30 before 30 :: the songs

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These are the defining songs of the last decade of my life.

They aren’t necessarily my favorites. There’d be some overlap but, mostly, that would be a different list. These are the songs that shaped me, that found a spot in my heart and stayed. These are the songs I have a visceral reaction to — they bring me back to moments, remind me of places, or make me think of humans who, even if they’re not in my life anymore, helped create who I am.

There’s Hamilton. Of course. For half of this decade, I listened to this album more than anything else. I know every word and I worked embarrassingly hard to be able to kind of rap ‘Guns and Ships.’ I sobbed to ‘Burn’ in the back corner of a theatre in Chicago, fresh off the biggest heartache of my decade. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or where I am, ‘Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’ will make me cry every time. This musical has pushed me to write, create, and take chances I didn’t think I could (or should).

There are the songs from college: ‘I Won’t Give Up’ is a song I can’t *stand* now but was all I listened to when my college boyfriend and I broke up. ‘Call Me Maybe’ brings me back to the middle of the crowded Old Broadway dance floor, buzzed on Wonder Woman shots and hoping I’d run into Cute Justin, my rebound crush. ‘Some Nights’ reminds me of the endless runs that Megan and I went on the summer before our senior year, and the talks we had as we tried to sort through what the hell we were going to do with our lives.

There are the Portland songs: ‘This Is The Beginning’ is Steph and I in our empty apartment, before we brought in our haphazardly-assembled furniture and before we made a life in that city. ‘There Will Be A Light’ is sitting in the pews at Salt & Light Lutheran Church, a building that became my community.  ‘Rivers and Roads’ is my final drive away from Portland, through the Columbia Gorge when I wondered what the hell might be waiting for me in Minnesota.

There are the songs that accompanied me on the big lessons of this decade: ‘The Climb’ reminds me that I shouldn’t run a half-marathon if I haven’t run a single mile in a long while. And that I don’t actually like running long distances at all. ‘Give Me Everything’ by Pitbull and ‘Bitch, I’m Madonna,’ ironically, remind me about deep friendship and the lifesaving role of my circle. ‘Heavy’ reminds me not to abandon myself for anyone or anything that makes me feel inferior.

I could add 31 more songs to share stories about from this decade. I could make lists of lyrics or books or quotes or places or even the food I’ve consumed that’s somehow shaped me these last ten years. Maybe I will, and maybe you should too, even if you’re not turning 30 on April 1st. If anything, this exercise has reminded me that everything has purpose. I believe it’s all part of shaping who we are, even if it feels small or insignificant at the time.

When I listen to ‘I Can Change’ on repeat for a month straight? That’s probably going to help me believe that I’m capable of change. When I reread ‘Tiny Beautiful Things’ every year? Those words are going to stick close to me and come to me when I need some wisdom. The fact that I’ve had the same salad for most weekdays of the past four years? Well, at least I’m getting my vegetables. It all stays with us, inside of us somewhere.

And. One last thing. It’s not a fair question to ask of myself, and yet, my very favorite song on this list? ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. There are so many core moments from the past ten years connected to this song: it’s been my karaoke selection in so many cities, singing my heart out to a crowd of strangers and watching them sing along with me. It’s the song I dance to in my bathroom as I get ready for an exciting or hard day. It’s an immediate mood booster when I hear it out in the world, like in the grocery store or in the middle of a workout class.

And while this song is lighthearted, its words are also a reminder of a journey I’ve been on this past decade. Because I do wanna dance with somebody, and I do want to find someone who loves me. But another journey I’ve been on in my 20s? I’ve learned how to love and dance with myself — and that’s been just as worthwhile.

the miley cyrus bikini from walmart.

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Since I’m on a cleaning-out-my-”Writing Drafts”-folder kick, I’m sharing a post that I started (and, surprisingly, finished) in 2015. Beyond my Drafts folder on Google Drive, it’s actually been sitting as a Draft on my website since then, too. I never published it because it felt vulnerable in a different way than some of my other writing did; a little too vulnerable compared to thoughts about love and faith and vocation.

This is a post about my body.

I’ve been hesitant to share this with the world because bodies are sacred and bodies are complicated. Our bodies are our temples, but they are often temples that we wish were a little thinner, curvier, lighter, tanner, something-different-than-what-they-are. We wish we had a temple other than our own. What I wrote in this post resonated with me, and I was nervous to put that in the world for fear it wouldn’t resonate with others. There was fear of writing the “wrong” thing about body image, of being judged for having these particular thoughts about my body, of making it known that I struggled with negative thoughts about my body that translated into something bigger than just “negative thoughts,” and that those morphed into a deep wrestling with my worth. I wasn’t ready to share this as it was all happening in 2015 -- the thoughts, the struggle, the therapy, the slow and draining work of moving through it all -- but I am now.

This post doesn’t ring quite as true to me anymore. I’m in a different kind of relationship with my body these days, one where I move it often and challenge it because that feels fun and good, one where I marvel at how strong it feels when I run and lift, one where I feel comfortable and confident in a way I never have before. And yet, some of this writing still does ring true.

My hope with finally sending this into the interwebs — as with all writing — is to shine the flashlight on the dark, messy parts of life, so that we can meet there and recognize that we’re not alone in that darkness. That, actually, we’ve never been alone at all.

