Playlists, Peaks, and Pining: One Life Soundtracked in Songs

Somewhere between the highs of a Sierra sunrise and the lows of heartbreak by a campfire, I discovered the magic in letting life come with its own playlist. Music has a weird way of knowing us before we know ourselves—like that one friend who always says, “I told you so,” but in melody form. And for me, every pivotal moment, whether it was falling in love, finding myself, or desperately trying to convince a girl from Portland that my flannel was authentic and not “a vibe,” has been accompanied by a soundtrack.

Growing up around Lake Tahoe, music was always more than noise in the background. It was the signal for a moment: Spring mornings hummed with acoustic strumming, winter storms rolled in alongside moody ballads, and those long summer afternoons of clumsy crushes and aimless drives demanded the kind of playlists that lived on scratched CDs stuffed into glove compartments.

While I could argue for hours about the best breakup song (It’s Brandi Carlile’s “The Story,” don’t fight me on this), or which decade made the best road trip anthems (hello, ‘70s), there’s a deeper reason music remains woven into my everyday existence. Each chapter of my life comes with its own genre—and oddly enough, so do my relationships.

Here’s a look at the soundtrack that plays me—awkward beginnings, laughable mistakes, and all.

1. Staring at the Ceiling: Flirtation and Folk Music

I’d like to believe that romance hit me in the same warm and sweeping way Iron & Wine sounds on a lazy Sunday morning. If only it were that poetic. In reality, young love felt more like trying to tune a guitar with loose strings—earnest, messy, ultimately hopeful.

I remember my first real crush when I was 15. Her name was Sophie, and she worked weekends at the lodge’s gear rental desk, where I’d unreasonably pretend to need a new fishing rod just for a chance to hover awkwardly near her. We bonded over The Decemberists—Sophie laughed at my claim that “Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect” was the song of our generation. (She wasn’t wrong, but don’t tell my 15-year-old self that.)

Those early flutters of infatuation, with their naive bravado, were soundtracked by simple folk songs. There was something comforting about banjos, acoustic guitars, and earnest lyrics, like they understood that teenage emotions are both ridiculous and entirely earnest at once. That playlist taught me the first lesson in love: Like music, good things grow from persistence. And maybe a little banter about indie bands.

Takeaway: Flirting and music have this in common—they both thrive on the art of subtlety. Whether it’s a quiet smile across the room or the soft strumming of a guitar, the magic is often in what’s understated.

2. The Rock Ballads of Rejection

Picture this: It’s a rainy day in Davis, and I’m walking back to my dorm after confessing feelings to someone who kindly responded with, “You’re like the brother I never had.” Humidity soaked the air like irony, and my headphones blasted The Killers’ “All These Things That I’ve Done” as I tried to figure out what “soul, but I’m not a soldier” even meant.

Rejection hurts, whether you’re 19 or 90. But if heartbreak has a genre, it’s the great rock ballad—songs unapologetically theatrical in their lament. Because when it feels like the end of the world, don’t we all need the drama of Queen’s “Somebody to Love” or Meat Loaf's “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad?”

College was one long mixtape of epic love fails, sometimes soothed by endless playlists designed for staring at the ceiling. Still, those soaring vocals and moody guitar solos always coaxed me into moving on. Eventually. (Well, that, and a surprisingly good pint of local porter.)

Takeaway: Heartbreak is temporary, but great music is forever. The right song reminds you that even when love flops, the melodrama is part of the ride—and besides, it’s nothing Freddie Mercury hasn’t already sung about.

3. Road Trips and Rediscovery

Fast-forward a few years, and I’m behind the wheel of an old Subaru Outback that smells faintly of pine needles, headed up the Pacific Coast Highway. My love life was basically two pasture fences and three horses short of a country song, but instead of wallowing, I leaned into rediscovery. And like any seasoned playlist nerd knows, road trips aren’t road trips without the right mix of tracks.

Fleetwood Mac, Springsteen, and Neil Young accompanied me during that season of figuring out who I was outside of relationships. There’s something affirming about belting out “Born to Run” with no one around to judge your pitchy rebellion. Music has a way of making silence feel less lonely when the world stretches endlessly ahead, begging you to explore it.

Wild landscapes and wistful lyrics gave me the clarity that no dating app algorithm ever could: Life doesn’t require a “plus one” to feel full. That’s not to say I’m against romance—I’m just in favor of it arriving organically, without the pressure of being GPS’d into existence.

Takeaway: Music’s real gift lies in its ability to help us reconnect with ourselves. Take the solo drive; play the songs that make you feel like you’re on the brink of something extraordinary. Because you are.

4. The Quiet Harmony of Real Love

By now, you probably think I’m going to say I found “the one” while swapping vinyls at some hip coffee shop. I didn’t. But I did find her at the lodge, during a snowstorm that knocked the power out for almost a week. We bonded over chai tea, board games by flashlight, and my dubious attempts to serenade her with John Denver songs on a decidedly out-of-tune guitar.

Falling in love—a real, grounded kind of love—is less like a fireworks display and more like the way a piano settles gently into its melody. It doesn’t scream for attention; it doesn’t demand center stage. Instead, it hums in quietly, showing up in the tender harmonies of everyday moments.

Now, our playlist is full of songs that hold up like a cabin under snow: a little Sufjan Stevens, some Bonnie Raitt, and more Alison Krauss than I’d ever willingly listened to in my early 20s. But therein lies the beauty—you learn the best music isn’t what makes a grand statement; it’s what makes you feel seen.

Takeaway: Love becomes an anthology of shared soundtracks, moments, and memories. And sometimes, the romance is in the spaces between the notes.

The Final Track

If my life were a mixtape, it’d be a little frayed at the edges but wholly mine. From teenage angst to mountain peaks of quiet euphoria, music has been my constant co-pilot. Each song reminds me that life—and love—isn’t about skipping to the good parts. It’s about hitting play, rolling with the awkward pauses, and letting the melodies take you somewhere unexpected.

So, here’s my advice: Find the songs that tell your story. Play them loud, revisit them often, and know that when all else fails, Fleetwood Mac totally gets you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a long road out there still waiting to be soundtracked.