The Soundtrack of Us: Memory, Music, and the Mile Markers of Youth

You ever hear a song and suddenly you’re not where you are anymore?

You’re back in a beat-up car with your homies, windows down, the volume way too loud for the busted speakers. Someone’s yelling the lyrics off-beat, someone else is rolling up in the backseat, and you’re just riding—no destination, no curfew that really matters, no real weight yet on your shoulders. Just moments strung together by bass lines and verses you still know by heart.

One for me? That time was a decade ago.

J. Cole – “Work Out”

August Alsina – “I Luv This Shit”.

Every time I hear them, I’m back. Back to vlogging late at night. Back to writing songs with my crew like we were chasing Grammys from our garages. Back to house parties that had no business going as hard as they did. Back to making questionable decisions and surviving them with inside jokes and scraped-up knees.

Life felt simple.

Not easy—but simple.

Day by day. Quarter mile at a time.

And the music? It wasn’t just background noise. It was the glue. The pulse. The one thing that never judged, never left, never stopped understanding. It knew when we were reckless. It knew when we were heartbroken. It knew when we were high on life or just… trying to feel something at all.

That emotional thread—that’s why I created My Sound Project.

Because music has power. Real, soul-shifting power.

It can take you back to a version of yourself you forgot existed… or maybe tried to forget.

Sometimes, that trip back stings.

Not all memories are warm.

Not all nostalgia is sweet.

But even the painful ones serve a purpose.

Music lets us feel what we’ve buried.

It helps us heal by making us remember.

And sometimes that release, that ache, that wave of memory—it’s exactly what we need.

That’s not weakness. That’s human. That’s healthy.

So here’s my ask to you, reading this right now: Think of that song.

You know the one.

The one that drops a memory into your lap before the chorus even hits.

The one that makes you close your eyes and say, “Damn, I remember everything about this moment.”

Let yourself go there. Let it hit. Smile. Cry. Dance in your room. Text that old friend. Just feel it. Because in that memory, in that music, is a version of you that’s still a part of who you are now.

The soundtrack doesn’t end when the phase does.

It becomes the beat behind the person you’ve grown into.

So turn it up.

Let it play.

Let it remind you how far you’ve come - and how much further you’re still going.