The Harmony of Life: My Soundtrack

The best soundtracks don’t just fill the silence—they give weight to the moments, turning the everyday into something cinematic. My life has been one rolling playlist, a mix of beach-town nostalgia, fleeting romances, and melodies that seem to sync with the rhythms of salt and sand.

Some songs tug hard, wrapping themselves around those monumental milestones of heartbreak and triumph. Others are soft in their presence, like sun-bleached photographs tucked away in a drawer, their significance quietly felt in hindsight. If you’re anything like me—someone who believes a perfect playlist can change the temperature of any moment—you’ll probably relate when I say: music is the thread stitching it all together.

Let me take you through the mixtape of my life and creative process—the tracks that shaped who I am, whispered the truth about what I longed for, and carried me through everything from messy relationships to dreamy creative breakthroughs.

Side A: Growing Up in Stereo

Imagine this: a sticky-sweet summer along the Grand Strand, the smell of boardwalk funnel cakes weaving through the humid air, and the soft hiss of ocean waves just beyond the lights from late-night carnival rides. For me, those sensory markers are as much tied to music as they are to geography.

My dad loved Jimmy Buffett’s “A Pirate Looks at Forty”—very on-brand for a café owner by the water—and I think he secretly hoped I’d grow up with my toes perpetually in the sand, content in the simplicity of a lowcountry life. My mom leaned more toward Motown—she said it was impossible to make bad decisions while listening to “My Girl.” Spoiler alert: as a teenager, I absolutely tested that theory and proved it wrong.

But the real soundtrack of my formative years? Hootie & The Blowfish. There’s something about “Let Her Cry” that fit the late-afternoon skies of Myrtle Beach so perfectly—clouds heavy with color but refusing to rain. It was the sound of bittersweet freedom, the kind you feel when you’re 16 and trying to figure out why you’re desperate to build a life you don’t quite have the blueprint for yet.

Side B: Songs for Love, Loss, and Everything In Between

Love has chapters, like albums, each one unique in tone and tempo. Some are smooth, honey-like ballads that make you feel like time has finally hit play in slow motion. “Crush” by Dave Matthews Band perfectly captured my first big romance in college—the giddy realization that someone you barely know can suddenly turn your world into a kaleidoscope of shared playlists and secret meanings only you both understand.

And then there are the breakup anthems. Look, no dating journey is complete without your own Private Pitiful Playlist™. Mine? A painfully dramatic loop of “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye (so cliché, I know, but it worked). It’s the kind of song you wail into your pillow until one day you realize it’s no longer about them—it’s about grieving the version of yourself who thought they’d found “the one.”

But here’s the thing: heartbreak might burn you, but like a phoenix or Taylor Swift at an awards show, a great post-heartbreak anthem lets you turn the flame into creative fire. “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine was my rebound song, the rallying cry I needed to remember that the good stuff? It’s almost always ahead of you.

Playlists, Prose, and Quiet Inspiration

Music didn’t just guide my romantic life—it’s the sparkplug behind my creative process. Writing, for me, is as much about atmosphere as it is plotting. Need to create palpable longing in a scene? Cue up “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads—it’s hopeful and yearning, like a song looking for home.

On days I can’t seem to hold onto a single coherent thought, I lean into the chaos: throw on something absurdly fun (“You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates) and dance it out—badly—until the perfectionism shakes loose. And then there’s that rainy beach vibe I keep naturally returning to, aided by the introspective strums of Jack Johnson (“Banana Pancakes”) or the reflective melancholy of Fleetwood Mac’s “Songbird.” I firmly believe that no creative breakthrough happens without music making you feel a touch vulnerable, as though you’ve cracked open a window to let the ocean breeze in.

Even my novel wouldn’t exist without a mishmash of tunes that taught me how to set tone. Inspired by Carolina shorelines and quiet conversations I overheard at my parents’ café, I created a “writing retreat” playlist full of acoustic storytelling: Brandi Carlile, The Lumineers, Iron & Wine. You need that kind of raw authenticity when words feel just out of reach but a story wants so badly to surface.

Crafting Your Mixtape Moments

Here’s what I’d tell anyone who wants to build their own soundtrack—whether it’s for your creative moments, your relationships, or just the weird tangle of memories you can’t seem to unpack completely.

  • Match the Mood to the Moment: There’s power in pairing the perfect song with your environment. Next time you’re walking the edge of the water post-sunset, play “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak and tell me you don't feel like you're in a Nicholas Sparks movie—minus all the emotional whiplash.
  • Let Music Be a Marker: Take a song you love and assign it to a moment so that years later, hearing it will flood you with sensory details you didn’t even realize you’d remembered. How else do you explain my irrational nostalgia for “Hey Ya!” by Outkast? I can still feel the high school homecoming gym floor beneath my sneakers.
  • Make a Breakup Playlist Like an Ode: Don’t skip the sad tracks after a split. Trust me, feeling the bruise (and singing loudly alongside it) is necessary. No one ever healed completely to the sound of generic optimism. Besides, there’s always Lizzo for when you’re ready to hype yourself back up.

The Final Chorus

Each of us carries the soundtrack of our lives differently. Some keep it tucked in their pocket—an instinctual rhythm guiding their every step. Others curate it actively, crafting playlists for road trips, first dates, and rainy afternoons spent pondering what’s next.

For me, music is tethered to everything I’ve loved, lost, or dreamed about. It’s inescapable, tied to the shores of Myrtle Beach, the glow of carnival rides, the silence after heartbreak, and the long nights spent writing fiction alongside the steady crash of waves. My soundtrack isn’t linear—some songs repeat themselves, others fade into obscurity—but together, they tell the story of a life lived full of harmony, dissonance, and that rare, beautiful syncopation.

Now, go make your own playlist—and crank the volume up. If life is the movie, don’t settle for a dull score.