen glances and AIM conversations. That song unfolded like first love feels: tender, wistful, and slightly terrifying. If there’s a lesson Joni and The Paper Kites taught me early on, it’s that relationships—romantic or otherwise—impact the landscapes of your life, much like humans impact the environment. Tread lightly.
Act Two: College, Chaos, and Coming-of-Age
Key Tracks: “Take a Walk” by Passion Pit, “Holocene” by Bon Iver, “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine
College is a strange beast. You arrive with nerves jangling like loose change in your pockets, then leave having transformed into—well, still a mess, but now a slightly more polished one. My soundtrack during those years reflected that chaos.
“Take a Walk” by Passion Pit was a kind of get-up-and-go anthem I played before late-night cram sessions. It felt like a caffeine IV. But after a long day balancing existential dread and environmental policy coursework, I’d turn to Bon Iver’s “Holocene.” There’s something meditative about Justin Vernon’s falsetto and the sprawling soundscapes he creates—it made me feel small in the best way. And doesn’t love often feel like that? Like you’re standing under a vast, starry sky trying to figure out where this one person fits into a constellation far older and more complex than you’ll ever understand.
Of course, there were moments of joy too—usually accompanied by the unapologetic dance-your-face-off energy of Florence + The Machine. Nothing says “impromptu dorm party” like “Dog Days Are Over.” I once met someone at such a party who told me, mid-spin, that you can tell a lot about someone from the way they dance. Was this a subtle flirt or a challenge? Hard to say, but it ended with us twirling dramatically until the RA shut us down—a scenario I now think of as Florence-approved romance.
Act Three: Postgrad and the Great Sack of Feelings
Key Tracks: “Ophelia” by The Lumineers, “Green Light” by Lorde
Ah, the postgrad slump: that wonderful period when you're technically an adult but feel like a kid cosplaying grown-up life. After graduation, I moved to Seattle for a sustainability fellowship and quickly fell into that gray, coffee-fueled haze the city’s famous for. It was lonely and exhilarating in equal measure—the perfect background for The Lumineers’ Cleopatra album, particularly “Ophelia.” That song played during my long walks around Capitol Hill, trying to figure out if staying in a city where the sky was basically my emotional twin was a good idea.
And then there was Lorde’s “Green Light.” Hands down, the best post-breakup song ever invented. You’d think Seattle’s endless rain would be terrible for heartbreak, but it was Lowkey Perfect Drama™. This was the kind of breakup that felt like ripping duct tape off my soul. Did I cry into a latte while journaling? Maybe. But when Lorde roars about running red lights with a car full of feelings, it felt like permission to let my heartbreak go. Plus, Seattle traffic makes running any light an act of rebellion, so…symbolism?
Act Four: Back to Boulder, Back to Me
Key Tracks: “The Stable Song” by Gregory Alan Isakov, “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes
Returning to Boulder after Seattle was a homecoming of sorts, except home wasn’t quite how I left it. Maybe I wasn’t how I left me. A long solo road trip back to the Rockies gave me plenty of time to reflect and (obviously) create the most over-the-top, wistful driving playlist imaginable. Cue Gregory Alan Isakov. If you’ve never heard him, he’s basically a musical embodiment of misty morning hikes and starry nights under campfire skies.
“The Stable Song” became a personal anthem during that transition back. Like the steady rhythm of a wooden oar in water, it reminded me that even big, wobbly feelings eventually even out. And then there’s Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life,” a song that sounds exactly how being vulnerable feels: gentle yet brimming with emotional risks you can't help but take. Full confession: this song even made its way onto a playlist I gave someone I was seeing—not subtle, but hey, romance isn’t about subtlety.
So, What’s on Your Playlist?
Making a “life soundtrack” is less about curating the perfect tracks than it is about noticing which songs linger long after their last note. Your soundtrack doesn’t just tell a story—it tells your story. It’s the musical fingerprints of every love, loss, and moment of self-discovery you’ve ever had.
So here’s my advice: go build yours. Collect songs that make you feel understood, alive, or just a little less alone. You don’t need a big, cinematic moment to start curating it, either. Sometimes, it’s as simple as putting your headphones in and pressing play on a song that matches your mood.
Who knows? A year from now, you could be telling someone all about the playlist that got you through long nights or brought you a little closer to figuring out who you are. What songs will define your next chapter?
