Edit Desk: Months measured in music

Since the winter of 2022, I have created a Spotify playlist for every month, each carefully titled and paired with a handpicked cover image from my camera roll. 

This tradition began my senior year of high school.

My high school had a designated parking lot for seniors, coveted for its proximity to the building’s exit doors. When the bell rang at the end of the day, every senior would beeline to their cars parked at the west wing of the building. 

Traffic immediately swelled with buses, carpools and pickup lines. Consequently, the senior lot sat in stillness. Buses had the right of way, which delayed us even more. 

I’d sit there for more than 20 minutes every day. I never complained. 

Those 20 minutes became my sanctuary — my time to listen. I wanted to relive the month’s anthems, fleeting soundtracks that scored each chapter of my life.

In January of that year, my playlist featured songs like “Cardigan” by Taylor Swift and “Bloom” by The Paper Kites. I also played comforting oldies too, like “Take it Easy” by The Eagles and “Where You Lead” by Carole King.

Music was my grounding force during a time of uncertainty. I’d just been admitted to Lehigh and felt overwhelmed by the thought of the upcoming fall semester. Leaving behind my life in New York felt impossible. 

As June approached, I had acquired my cap, gown and yearbook. Nostalgia filled that month’s playlist — songs like Miley Cyrus’s “Butterfly Fly Away” and Billy Joel’s “My Life.” They encapsulated the ending of a chapter. 

“I promise you there will come a day, butterfly fly away. Take those dreams and make them all come true,” Cyrus sang as I drove home from graduation. 

My drive to Bethlehem soon followed in August. My stomach flipped with nerves.

I was the only person from my hometown attending Lehigh. As we passed the “Welcome to Pennsylvania” sign, Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” blasted as an ode to the short-lived joy of summer barbecues and graduation parties. 

As the year unfolded, so did the content of my playlists. Adjusting to college was challenging — simultaneously trying to learn calculus and finding my friends, all while discovering who I wanted to be. 

I began romanticizing my semester, listening to songs that mirrored early 2000s romcom soundtracks. Walking up the hill to the Dravo dorm, “There She Goes” by The La’s and “Here Comes The Sun” by The Beatles played in my headphones. 

More than a year later, I had the opportunity to intern in Edinburgh, Scotland for the summer. 

My sophomore year had just ended, and I’d finally found my groove at Lehigh. But when June came around, so did my anxiety. I’d never traveled alone internationally. 

Hugging my dad at the JFK drop-off line is something I’ll never forget. When that hug ended, I was handed my suitcase. I felt the weight, both literally and figuratively.

As the plane flew over the Scottish countryside, Highland cows lined the fields below. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac streamed through my earbuds as a tear trickled down my face. 

What had I signed up for? 

The pit in my stomach grew, despite a stream of comforting texts from my mom. The start of my first year at Lehigh felt juvenile compared to this feeling. 

As I sat in the Uber on the way to my new apartment, I scrolled through my June playlist. 

“Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers was playing. “It’s better to feel the pain than nothing at all.” 

I nodded. 

That summer changed my life. I met some of my best friends and discovered my passion for journaling. I documented everything, from nights cheering on the Scottish football team to self-guided “Harry Potter” tours across the city. 

Although it was hard to be far from certainty, the unknown became thrilling. I was truly living for myself. 

So when I debated studying abroad again last fall, the decision came easily. I remembered how alive I felt. I needed to keep pushing myself. 

I chose Paris. Of course there were nerves, but I had my playlists. 

Now as a senior, I’ve realized how music has shaped every aspect of my life, from a timid high school student to someone preparing to graduate this spring. 

Along with my roommates, I often sit outside on our porch with a speaker. Many of the songs we play end up in a playlist, like “High Tops” by Del Water Gap and “Supercut” by Lorde. 

My playlists are a time capsule, an auditory journal of who I was and who I’m becoming. Music is a tool of self-reflection, a living barometer of our changing selves. 

When life becomes uncertain, I will always have my playlists.