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.