​Spring has sprung around our small homestead, and with it, we rarely have a moment’s peace.
Between the clucking, honking, buzzing, bleating, mooing, quacking, scratching, and whatever nonsense the goats are planning, there’s always some kind of noise or chaos happening somewhere. Over the weekend, as I moved through the pens and stalls and interacted with all the varying personalities around here, I found myself wondering: what if they all had theme songs?
So, naturally, I decided to peruse my favorites playlist, which spans several genres, to find songs that felt like they matched the unique quirks of our animals.
It only felt right to start with the chickens, some of the first animals we got long before we ever really considered ourselves a homestead.
Like any animal, their personalities vary from chicken to chicken. We’ve had some that were very affectionate, and we’ve had some that were holy terrors. The batch of ladies we have now aren’t extremely loving, but they also don’t give you the side-eye every time you walk into the coop. They just work, work, work, and squawk most of the day.
After wrangling them this weekend, I did discover they are also a “little” dramatic.
For this particular batch of critters, I was torn between “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton and “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” by Shania Twain. Between the two, I felt like they captured both the work ethic and the full henhouse confidence of our chickens. These ladies are kind of divas, and honestly, with good reason. They stay busy laying eggs, scratching around, keeping themselves occupied, and announcing every achievement like they just headlined a concert.
They are a great example that hard work and drama can coexist beautifully.
The next animals we got were our turkeys. While these birds are similar to chickens in that they are hardworking and alert, they usually go about life in a much more mellow way. Much less drama. Watching them, they seem far steadier than the chickens. Maybe it’s because they aren’t as small, so they don’t feel the need to prove themselves quite as much.
For these birds, I had to go with “Good Time” by Alan Jackson.
There’s something relaxed and sun-warmed about that song that feels very turkey to me. They move through the day at their own pace, scratching, pecking, wandering, and keeping an eye on everything without acting like every small inconvenience deserves a dramatic announcement. They’re productive, but they’re not frantic. Present, but not pushy. Busy, but not burdened by the same level of poultry theater happening elsewhere in the yard.
Both the turkeys and this song remind me that not everything has to be rushed or loud to be productive. Sometimes you can just be steady, content, and quietly about your business.
Then there are my ducks.
These were some of the creatures I was most excited to pick a song for, but I really had to get myself into the correct mindset first. That mostly meant getting “The Goose Steps High” from The Aristocats out of my head, because once that song starts playing mentally, it’s hard to get away from the image of waddling waterfowl with a mission.
Once I finally stopped hearing that on repeat, I was able to think about the actual personality of my ducks. They are quirky, chatty, and cheerful almost all the time. They are social little creatures who seem to bring their own weather system of enthusiasm wherever they go. Even when they’re playing in the mud, they act like they’ve discovered treasure.
They are little rays of sunshine, which led me to assign them “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.
This song is so nostalgic to me, and as soon as I thought about it in reference to my ducks, it just clicked. They remind me that joy doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it waddles like nobody’s watching.
The geese were where I really hit a wall, predominantly because they may be my least favorite creatures on the farm.
They are loud, angry, dramatic little villains who seem to believe history will remember them purely because they hissed until their dying breath. Honestly, I debated assigning them “The Imperial March” and calling it a day because let’s face it, geese don’t just walk anywhere. They patrol like little Vaders.
However, I decided I needed to give them a fair shot at a real song, not that the Star Wars soundtrack is lacking in any way.
After doing a little more digging through my playlist, I landed on “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy, because yes, these animals absolutely behave like future generations will study their reign.
Every homestead has security. Ours just happens to be feathered, furious, and slightly unhinged.
Our goats were another pair I went back and forth on. I had a few songs bouncing around, but none of them felt quite right. I’m still not entirely sure about the song I landed on, but it also somehow feels fitting for two boys who’ve been raised together and do almost everything together.
Because of the way they interact with each other, I had to go with “You’re My Best Friend” by Queen.
Our two boys have similar personalities, except one is more judgmental while the other is like the dopey uncle who is easygoing and game for anything. Both of them, though, are lovebugs. They may be mischievous, stubborn, and emotionally demanding at times, but there’s something endearing about animals that want connection so openly.
They are the embodiment of chaos wrapped in affection.
I almost didn’t include the rabbit in this because we are down to one, and I always feel a little sad for her. We used to have many more rabbits, but with age, some have passed away and others were butchered. Still, with all the loud animals we have, I wanted to reflect on the quieter moments that come from these creatures too.
Rabbits aren’t flashy or demanding. They can be feisty, but most of the time they’re gentle. And every time we’ve had rabbits, children have loved them. There is just something soft and almost storybook-like about them.
So when I stumbled across “Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the Frog in my playlist, it felt reminiscent not only of rabbits themselves, but also of how I feel when I watch our lone little rabbit.
The song feels innocent and wistful without being sad in a heavy way. And that’s how our rabbit feels to me. She doesn’t add to the noise. Instead she softens it.
Our cow, Molly, on the other hand, is the exact opposite.
She is judgmental and LOUD.
