What is Searching for Stars?

It's a multimedia memoir — part book, part mixtape, part constellation of memory. Think of it as stories pixelated through sound, image, and nostalgia — a place where music and memory echo together. Imagine getting to know a new friend through her mixtape of memories, each story another piece of a constellation slowly taking shape, like sitting together in a fireside chat beneath the stars.

What does "musical echolalia" mean?

Echolalia is when words or sounds repeat — like echoes that return without being invited. Musical echolalia is how songs and lyrics loop in memory, shaping how we feel, remember, and even communicate. It's the heartbeat of this project.

Is this a book, a blog, or something else?

It's all three, and none at once. Searching for Stars is a living memoir told in fragments — part website, part audio archive, part retro dream. Imagine a mixtape that keeps unfolding into chapters.

Who is this project for?

For readers. For music lovers. Nostalgia chasers. For kids of the 80s, 90s, and 2000s — and for anyone who's ever pressed rewind on a memory. It's for seekers of light in the dark, and for those who feel music deep within their soul. It's for the little girl inside me who dreamed of being a writer, who thought in music video formation and remembered in lyrics long before she had words to explain it. It's for anyone who carries loops of sound and story in their mind and is still searching for ways to make sense of them. It's for my children — the living record of my life and the love story their father and I have built — so they will always know who I was, and how they inspired me to finally share my voice.

The pixel art style was inspired by our kids' love of old-school Nintendo and Sega games — a love my husband and I were proud to pass on to them. Memory itself often feels pixelated — fragments, pieces, little glowing squares that come together into something whole. Vivid sensory-filled memories, retro games, mixed CDs, VHS tapes, and the texture of nostalgia. I usually start with real photos from my life or family albums, then run them through tools like ChatGPT, Canva, and PicsArt, cropping, layering, remixing, and refining until it feels right. The visual art helps bring the stories to life like a pixelated scrapbook.

Can I listen as well as read?

Yes — the site weaves together audio narration, Spotify soundtracks, and pixel art. Each story has its own soundtrack, so you can hear the memory as you read it. You can also listen to the project in its entirety on Spotify, or hear the Searching for Stars soundtrack.

Where should I start?

Anywhere. That's the beauty. The project is a constellation, and you can enter from any star. It never happens in order — it comes in bursts, like shooting stars revealing their story one streak at a time. Certain images throughout the site are clickable, leading you to other pieces that share similar characters, themes, memory vibes, or synced timelines. Small bridges between stories that hum with the same rhythm.

Will this become a book?

That's the dream. Searching for Stars is being built as a digital-first memoir, but its fragments are already shaping into a printed constellation. Someday, you'll hold it in your hands like a mixtape for the soul.

How can I support the project?

Read. Listen. Share. Tell a friend who loves music. Post your favorite piece, or just press play. Every echo helps keep the stars alive.

What inspired Searching for Stars?

It was born from a lifelong love of music, memory, and storytelling — from mixtapes passed between friends, to songs that became soundtracks for entire chapters of my life. It's both a personal archive and an invitation for others to remember alongside me.

Is this project autobiographical?

Yes — it's my story, but told through music, movies, and memory loops that connect to something bigger. While it's personal, it's also universal, because the songs that shaped me are the same songs that have carried so many others, too.

Breezeblocks: Fragments in Motion where the Melody Lingers

Some songs don’t just play they pulse, they linger, they burrow into the spaces between thought and feeling. Breezeblocks is one of those songs. It winds itself into your head, its beat both hypnotic and urgent, its lyrics unraveling something raw, something almost ungraspable. It’s a track that demands to be danced to, yet insists on being understood. And like all great pieces of art, it shifts depending on where you’re standing, how you’re listening, what you bring to it.

For me, Breezeblocks will always carry echoes of a night in Austin. ACL, October 2012. Music in the air, a kind of electricity that only exists at festivals when the right band plays at the right time, and the whole crowd moves as one. But my most vivid memory of that night isn’t Alt-J’s performance. It’s something stranger, more unexpected. A lost dog, a highway, and a moment that, in its own way, pulled me back toward myself.

The Gravity of Sound

At its core, Breezeblocks is about obsession;love that grips too tightly, that tips over into something dangerous. “Please don’t go, I love you so,” the refrain pleads, childlike in its desperation, dark in its implication. The refrain ‘Please don’t go, I love you so’ is a direct nod to Where the Wild Things Are, but Alt-J twists it into something haunting. What was once a child’s longing for comfort becomes something desperate, dangerous, a love that won’t loosen its grip. Alt-J is a band that thrives in contradiction, melody and menace, harmony and havoc. They construct their music like a puzzle, layering sounds and meanings so that no listen is ever the same.

The music video...a masterclass in perspective. Played in reverse, it forces you to question everything you thought you knew. A moment that once seemed like an ending is actually a beginning. Violence unspools into something almost tender. Nothing is as it seems. The brilliance of the video isn’t just in the twist—it’s in the way it forces you to reframe everything. To consider the weight of a moment. To wonder how different things might look if we only rewound the tape.

