The Beat of My Becoming: A Life in Eight Songs

The Opening Drumbeat: Foundations and First Love

I don’t remember a time when rhythm didn’t fill the spaces of my childhood. Growing up in the desert expanse of the Navajo Nation, sound seemed to echo for miles. At powwows, I’d sit cross-legged on the ground, letting the drumbeats of songs by Black Lodge Singers and other cherished groups vibrate through me like a second heartbeat. When you grow up listening to stories set to music—or music that feels like storytelling—it shapes how you experience everything, including love.

My first love was a boy who used to wait for me after stomp dances, his hands dusted with the scent of sagebrush and barbecue. One night, he brought a boombox and a single cassette: The Very Best of Fleetwood Mac. We played "Dreams" until the speakers popped, the lyrics about fleeting love feeling far older and wiser than either of us. I’ll always associate that bittersweet rhythm with standing at the edge of possibility, unsure whether to leap or look back.

Mixtapes & Melancholy: College Life and Coming-of-Age

Fast-forward to my college years in Vermont, when snow fell so thick I swore it muffled my ability to hear myself think. Until then, my life hadn’t much involved scarves, moody grey skies, or indie playlists, but I adapted. My classmate-turned-roommate introduced me to “study breaks” where we procrastinated with Bon Iver and drank mulled cider until the heat made us giggle.

It was during one of these moments that she played “Holocene” for the first time and said, “This song is what discovering yourself feels like.” I didn’t fully understand her then, but I do now. That phase of isolation—both geographic and personal—was necessary for me to learn who I was outside of the desert, outside of tradition. Indie folk became my soundtrack for self-discovery, coincidentally also the same vibe I leaned heavily on after my first big heartbreak during finals week. (Pro tip: Never date someone who insists you don’t “get” Radiohead.)

Wide Open Horizons: Fieldwork and Freedom

Have you ever heard a guitar riff that feels like driving windows-down across New Mexico? That’s how I'd describe anything by Carlos Nakai or Santana—songs that capture both wild and serene expanses. For a stint in my mid-twenties, I was bouncing from town to pueblo doing fieldwork. My tiny car became home. I learned the art of savoring silence during sunrises but soon craved company. My constant companion? A somewhat embarrassing playlist I called “Tumbleweed Vibes.” The tracks were a patchwork of Jason Mraz optimism, Florence + The Machine cry-alongs, and even a rogue Dixie Chicks track, because who doesn’t feel a little wanderlust with “Wide Open Spaces”?

Driving is where I realized music offers metaphors for relationships. Some songs seduce you right away but wear out after heavy replay. Others, like Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love,” linger quietly and mature into lifelong companions.

The Dance Floor Finds You: Falling In Love Again

Of all the dating stories I could tell, here’s a favorite: After a disastrous breakup, I reluctantly agreed to join friends at a dive bar in Portland. I complained about the cold beer, the sticky floors, and the DJ’s questionable taste. But then, Beyoncé’s “Love On Top” came through the speakers. The kind of relentless anthem you don’t say no to.

A stranger—grinning, confident, with way-too-clean shoes for a dive bar—pulled me to the center of the dance floor and said, “C’mon, you know you want to sing the high notes.” Spoiler alert: I couldn’t hit them. But what I could do was laugh, dance, and lean into every glorious key change. His cues—silly, vulnerable, playful—taught me more about joyful connection that night than any compatibility quiz or relationship book ever could.

Life lesson? Find yourself a partner who knows when to be serious, but most importantly, when to let loose and dance with you, even if neither of you knows the choreography.

Heartbeats & Homecomings: Resilience in Hard Times

Not every soundtrack gleams. A few years ago, I was navigating loss and exhaustion: the strain of juggling my writing dreams with the heavier reality of translating cultural policy documents by day. It was during this time, back on the reservation for a visit, that my uncle gifted me a hand-drum rendition of “Amazing Grace,” sung in Navajo.

There was something grounding about hearing those sacred hymns in our language—like it asked me to remember every ancestor who had sung or fought their way through worse. I’d play it at night, counting stars like they were blessings. This is the chapter of my life where I learned grief demands space but can also soften you enough to welcome joy once again.

Songs for Today: A Work-in-Progress

Right now? My soundtrack is eclectic and regularly updated, much like my love life. One week is all about Maggie Rogers’ “Alaska,” a song for rediscovering self-worth after a hurdle. The next, I’m playing powwow-rock group Sihasin’s “Fight Like a Woman” to psych myself up before interviews. And when I just need to unwind—or reconnect with my roots—it’s Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “Starwalker,” a voice so iconic she might as well be the universe whispering encouragement.

Truthfully, creating an ideal soundtrack is an ongoing process. The more I learn, the better my “playlists” get at reflecting who I am. That goes for relationships, too—partners are like songs: some hook you for a single dance, some challenge your rhythm, and a rare few hold their harmony across decades.

Your Soundtrack Is Waiting

Here’s the thing about life and music: they both share overlapping principles. Your soundtrack tells a story, just as your relationships do, and both deserve care in curation. Don’t settle for music—or love—that drones in monotony. Instead:

• Seek songs that move you, not just ones that fill the silence.
• Revisit old favorites with new perspectives—they may surprise you!
• Experiment. Let novelty spark curiosity, but stay true to your roots.

If you’re ever standing between “press play” or staying silent, press play. And when you find that perfect anthem, let it remind you to turn the volume up—on music, on love, and on life itself.