A few years ago, I declared to the Universe that I wanted to find a true community—a space where I could be my most authentic self. I had no idea then that my journey would not only bring me deep, meaningful connections through coaching but would also remind me of the lifelong soundtrack that has been woven into my personal transformation. Music has been more than just a companion—it’s been a mirror, a guide, and a source of profound emotional release.
One of my clients, a classically trained musician and Wayfinder Life Coach, introduced me to her project, The Music of You, and it hit me like a confirmation from the Universe. Our conversation reignited something I had always known: music has punctuated every chapter of my life, shaping the way I feel, process, and evolve.
Growing up, music wasn’t just background noise—it was everything. My parents indulged my curiosity, exposing me to everything from ABBA to Dolly Parton, from Motown legends to rock anthems. I had an almost obsessive fascination with sound; I wanted to know how it worked, how it made me feel. My first stereo was a massive wooden console that played vinyl and 8-tracks. I spent hours twisting its many knobs, adjusting bass and treble, experimenting with how each setting changed the experience.
I think I manifested the iPod before it existed. As a kid, I was already dreaming of a way to digitize my music collection—something compact that would let me carry everything with me. Before that dream became reality, I spent hours making mix tapes, meticulously crafting the perfect sequence of songs, transferring my favorite vinyl tracks to cassette so I could take them anywhere.
When I was a teenager, music became my escape. My childhood was marked by loss—my mother was sick, and I had no control over the reality unfolding around me. But I did have music. Hard rock, heavy metal, and grunge gave me permission to feel. When I heard the wailing guitar of Guns N’ Roses for the first time, it felt like an electric shock to my system. Those hair bands, those rebels screaming their truth, validated something in me that I couldn’t yet name.
The 90s ushered in a shift. Depeche Mode spoke to my restless, melancholic soul, while the gritty sounds of grunge reflected my inner turbulence. I found solace in Nine Inch Nails, Metallica, and Rage Against the Machine—music that wasn’t afraid to be raw and unapologetic. But I also found myself drawn to Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg, their beats hypnotic, their lyrics powerful in a different way.
Live music became my church. My first concert was supposed to be Guns N’ Roses, but I passed up the opportunity, assuming I’d see them again. I didn’t know it would take 25 years. When I finally saw them on their Not in This Lifetime tour, I stood in the pit for six hours, exhausted but euphoric. I wasn’t just watching a concert—I was closing a loop in my own story.
Some concerts changed my life. At Lollapalooza, I felt the energy of thousands moving as one. At a U2 concert, I cried as they projected the names of those lost on 9/11. When Prince made an unexpected appearance at a Lenny Kravitz show, I nearly passed out from pure shock and joy.
Some concerts, I regret missing. In 1997, I had a ticket to see INXS. I skipped it for a road trip, not realizing it would be my last chance to see Michael Hutchence before he died. I vowed never to make that mistake again.
Music is memory. A single song can transport me back to a moment, a feeling, a version of myself long gone but never forgotten.
As a coach, I often use the Body Compass tool, guiding clients to tune into their physical responses to past experiences. When I first did this exercise, my most joyful memory? Standing in AT&T Stadium, watching my beloved Cowboys take the field while AC/DC’s Thunderstruck blasted through the speakers. My heart swelled, and I cried—not from sadness, but from the sheer energy of the moment.
Music isn’t just something I listen to. It’s something I feel. It moves through me, shapes me, and reflects me back to myself. It’s the music of me—and it’s still playing.
And that’s the beauty of music: it never stops evolving, just like we do.