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I went to the coast a few weekends ago. The night before we left, I went to the website through which we had rented our cozy cabin. After reading the reviews and browsing through the accommodations list, I discovered the greatest hidden treasure in the history of girls’ weekends everywhere: THERE WAS A HOT TUB.

My heart immediately started doing the quick-feet, shuffle-around, happy dance. I opened our message thread and typed, “THERE IS A HOT TUB!” I envisioned sinking into the 103-degree, chlorinated water; pushing back into the high-powered jets for a free massage; letting the sunshine or the moonlight hit my face as I entered into full relaxation mode. I don’t claim to know what heaven looks like, but for an often-stressed full-time AmeriCorps volunteer, that hot tub was going to feel pretty close to it. Add a glass of red wine and best friends within arm’s reach, and it’d be like sitting next to Jesus himself.

But then, almost as quickly as I had started the hot tub dance, I stopped. A deep, loud, echoing voice came over the loudspeakers of my brain and said one word: bikini. My once-dancing heart quickly stopped; I morphed into an embarrassed 8th grader at her first school dance: shuffling over to stand by the wall, staring at her pigeon-toed feet, peering up through her needs-to-be-cut-(and-probably-washed) bangs, wondering why she came to this stupid dance in the first place. 

Because, in order to enjoy the hot tub, my body was going to have to put on a bikini. And I had not bought a new bikini since high school. 

I vividly remember making this bikini purchase. It was the summer before my senior year and I waltzed into one of the Fargo Walmart stores and found this strapless, ruffled Miley Cyrus bikini on sale. I would love to say that I bought it because it was an emergency: that I was on my way out of town, and there were no other stores around that carried bikinis, and that this particular bikini was the only one left in the entire store. But no. I voluntarily walked into a Walmart and bought a Miley Cyrus swimsuit.

I would also love to say that my swimsuit choice was the only reason that caused me to have such a strong reaction to my brain’s loudspeakers blaring “bikini.” But that would be lying, too. Because a lot has changed since 2008, including how I feel in that bikini.

Even though I knew that it was normal for my body to be different than it was in 2008, to have changed and gained and lost and grown, my initial reaction was some combination of “Shit. Damn. I don’t want to wear a bikini. Especially not this bikini. I don’t want people to see me in a bikini. Would it be weird if I just wore my clothes into the hot tub?”

It’s a shitty feeling, to question how you look and how you think other people think you look. It’s an even shittier feeling when that questioning and doubting about your body turns into questioning and doubting about you — all of you. Your worth, your enough-ness, your value as a human. There are hundreds of books and millions of words from folks who write about this struggle; the pressures from society and magazines and the omnipresent “them” who says we are to be a certain way. And, even more so, books and words about the pressure and unrealistic expectations we put on ourselves. The battle between logic (2008 was over SEVEN years ago! Of course my body is different.) and these subconscious beliefs about how we “should” look and feel and be turn into a constant loop.

But I packed the bikini anyway, right next to the muffled loudspeaker voice whispering “bikini.” And on that Saturday at the coast, when we decided to go into the hot tub, I pulled it (the bikini, not the loudspeaker voice) out of the corner of my duffel bag. I slowly pulled the two pieces of flowery, white fabric over my body. And then, armed with a glass of wine and two best friends, I went to the back patio. I felt the water with my free hand and remembered my initial reaction to the hot tub: chlorine! massage! relaxation! I balanced my drink on the ledge and shook off my cover-up.

Was I self-conscious about how my 24-year-old body looked in the bikini I bought for my 17-year-old body? Yes. Did the loudspeaker voice creep back in as I dropped my cover-up and stepped into the hot tub? Yes. Did I get in anyway? Yes.

There are shitty feelings that enter into our brains. This is a reality for humans everywhere, and those feelings come in about all sorts of things. Our jobs! Our families! Remembering that time we accidentally chased someone down on the street because we thought it was someone else! Our bodies! Our bodies.

This one’s especially present for women, for a lot of reasons: we live in a heteropatriarchal society that places our value and worth on how we look. How much we weigh. How our bodies look in bikinis and skinny jeans and tank tops. I was able to shut up the loudspeaker voice this one time, but the shitty feelings will inevitably enter again. And again and again.

But it’s an even shittier feeling to stay away from the hot tub, keeping your clothes on while everyone else splashes around. To stay against the wall at the school dance, watching everyone else do the Cha Cha Slide. To spend your time wishing that your temple was a little bit like hers, or that if you were just skinnier/more toned/tanner/anything different than who you are, that’s when life would -- poof! -- be different. That’s finally when you’d hop in the hot tub or dance the night away. It’s an even shittier feeling knowing that you are the only one who notices or cares about your armpit bulge and squishiness — and that you are the only one holding you back from doing the quick-feet, shuffle-around happy dance in your heart.

I have since thrown away the Miley Cyrus bikini from Walmart. I finally got one from a retailer that doesn’t have questionable labor practices and from a brand that isn’t named after someone I used to watch on the Disney Channel. Because whether it’s a hot tub or the Pacific Ocean or the Minnesota lakes, I’m not staying away. I have to get in the water and back on the dance floor. These are the places where life happens — real, squishy, sometimes-shitty life. And I hope I stay in the water until my toes prune. I hope I stay on the dance floor until my feet blister.

I hope you go to those places too, and I hope you stay.