As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t need a full emotional analysis like some of the other animals. She has opinions, and she isn’t afraid to express them. Loudly. So it felt almost knee-jerk to gift her “No” by Meghan Trainor, though I personally prefer the Anthem Lights version.
Like this song, Molly is stubborn, vocal, and very unimpressed.
Not all animals need a soundtrack. Some just need a one-word mission statement.
This brings me to the last of the critters on our homestead: our bees.
Again, I had to get the comical, cartoonish songs out of my head before I could find a song that truly fit them. “Flight of the Bumblebee” felt like the obvious choice at first, mostly because, well, bees. I also considered “Heigh-Ho” and calling it good. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized neither song really captured the feeling our bees give.
They are busy, steady, and peaceful until pushed.
Unlike so much of the chaos that comes from the poultry, the goats, and the occasional bovine opinion, bees feel purposeful. They bring in that warm, sunlit feeling that reminds you small work, repeated daily, can create something meaningful over time.
With that in mind, I couldn’t not give them “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles.
It is another nostalgic song for me, full of hope and purpose, and it felt like it reflected them perfectly.
As I pieced together musical voices for all of our critters, I came to the realization that maybe that’s what makes home feel so cozy. Not the quiet. Not the order. And certainly not the geese trying to overthrow the republic.
It’s the familiar music of all of it together.
The clucks, the honks, the buzzing, the mooing, the soft quiet corners, and the daily rhythm of creatures simply being what they are. Around here, the soundtrack is rarely peaceful, polished, or perfectly in tune.
But somehow, it sounds like home.

I started off the year stating that I wanted to romanticize my life intentionally. Almost immediately, the reality of another new year settled in, and I felt weighed down by it. As I’ve spent the last few blogs brainstorming topics and ideas, I’ve worked hard not to make those weights the center of my posts. While I love having an introspective space where people can hopefully feel seen and relate, I already spend so much time carrying those thoughts that I simply don’t want to live inside them here. At the same time, I don’t want to pretend that life is all rainbows and unicorns either.
As I took notes, wrote out half-thoughts, and quietly argued with myself, it occurred to me that I had a fairly fatal flaw in my thinking. Not talking about the troubles in my life isn’t avoidance. It’s setting a boundary with myself. And romanticizing my life isn’t pretending everything is perfect. It’s choosing to focus on the wonder of things.
To me, one of the most romantic things in the world is a love letter. I blame Jane Austen for this. Across her novels, she uses letters again and again, often at the most pivotal moments, especially when her male characters can no longer say what needs to be said out loud. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy writes to Elizabeth after she rejects him, not to persuade her, but to take responsibility and explain himself. In Persuasion, Captain Wentworth writes to Anne when he realizes he can no longer remain silent out of fear of rejection.
I think the thing I love most about letters is that they carry the weight of love, remorse, reflection, forgiveness, devotion, gratitude, friendship, to name a few, in a gentle and meaningful way. So that’s what I want this blog to be. A small collection of love letters to a few of the things that add a little wonder to my life.

​One of my most-used apps on my phone is Spotify. Whether it’s listening to my DJ while I catalog library books, turning on my favorites playlist in the car, putting on lofi during class independent work time, or listening to an audiobook while curled up in bed, Spotify plays through a good chunk of every day. As much time as I spend with it, I’ve started to notice that my playlists have become more like an autobiography than just entertainment.
My relationship with music has been long and winding, and its role shifts with each season of my life. There have been times when I’ve used it to get pumped up or motivated, but lately my playlists have leaned calm and nostalgic. Recently, I’ve been listening to Voila, Livingston, Sleep Token, Alex Warren, and Ben Platt, all artists whose songs feel soothing or wistful. They make the world a little less loud and a little more magical. Whether it’s the lyrics or the musicality, each one helps me breathe and escape the stresses that come with each day.
While I’m always discovering new music, there’s a corner of my Spotify reserved for the artists who’ve stayed with me through the years: Josh Turner, Rascal Flatts, Pentagon, Monsta X, and Celtic Thunder. When I play their songs, I’m immediately transported back in time. Josh Turner’s albums Haywire, Everything Is Fine, and Your Man always take me back to my freshman year, when I was wheelchair bound and spending afternoons playing Star Wars: Battlefront II with a friend instead of hanging out around town after school. When I listen to Pentagon’s “Shine” or Monsta X’s “Hero,” I see my nieces and me in the car, singing loudly in broken Korean.
Artists and songs hold memories just like books. The entertainment I consume becomes more than something to fill silence; it becomes a way to visit memories. Each song is a little time capsule, holding pieces of who I was and how I felt without me needing to say it out loud.
I’ve always loved music, country, gospel, rock, showtunes, but my taste hasn’t really changed. It has deepened. As I’ve grown older and lived through different experiences, I find myself hearing songs differently. Music I once skipped past in high school now hits deeper, like I finally understand what it was trying to say. That is the beauty of music. It grows with you. Sometimes it is a comforting hug you didn’t know you needed. Sometimes it is the thread that ties you to someone else, even in small ways.
When I look back at my playlists, their moods, and their seasons, I am reminded that they don’t define me. They remind me where I’ve been, who’s been with me, and how I am still growing.