My Soundtrack

The Intro: Saddle Leather and Vinyl Grooves

When I was eight, my dad taught me two things I’ve carried with me ever since: how to saddle a horse and how to flip a vinyl record without scratching it. On the family ranch, music wasn’t just background noise; it mingled with the creak of saddle leather, the rush of mountain winds, and the occasional (read: frequent) clatter of me dropping something I wasn’t supposed to. Songs filled our days, as much about rhythm as they were about setting a mood.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized my life—like anyone else’s—isn’t defined by one song but by an entire playlist, an evolving soundtrack that follows the peaks and valleys of experience. From early mornings feeding horses to late nights trying to make sense of love and loss, music stitched itself into the narrative. And while I can’t promise a perfectly curated Spotify playlist, I can tell you that my soundtrack is as varied and unpredictable as life itself.

Let’s hit play.

Side A: “Mountains, Melodies, and Mixtapes”

Growing up on a Colorado ranch meant that life was loud—and I don’t just mean the crunch of gravel under cowboy boots or the braying of restless horses. My parents were dedicated to their old ‘70s record player, spinning Willie Nelson and Emmylou Harris like they were personal acquaintances. Their music snuck into every memory. I can’t listen to Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain without picturing mom filling coffee mugs in the kitchen while the morning sun warmed the windows.

But the real magic was in the mixtapes. My older sister had this knack for stitching together seemingly unrelated songs, anything from Fleetwood Mac to John Prine. She made soundtracks for road trips, for rainy days, and yes, for heartbreaks (though her heartbreaks were usually named Tyler). She’d toss me a tape and say, “Here, listen to this when you don’t feel like talking to people.” I didn’t know it then, but those tapes taught me that music could say what I wasn’t ready to say yet—and sometimes it could even say what I was too stubborn to hear.

Takeaway? The sound of your youth matters. Whether it’s the hum of a tractor or the bass drop in a now-embarrassing boy band jam, lean into it. It’s the skeleton key for unlocking parts of who you are, hidden in between choruses.

Side B: “The Songs We Love Make Us Fall in Love”

When it comes to relationships, music isn’t just the backdrop—it’s the spark. My first girlfriend and I bonded over a shared love of Bob Dylan. She was cooler than me and taught me how to really interpret the lyrics of Tangled Up in Blue (spoiler: she thought it was about the complexity of love; I thought it was about never cleaning your room).

Fast-forward to my 20s, and those Rolling Stone-verified classics gave way to a more eclectic mix. On student road trips, we’d blast Tom Waits while barreling down I-70, his gravelly voice a perfect accompaniment to conversations about life’s great ambiguities… and terrible gas station sandwiches. During quieter moments, Iron & Wine softened the edges. That was when I learned an important lesson: sharing music is an oddly vulnerable act. For couples, “This song reminds me of us” is another way of saying, “Here’s a piece of my soul.”

Practical tip? Make a playlist for your partner. It doesn’t have to be poetic or symbolic (though bonus points if it is). Whether it’s three songs or thirty, it’s about saying, “This makes me think of you.” And if they send one back, pay attention to the lyrics—it might just be the closest thing to a handwritten love letter in 2023.

The Bridge: “Heartbreak and Heavy Replays”

Ah, the breakup section—because every good soundtrack has a moment that hurts. For me, it was the fall after grad school. I’d just ended a long-distance relationship, the kind where “5 hours apart” becomes shorthand for “this will never work.” Driving alone through the Blue Ridge Mountains, I popped in Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen. Big mistake. Listening to Atlantic City on repeat not only left me crying over a questionable roadside cheeseburger, but it also taught me what heartbreak really requires: a good ugly-cry anthem.

Here’s the thing. Music isn’t just there to wallow with you—it’s there to remind you that your feelings are valid and universal. While younger me tried to grit through heartbreak in silence, seasoned me knows the power of a sad but survivable song. Now, when friends call me after a breakup, I don’t tell them to “move on.” I tell them to put on a sad playlist and lean all the way into it. Go big. Adele. Radiohead. That one Bon Iver song that makes every bone in your body hurt. By confronting the melancholy, you take its power away.

Side C: “Finding the Rhythm in Creativity”

Writing, for me, is a dance with distraction. Between living on a ranch and teaching college courses, I could easily fill my days without typing a single word. But music? Music pulls me back to the desk. It’s the fuel for my creative process, both a compass and a catalyst.

If I’m brainstorming, it’s got to be instrumental. Something like Gustavo Santaolalla’s film scores (if you haven’t listened to the Babel soundtrack, do it now). For actual writing, my go-to is any playlist that feels like “moving through time.” A lot of folk rock and Americana—Gregory Alan Isakov, The Lumineers, anything you’d imagine playing during a twilight scene in a Western movie.

Music helps me write stories set against the Colorado wilderness because it connects me, almost physically, to the landscape. When you’re writing about love or loneliness that feels like it’s stretched across an empty prairie or tangled up in aspen trees, the right song becomes as essential as spellcheck.

Pro tip? No matter your craft, find your sonic sweet spot. Lo-fi hip-hop, indie rock, even angsty teen punk—it doesn’t matter. Pick what makes the words (or paintbrush, or sewing needle) flow. Bonus: It’ll keep you off your phone.

The Outro: “Play on, Cowboy”

If life is a constant ride between trailhead and horizon, then the soundtrack is what keeps the journey bearable—even exciting. My playlist evolves with every new chapter, reminding me where I’ve been and hinting at where I’m headed. And though I may not be eight years old fumbling with saddle straps anymore, I still see music the same way I saw it then: as a rope to hold onto when the trail gets tough, and the best kind of company when it doesn’t.

So, make your soundtrack. Fill it with songs that make you laugh, cry, and dance terribly in your kitchen. Share it with people who matter. And remember, it’s not about making it perfect—it’s about making it yours.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a horse to feed and a playlist to update.