It’s funny how music can crack you wide open, like sunlight through an old window, hitting just the right angle to illuminate a neglected corner of your life. Growing up in Montgomery, I thought Dixie melodies and Sunday gospel were the only sounds worth tuning in for. But over time, my playlist became something of a diary—sprawling, messy, full of contradictions, and (let’s be honest) a little too emotional for its own good. To me, every song holds a story. Some are about love—like the kind you scream-sing to Adele about on a solo road trip. Others are about resilience, family, and just figuring out how to piece it all together.

I’d never claim my so-called "life soundtrack" has all the answers, but know this: if you press play, you’ll hear the messy, beautiful noise of unrequited crushes, late-night inspiration, and the soundtrack to what I’d call my "two left feet" dance with life.

Let’s set the scene.

Act One: Sweet Home Confusion (Coming of Age)

Imagine a girl—awkward bangs and all—sitting in a Honda Civic in the high school parking lot. Enter the opening chords of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s "Sweet Home Alabama." A cliché? Sure. But back then, you couldn’t stomp on Southern pride without hearing this on repeat. For me, though, the song was less about pride and more about asking who the heck I was supposed to be.

In a place where pickup trucks and the Friday night lights vibe ruled, I felt more at home burying my nose in Alice Walker novels than doing donuts in dirt roads. “Sweet Home Alabama” was as much rebellion as it was homecoming—because loving something complicated and messy, like your roots, isn’t always easy. It taught me early on that loving myself might not be a straightforward track, either.

The not-so-subtle lesson? If loving your own baggage comes with a side of guitar riffs, lean into it. Every crescendo and harmony, no matter your baggage, makes your song yours.

Act Two: The Power Ballads of (Almost) Romance

If high school was confusion, college was just plain chaos. Cue the mixtape era: Adele, Etta James, and Beyoncé all on rotation. Let me tell you, these weren’t background tunes. They were the climactic moments of my romantic daydreams when I was imagining the mysterious guy from history class showing up at my door in the rain (spoiler alert: he didn’t).

There was one night when Adele’s "Someone Like You" came on as I read his last "Sorry, I’ve just been busy" text. Adele deserved an Oscar for scoring that drama. I leaned fully into the heartbreak aesthetic, ugly crying while my roommate ate queso next to me, blinking in polite confusion.

Here’s the lesson each of those powerhouse ballads taught me: Even when the crush fizzles or the world feels like it’s conspiring against your happy ending, it’s worth romanticizing yourself. Dress up for your dinner-for-one. Dance to your breakup playlist in your socks. Adele would want that for you.

Act Three: Small Town, Big Questions

Fast forward a few years, and I'm back in Montgomery, living that “returning home but trying not to feel like a cliché” life. My playlist shifted along with my priorities. James Taylor’s "Carolina in My Mind" crooned out of my hand-me-down speaker as I worked through writing drafts on Civil Rights-era history. This was a time of silence, stories, and, honestly, staring at the Bedford Forrest statue downtown wondering how this concrete piece of racism still loomed so tall.

I spent a lot of time revisiting my roots—talking to elders, walking streets I’d sprinted as a kid. It’s cheesy, but Taylor’s ballad wasn’t just a reminder of places; it was a reminder to feel. Every story matters, even ones that barely whisper across a porch swing on a humid Alabama night.

For the readers thinking, "That’s nice, but I’m just trying to vibe and fall in love," listen up: knowing your roots is the biggest flex. You don’t have to be defined by your past, but knowing it is essential to building something authentic in the present.

Act Four: The Dancing Phase

Raise your hand if you’ve made questionable life decisions to the sound of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album. Yeah, me too. But instead of drama or cheating scandals, that album became the backdrop to my “life can be messy and beautiful” moment.

There’s something about, say, "Go Your Own Way" that lets you scream-sing and twirl across your kitchen while waiting for catfish to fry. This phase of my soundtrack has been less about restraint and more about letting go.

Fun fact: Relationships—even the deeply healthy ones—thrive on three things, in my humble experience: laughter, self-awareness, and being okay with dancing like an idiot in front of someone else. (I learned this the hard way by dating someone who smirked instead of grinning when I flailed around to Fleetwood Mac. Babe, this dance isn’t supposed to be cute; it’s supposed to be cathartic.)

Lesson four: Find someone who dances with you—or at least claps offbeat while you twirl past.

Act Five: The Peaceful Instrumentals

These days, I’m a sucker for instrumentals to drown out the chaos of the internet. If I had to pick one song that defines this season of life, it might be Yo-Yo Ma’s rendition of "Appalachia Waltz." Hear me out: listening to an elegant cello doesn’t make you less fun—it makes you more centered when things get overwhelming.

We live in a world that turns the volume up on everyone else’s opinions: Go, do, buy, swipe left, swipe right, post that selfie. A good instrumental reminds you that quiet can feel loud, too.

If there’s one takeaway from this soundtrack—and trust me, I could talk about it until you mastered my Spotify login—it’s that life, like a good playlist, gets better with layering. Your current favorite song doesn’t erase the ballads or bangers that came before it. They’re all there, shaping who you were, are, and even who you’re trying to become.

And maybe, just maybe, your soundtrack isn’t supposed to make sense to everyone else. So go ahead and blast your breakup songs one day and your contemplative cello the next. Life’s all about leaning into the full mess, one note at a time.