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.

Riders on the Storm: A Ghost on the Highway

Some people move through life like thunderheads on the horizon...distant, restless, always shifting. But my dad was different. He was the steady hum beneath the storm, the rhythm of tires on wet pavement, the deep voice in the night that never wavered, no matter how hard the rain fell.

My dad was a man of his word. The kind who paid his bills on time, who didn’t just make promises he kept them. A man of sharp wit and deeper thought, a seeker of truth, fascinated by the mysteries hidden beneath the surface of things. He found poetry in the unexplainable, wisdom in the wind. And when he spoke about Jim Morrison, it was never just about the music. It was about the man, the mind, the myth—about how Morrison felt things, how he saw the world through some strange and shifting lens, haunted by visions that never quite let go.

I remember him telling me the story; how Jim Morrison, as a little boy, came across a wreck on the roadside, how he saw Native Americans lying hurt or dying, their spirits rising into the night. Morrison swore he could feel them enter him, like ghosts passing through his skin, like echoes of something far older than he could understand.

I don’t know if my father believed in ghosts. But he believed in what lingers. In the way places remember us, the way music carries us forward, the way a storm never truly passes it just moves on.

And now, I feel him in the rain.

In the hush before the thunder.

In the sudden crack of lightning splitting the sky wide open.

In the songs that play when I need them most, like a hand reaching through time, like a voice saying, I’m still here.

There were things he never said outright, lessons he taught without ever needing to explain. That life is a storm, unpredictable and relentless, but you ride through it. That some things aren’t meant to be controlled. That the road never really ends, not even when you reach the last mile.

My dad understood something most people never do, that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about riding through it. Finding beauty in the wreckage, poetry in the downpour, light in the disaster.

And he did.

He weathered every storm life threw at him, steady and certain, carrying on even when the road was rough, even when the rain blurred the horizon. He wasn’t a man who needed maps—he followed his own path, let the music guide him, trusted that wherever he was going, he’d get there when he was meant to.

And now, he’s somewhere I can’t follow.

When I was little, my dad had a small engine repair shop, and I spent more time there than most kids probably would. I’d walk up from our house, my dog trotting beside me, pushing open the door to the scent of oil and metal and something distinctly him. In the office, there was always a cold drink waiting for me in his mini fridge, usually a Yoo-hoo, like a quiet acknowledgment that he knew I’d show up.

On the wall, above the scattered notes and work orders, was a tack board cluttered with papers and reminders but right in the middle, pinned with a pushpin, was a Little Mermaid valentine I had given him.

On the bathroom door, staring down at me every time I walked past, was a life-size Jim Morrison poster. It was just part of the place, like the music playing from the old stereo, like the hum of machines in the background. Like my dad steady, unshaken, carrying the things he loved with him, always.

He didn’t just love The Doors he studied them. He read Morrison’s poetry, dissected his words, traced the weight of each lyric like it held some hidden map to understanding the world.

Those books Morrison’s ramblings, his visions, his wild-eyed American prayers they were passed down to me like an inheritance, pages worn from time and touch.

And maybe that’s why I think the way I do.

Why I can’t just listen to a song I have to pull it apart, turn it over, find the marrow of meaning inside it.

Why I still get lost in words, in poetry, in the rhythm of things unsaid.

Because my dad wasn’t just passing down books he was passing down a way of seeing the world.

I can still see him behind the wheel of his Bravada, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping in time with the music.

That car was more than just transportation it was a constant, a thread running through time, a vessel of memory still moving forward even after he was gone.

It’s the car I learned to drive in, the car my brother still sometimes drives today, as if some part of our dad never stopped rolling down the highway.

And the music...The Doors were always playing.

My entire life, the voices, the words, the wild poetry were the backdrop to long stretches of road, to childhood, to growing up, to the moments that linger between dreams and waking.

Now, they are the soundtrack to memory, the echo of my father’s voice in the wind.

And every time I hear Riders on the Storm, I feel it...the presence, the movement, the knowing.

He’s out there somewhere, still driving, still rolling through the rain, still riding the storm on the other side.

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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