If my life had a soundtrack, it’d be a little Helen Reddy vinyl 🎶, a little Queen Greatest Hits record, a dash of Bee Gees… and a whole lot of “What on earth just happened?”
Music didn’t just find me—it rescued me.
I grew up in a house where stability was a stranger, privacy was currency, and the volume knob on life was always turned up a notch higher than you’d like. We had love, we had laughter, but we also had alcoholism, secrets, and the kind of family drama that makes reality TV producers drool. I was the youngest—usually too young to be taken seriously and too old to pretend I didn’t notice what was going on.
So, like a lot of 70s kids, I found my refuge in my bedroom—with a record player. At four, my prized possession wasn’t a doll—it was a vintage-style Bluetooth record player and a stack of Disney read-along storybooks with 45s. Sure, those records told me “When you hear the chime, turn the page,” but before long I was sneaking my mom’s real albums. That’s when the magic began.
Helen Reddy, Bette Midler, Dionne Warwick, the Carpenters, Anne Murray—these women sang about feelings I couldn’t yet name but somehow understood. I didn’t just listen to them, I became them. I’d act out entire routines in my room, a pint-sized one-woman show for an audience of… well, me. In those moments, I wasn’t the quiet kid trying to be perfect so maybe Dad wouldn’t come home drunk and angry. I was a star, with stage lights only I could see—clutching a retro microphone like it was destiny.
As I got older, the playlist grew. The Bee Gees taught me about heartbreak. Journey made me believe in escape. Queen gave me permission to be dramatic.
One of my most vivid memories is singing “Memory” from Cats for my high school graduation. It wasn’t even my first choice, but my accompanist bailed, and the teacher suggested it. I spent two days learning it, terrified but determined. I made it through 2½ minutes without passing out, even hit most of the notes—until the very last one, when I went sharp. Out in the crowd, I caught the synchronized eye-rolls of two girls who had never given me the time of day. And just like that, teenage me let their opinion crush my moment. (For the record, here’s the album: “Memory” from Cats.)
Looking back now, I wish I could time-travel to that stage, take that microphone, and say, “Ladies, I’m gonna sing this note however I want, because one day I’ll realize your faces don’t define me.” But at seventeen, I wasn’t there yet. Still, the seed was planted: music gave me courage, even when my voice shook.
Over the years, I’ve realized music wasn’t just my escape—it was my anchor. It held me steady through heartbreak, grief, and the awkward comedy of life. Like the time I mistook the urinal in a Port-o-Potty for a “purse holder.” (In my defense, it was conveniently shaped. Also, I thought those little pink cakes were air fresheners.)
Even now, music is my north star. It reminds me where I’ve been, who I’ve loved, and how far I’ve come. The purity of Karen Carpenter’s voice still moves me, and I see my own story in the contrasts—her anorexia, my struggles with weight, our shared search for acceptance.
In the end, music didn’t just save my life—it gave me a way to tell it. To laugh at the absurd parts, cry through the hard ones, and find the melody in all of it.
Because when the world gets too loud, sometimes the only thing to do is put on a record—maybe on my turntable with built-in speakers—close your eyes, and let the song remind you: you’re still here. And you’re still singing.
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