This year, my beloved grandmother died. Saying passed feels wrong—she isn’t gone. She’s just dead. I still feel her every day. When my apartment is a little warmer than usual, when the moon is a hair brighter than it normally shines. I dreamt of her looking for something, frantic—and a few nights later, my father dreamt of her holding hands with my grandfather, finally reunited after five years of separation.
I’d like to imagine myself feeling a long continuum of connection to everyone I’ve ever lost, but I will be honest and say that my grandparents are truly the only two people who I still feel in my every day life. Not a day goes by that I don’t blow their picture frame a kiss or think about something they once told me. They were the people who taught me kindness. They made me feel special and loved in a way no one else did.
Losing them was a guttural, clawed-out, hollowing feeling. When my grandfather died, I called grief hotlines for well over a year wondering how I could still not be over it. And my grandmother’s loss is still a fresh, blooming bud that is taking new colors every day. It’s a familiar feeling, watching it unfurl in the afternoon light, only noticing it’s changed when you look away.
And it’s through this process that I do what I do best—revisit heartbreak in all its manifest forms. I’m a bit of a masochist, I know. It’s hardwired in my brain chemistry (thanks, psychiatrist!), and without going too deeply into diagnoses, I’m often left with a physical pain in my chest that feels like it’s about to overflow and burst open when I’m overly emotional. In a cartoon, this is my superpower. In this world, this is when I make a playlist.
It’s funny—Sarah texted me and sent me a link to a music writing grant. I’d never thought about myself as a music writer, and then remembered how I was thrilled to write about Kendrick and Ariana. And then I thought about how one of my closest friendships was largely because Samy would text me when they had a free concert ticket from the radio station on any given night, and I would clear my calendar to stand in a crowd with strangers waiting to me indoctrinated anew.
I’m not unique in being a music-lover. And, to be honest, my taste in music isn’t particularly nuanced or fresh. But there’s something about a well-written lyric and orchestral backing that I will absolutely swoon over. It’s transportive. If you close your eyes, you’re entirely awash in a hard-crafted bit of emotion, where an inhale matters, where the choice of snare or hi-hat is crucial. A harmony can build tension or be its great release. And the best part—I’m in the backseat.
I played classical piano growing up (lol) and did musical theater in high school (LOL), but I’ve never been anywhere near producer or, god forbid, lyricist. It’s foreign to me, and every attempt I have made has been—for lack of a better word—absolute shit. And as someone who loves to pick up hobbies and crafts or new skills and talents, there’s something forbidden fruit about music. So I do the only thing I can possibly do. Make a good fucking playlist.
I was thinking about this when I created a playlist tonight called “i’m 19 again.” I heard this amazing song by ex-child star Grace Vanderwaal (yes, of America’s Got Talent fame) about a horrible situationship under wraps, and was immediately transported. The desperation to be kept, even if kept secret, was paired with lilting synths that felt, well, childlike. And on an album about growing up under watching eyes, I knew how that felt. I grew up Catholic, and having any secret was radical. At 19, this lover was the first secret I didn’t confess to my priest.
Coincidentally, I’d also been listening to Katie Gregson-MacLeod’s new song “Teenage Love” after crossing her TikTok about how promoting her most vulnerable song felt disingenuous. The song lyrics in the background: “I hate that I’ll get old / before you know your crime / and that all I’ve got / is to make them rhyme.” My eyes shot open. This? Along with the title Teenage Love? Then the banger: “I hate that you had me before I was even mine.”
My solution was to put them into a playlist, where I could listen to reflections of my insecurity blasted deep into my ears. I added “Nineteen” by Charly Bliss, which I cried while listening to live (with Samy!), about meeting someone when doe-eyed and head over heels and then gutted by their leaving. I added “Two Slow Dancers” by Mitski, singing of the last ones out.
And when I’m making playlists, I remember that I’m a writer. Oh-ho-ho, do I remember. There’s a volta, a turn. And that volta comes from Mk.gee, whose song “Alesis” is basically the other side of the situationship, a man who is struggling with a need for escapism and also a fear of committing to someone who he is actually desperately committed to: “Don’t you wanna get a move on?” Immediately followed by Ariana Grande’s “i wish i hated you.” Self explanatory.
Another artist I saw live, HANA, singing: “Found you never knew me / Now I can find happy / Nothing to show but my name.” And last but not lease, “Loose Garment” by MUNA (featuring the lyrics “Used to wear my sadness like a choker / it had me by the throat / tonight I feel I’m draped in it like a loose garment / and I just let it flow.”
I make playlists for the same reasons I write poems. I feel big feelings and, like MUNA, let them flow until they reach a height, reach a precipice, and pass. When I sit back and look at a good poem, I immediately read it to Daniel. And when I feel big feelings about a playlist, I share it with my friends.
It’s much easier to create a solid beginning, middle, and end for a grief that you already know. It’s easy to write about that awful relationship you were/weren’t in when you were 19 because you’ve talked about it before. But every time I talk about it, I feel like I remember something new. A new dimension of feeling I’d blocked out of my memory. And sometimes what unlocks it is a good ass song.
I put together that playlist tonight and I listened to it all the way through. I felt that crazy feeling in my chest, when it feels like I’m about to either throw up or have a heart attack, and then I felt it slowly fade away. I didn’t know why I felt it earlier today, or yesterday, or any other day—but when I listen to sad songs or a sad playlist, it’s like watching “Pride and Prejudice” (2005) on a bad day. I just needed a reason to cry it out, to give my feelings a name, even if it doesn’t fit perfectly.
What I mean to say is that I have been transposing my grief into other parts of my life. This period of sadness has led to reclusion, which has led me to think about chronic illness, being alone at home in high school while my friends were out, and tons of other things. Each one of these individual thoughts comes with their own set of memories and emotions, some of which I’ve learned more deeply than others. And sometimes, when I’m feeling blue, I like to think of other times I’ve felt blue. Maybe this is crazy, but I like to think of other times I’ve been sad as a way to tell myself that I made it through. Maybe I’m sad now, too, but I’m sad for a different reason, old reason begone. My grandma is dead, yes, but I was once absurdly sad about a man who was borderline predatory, and look at me now—I’m cohabitating an apartment with my longterm partner Daniel, who has just spent the past hour showering and flossing while I write.
It’s not a cure-all, and it’s not a prescription. But hey, if you want to feel shadows of how I did when I was nineteen to see shadows of yourself when you were nineteen, please, be my guest. Hopefully you see that you’re older, better, and alive on the other side.