ACL 2012: A Different Kind of Chaos

My brother was working on tour with Alt-J and had gotten us guest passes to ACL. It was late, most of the bands had already played. Jamie was driving. Bobby and Gus (the keyboardist for Alt-J) were in the backseat. We stopped at a convenience store, and then I saw him—a dog, lost in the middle of traffic, frantic, unsure where to go. I didn’t think. I just moved. Jumped out of the car, called to him, felt his hesitation, his fear, and then his relief as he ran straight to me. He had tags. We called the number. The voice on the other end was young, shocked, disbelieving.

The kid had been at ACL. Had gotten separated from his dog somewhere in the shuffle of music and movement. He was still reeling when we pulled up to his house, still overwhelmed with relief. But the moment he saw Gus step out of the car, his expression shifted from gratitude to pure disbelief. “Didn’t I just see you on stage?” he asked, as if reality had twisted itself in some impossible way.

And maybe, for a second, it had. Before we dropped Pawsky off, Gus had been in the backseat, snapping selfies with him, laughing. Bobby was there too part of the moment, part of the memory. And me? I was just there. Present. Feeling something light, fun and real for the first time in a long while.

The Music That Finds Us

After my ectopic pregnancy, music became my way back to myself. In the aftermath, the numbness, the weight of it I had felt so lost. But music makes you feel, even when everything else is muted. It cuts through, becomes an anchor, a way to exist in the moment when the past feels too heavy and the future too uncertain.

It wasn’t just about seeing Alt-J or rescuing Pawsky...it was about finding a moment of brightness in the middle of everything. It was about music pulling me into the present, about laughter in the backseat, about the way certain memories etch themselves into you, lasting longer than you ever expect them to. An anchor of hope.

Music, like memory, has a way of shifting shape. Some songs burrow in and become more than just sound. They become timestamps for the memories that matter—that night at ACL was more than just a concert. It was a moment of brightness. A reminder that life still happens, even after loss. That sometimes, the smallest, strangest moments rescuing a lost dog, Gus laughing in the backseat, a teenager realizing he just met the guy he’d watched on stage—become the ones that stay with you the longest.

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Searching For Stars

She Gave Me a Beautiful Window Back to My Soul: Healthy Is the New Skinny (A letter of light and gratitude for Katie Willcox)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • February 2, 2026

I don’t remember deciding to look in the mirror. I was already there, half awake, the house finally quiet in that fragile way it gets after a feeding. Same bathroom. Same light. A body that no longer belonged only to me, still learning its new outline. I tilted my head, not with panic, not even sadness just habit. Like checking a bruise you already know is there. Like waiting for an apology that isn’t coming. What annoyed me wasn’t what I saw. It was how quickly my brain tried to narrate it. The subtle inventory. The mental before and after photos. The unspoken timeline of when I was supposed to “feel like myself again.” I remember thinking, with a tired little laugh, Wow. I just made a human. And I’m still doing this. Still scanning. Still measuring. Still standing here as if my body hadn’t just done something borderline miraculous. And the most unsettling part wasn’t the criticism it was how normal it all felt. Like this was just part of motherhood. Like this quiet self surveillance was simply another thing you were supposed to carry. I didn’t necessarily feel it all at once. There was no dramatic breaking point. It was more like a quiet irritation that refused to go away. The kind that taps you on the shoulder while you’re trying to move on. I remember standing there thinking how strange it was that my body could do something as massive as bringing a whole person into the world and somehow still be treated like a problem to solve. How quickly the conversation had shifted from look what you did to okay, now fix it. I hadn’t failed at anything. And yet, the language in my head sounded like I had. That’s when something finally clicked not so much with anger or rage, but with clarity. This wasn’t intuition. This wasn’t health. This wasn’t even coming from me. It was inheritance. Passed down quietly. Polished to sound responsible. Framed as care. And once I saw that, I couldn’t unsee it. Katie this is where you enter the story… Someone who said the thing out loud that I had only felt in pieces. Someone who named the difference between discipline and disconnection. Between health and harm. Healthy Is the New Skinny didn’t tell me what to do with my body. It asked a better question altogether: What if the problem was never your body in the first place? That question rearranged everything. You gave me language where there had only been pressure. You replaced noise with permission. You handed me tools not commandments and trusted me enough to use them. And that trust mattered. Because the moment I stopped fighting my body, I started listening to it. And the moment I started listening, I realized how long it had been trying to take care of me. It felt like getting this beautiful window. Not to change myself or crawl through but to finally see clearly. I kept thinking about how these things actually get passed down. Not through lectures. Not through rules. But through the tiny stuff. The comments made in passing. The jokes you barely even realize are jokes. The way you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. Especially kids. Especially daughters. It hit me one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, that someday they wouldn’t need me to explain any of this to them. They would just pick it up. The same way I did. The same way most of us did. Quietly. Without consent. That realization felt clarifying. Not heavy. Just honest. Some patterns don’t need a big exit. They just don’t get invited into the next room. And because of you, Katie, I found the strength to stop fighting myself. To stop trying to fit my body into some mold it was never meant to belong in the first place. To me, you are truly one of the most beautiful women and souls in this universe! Beautiful is the woman who breaks cycles. Beautiful is the voice that replaces shame with truth. Beautiful is someone whose work doesn’t just inspire it liberates. Thank you for changing how I live inside my body. Thank you for changing how I mother. Thank you for helping me choose health over punishment, presence over performance, and confidence that doesn’t ask permission. You saved me in ways you may never know. Thank you so much for opening the window. I’m raising the next generation with it wide open to limitless views of beauty! Lauren