Last year, my roommate climbed and completed 24 bouldering routes in honor of her 24th birthday. I tried, and failed, to write about 24 things that helped liberate me in honor of turning 24. While there are some nuggets of wisdom alongside some nice prose, it didn’t inspire me to continue writing it. I tried updating it this year, but felt bogged down by an underlying desire to write about something that I actually felt, rather than perceived liberation. I didn’t feel free; I still felt weighed down by the failed formation of a relationship, my diabetes, my own mental health concerns, and my work. I previously wrote, “in a time where freedom seems impossible, celebrating things that set you free seems like a good way to ring in 25 years of life” but I didn’t feel free. So I did what I always do when I feel something and want to work through it; I made a playlist of songs that help me connect to those feelings, listened to it on repeat, and allowed myself the emotional space to process it.

It starts with a song by Mitski, a musician with whom I intimately identify, and ends with a song by Ariana Grande, who, despite being a cancer, exudes an incredible amount of Leo energy. It goes from a place of intense hurt

You’re the one, you’re all I ever wanted I think I’ll regret this…

to a place of growth and progress

I’m picking it up, I’m picking it up, I’m loving, I’m living, I’m picking it up.

And while I’m still leaning into that growth and progress that Ariana sings of, I find myself grateful to be surrounded by songs that remind me of myself, the process of healing, and the promise of that initial liberation I was drawn to write about.

There are songs on this playlist that feel like fate and found me at the right time. Phoebe Bridgers’ Motion Sickness, came to me in waves. In January, I made a playlist called, “quiet, acoustic, possibly sad” comprised of songs that dwell in that private space I go to silently feel sadness, self-blame, and pain. Motion Sickness was the first song suggested by Spotify’s algorithms and it slipped right into my heart.

I hate you for what you did, and I miss you like a little kid.

I played that song, and eventually the album, on repeat for almost 5 months. When I drove home while drunk one night after drinking at Adobe, I blasted this song and sobbed, immediately knowing that something needed to change.

The live version is even more devastating than the one that appears on the album. I saw Phoebe Bridgers play during my trip to Scotland at a church-turned-concert venue called St. Lukes. I took a train to Glasgow, listening to Soccer Mommy the whole ride there, and watched her play from the balcony while drinking a PBR. The live version is pared down, but swells with anger, hurt, and pain at the bridge. Phoebe’s voice breaks when she reaches the final chorus in the most beautifully heartbreaking way. The bridge and final chorus is one that, once you’ve heard it live, seems tamped down in the recorded version.

There are other songs that I’ve known forever, but came back to me to try make sense of wanting to be done with something but still being emotionally invested in it. Nick Lowe’s–or, more recently, Letters to Cleo’s cover of–Cruel to be Kind snuck back around when I thought about a new karaoke song, having sung Africa by Toto one too many times (once, in fact, is enough).

I pick myself up off the ground to have you knock me back down again and again. And when I ask you explain, you say “you gotta be cruel to be kind in the right measure.”

Cruel to be Kind is a sneaky song. It hits you with a poppy beat and catchy lyrics that distract you from the fact that, oh wait, I’m still hurt and I never got closure. You’re mentally moved on, but emotionally, you’re still in the thick of it. For me, I spent session upon session talking about it in therapy, saying for months, “I’m tired of talking about it, but…” and starting the cycle all over again. Nick Lowe, who is still actively making music as witty and fun as Cruel to be Kind, writes the kind of song that makes you not hate that cycle, to be happy that you’re trying to move on, that acknowledges that you’re trying to put in that work but not getting anywhere. It’s an essential song for working through those tough feelings that maybe you really don’t want to work through at all.

And there are songs, like Bleachers’ I Wanna Get Better and Alex Lahey’s I Haven’t Been Taking Care of Myself, that blessed me with that desire to put the emotional legwork into working on my own damn healing.

I didn’t know I was broken ‘til I wanted to change

Jack Antonoff’s highly biographical I Wanna Get Better is an anthem for self-improvement by way of breakdown. It’s a strengths-based way of saying “if I don’t stop now, I will never stop and this will hurt me.” As therapeutic helpers, we often say that people change when they’re ready. Maybe someone can’t take on what a program is asking of them right now, or isn’t ready to start analyzing their own thoughts and behaviors in therapy, or hasn’t been able to take the blame off of someone else and place it where it needs to be, with themself. In Motivational Interviewing, clinicians utilize specific therapeutic techniques to assess a client’s readiness for change, what ambivalences exist, and what motivates their clients to continue that changed behavior. This is a technique that I’ve trained in and utilize with clients on a daily basis. It’s also a technique I use with myself when I start to ruminate. I get to ask myself open ended questions, like “why do I think I’m still hung up on this thing?” or “what kinds of things can I take responsibility for right now?” that lead to changes in behaviors or realizations about myself. I get to realize that I want to get better, that I haven’t been taking care of myself in healthy ways. These songs helped me get to that place of readiness to change and to take it on headfirst.

This collection of songs is a meditation on where I started this past year, the intense feelings of loss, inadequacy, and brokenness, the stubbornness of change, and how I planted seeds for change. These songs cushioned many falls, called out my ambivalence, and pushed me in the direction I needed to go. I’ll take Kacey Musgraves’ words with me as I press eject on the proverbial mixtape “24”, load “25” into the tape deck and press play.

Darling, you take the high horse and I’ll take the high road…