Stumbling upon my old last.fm profile sent me hurtling back nearly twenty years. Back to a time when, despite being fresh out of university and new to a demanding career, I still had an abundance of something I’m desperately short on now: time.
Every day, I’d come home to my small room at my parents’ house and disappear into a world of my own. I got lost in niche music blogs—the kind that became cult favorites for championing the obscure. My taste veered into experimental bluegrass and folk Americana, shaped largely by my colleagues: raccoon-eyed editors who, like me, spent their nights in the glow of a monitor instead of having a social life. Those were oddly good days, arriving on the heels of my first real heartbreak. That music was the soundtrack to me learning to accept myself again. It even led to the creation of an album that was born out of a desire to leave that slump for good. My soundtrack for hours of regret, repose, and tenacity.
So when did it all change?
The answer is simple and life-altering: my children were born. The long, quiet nights once filled with blog-hopping and headphone sessions were replaced by feedings and a new kind of purpose. Discovering music took a backseat. It had to. My taste became more subdued as I settled into the comfort of the familiar.
This brings up a question I still wrestle with: is it wise to languish in the past, content with a soundtrack that no longer evolves as time presses on? I still find good music to jam to, but nothing has captured me, possessed me, the way those albums from 2005 to 2010 did. Maybe that kind of all-consuming discovery is a luxury of youth. A moment in time you only get to live through once. When I look at what I’ve gained now versus the pain of that time, maybe it is after all, for the best.