Today is my 44th birthday. Leading up to this next trip around the sun, I’ve spent time journaling about the road that brought me here—the defining moments, the heartbreaks, the laughter, and the quiet in-betweens. One constant that has always nurtured me through it all is music. It’s been both an anchor and a compass, grounding me when life felt uncertain and reminding me of who I am beneath it all.
I grew up with my dad tapping his toe to George Jones and Dolly Parton, my mom dancing to Neil Diamond as she cleaned. Music was part of the everyday magic that made life feel alive. I’d swing as high as I could in the backyard, belting out Kokomo by The Beach Boys at the top of my lungs, certain that if I sang it loud enough, summer might never end.
Then came the years when songs carried the feelings my heart hadn’t yet learned to recognize. Jewel’s You Were Meant for Me echoed through tear-stained pillows when my teenage crush barely knew I existed. Later, the Goo Goo Dolls’ Iris played on repeat. First in the bliss of first love, then in heartbreak with of first loss. As I learned how love can open us up to the highest high and undo us to nothing.
And then came the sweet, defiant late-teen years—standing on the edge of adulthood. My girlfriends and I belted out every Ani DiFranco lyric we knew by heart, songs of heartbreak, anger, and political resistance that made us feel both invincible and deeply understood. We were each carrying our own private wounds, yet somehow singing together made the weight of the world feel just a little lighter.
When I met the man who would become my husband, music wove us together. He once pretended to know my favorite band, Death Cab for Cutie, just to impress me. The Killers’ Indie Rock & Roll became our anthem, pulsing through road trips, long-distance nights, and every dulces sueños late-night text.
Life kept playing new melodies as we became parents and our boys filled the house with laughter—belting out the wrong words to My Sharona, dancing wildly to Florence + The Machine, and knowing every line of War Pigs (Cake’s cover) by the time they were three. And then, the quieter songs came. Cat Stevens’ Father and Son after my husband’s father passed. Vince Gill’s Go Rest High on That Mountain when I said goodbye to my own dad. The Beatles’ In My Life when I lost my mom. Each loss, each note, stretched me, reminding me that even in grief, love still hums underneath.
Looking back, I see how every melody carried me through, urging me to keep moving, to feel deeply, and to find steadiness in change. The lyrics remain the same, even as their meaning shifts with me. A song that once made me cry now brings a smile, not because the story changed, but because I did.
Music is one of the most soulful ways I Nurture Myself. It amplifies my joy when I’m thriving, holds space when I’m low, and brings me back to the moments that compose the story of my life.
For you, maybe it’s something else.
What helps you return to yourself both in the highs and in the lows?
With resilience,
Kristie and the Dovetail Team
We’d love to hear the soundtrack of your life—join our community and tell us what songs shaped you.
Learn more about Nurturing Myself and the other Centering Skills here.