Stars: Lost in the Orbit of Sound

Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 4, 2025

Stars: Lost in the Orbit of Sound

Hum: Stars

Pixel art illustration of a family seated beneath a glowing Galaxy and star-filled night sky a silhouette of a rock star and a giant zebra in space, symbolizing music, memory and shared emotional orbit, part of the Searching for Stars universe.

The first time I heard Stars by Hum, I was sitting in my brother’s car outside our dad’s house in Lake Charles. It was just after Christmas, and he was about to drive me home to Texas, back to whatever version of reality waited for me there. But for a moment, we were just sitting—him in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger’s—while the thick, hazy distortion of the opening chords filled the car.


I remember feeling the weight of it immediately. The guitars weren’t just loud they were consuming, like standing too close to something massive, feeling its pull. And yet, floating somewhere above all that heaviness was the voice distant, detached, almost weightless. It wasn’t like anything I had heard before. It didn’t try to pull me in; it just existed, vast and cosmic, waiting for me to find my own way through it.


Then came the words:


She thinks she missed the train to Mars, she’s out back counting stars.


Something about that line felt like it had been written just for me. I didn’t know why. I was 14, and I didn’t have the life experience yet to understand what it meant to miss something you never really had, but I felt it all the same.


Music, Memory, and the Weight of Sound


Hum’s You’d Prefer an Astronaut had come out years before this moment back in 1995, when the alternative rock scene was in flux, shifting between the last gasps of grunge and the rise of something more sprawling and atmospheric. They weren’t exactly shoegaze, but they weren’t quite grunge either. Their massive, layered guitars and existential lyrics leaned into space rock territory, creating something heavier, more immersive. Hum was one of those genre defying bands existing in the space between a band that built soundscapes as much as songs, layering crushing guitars over melodies that always seemed to be reaching for something just out of grasp.


Stars was their closest thing to a hit, but it never really broke into the mainstream. Instead, it became something better—a song that lived in the margins, passed between people like a secret, like something only those who truly listened could understand.


That’s how I heard it, my brother was the one who opened this world to me, who made sure I wasn’t just consuming whatever played on the radio. He was in a band. He had the kind of taste in music that made everything seem more important. And as I sat there in the car, hearing Stars for the first time, I felt like I had been let in on something bigger than myself.


I wanted to live in the sound of that song. I wanted to understand why it made me feel like I was floating and sinking at the same time.


Distance, Longing, and the Meaning of “Stars”


The lyrics to Stars feel like a dream half remembered. They don’t tell a straightforward story, but instead, they paint a picture of longing, admiration, and cosmic detachment.


She thinks she missed the train to Mars, she’s out back counting stars.


It sounds like someone watching another person slip away not in a dramatic way, but in the kind of quiet, inevitable drift that happens without either person realizing it. There’s something beautifully tragic about that image standing outside, staring at the sky, believing you’ve missed something monumental, but being too lost in thought to move.


At 14, I couldn’t quite explain why that line stuck with me, but I felt it. Looking back, I think I was already beginning to understand what it meant to stand on the outside, watching life shift and slip away. My brother and I had been through so much by then. The first half of our childhood felt steady, familiar...but after our parents’ divorce, everything splintered. Loss became something we recognized too well. Travis. Tommy. Nanny. Trey. Names that once filled our world, now just echoes. We learned young that people don’t always stay, that life has a way of changing without asking permission.


Maybe that’s why Stars felt so big to me. It wasn’t just the sound—it was the feeling of standing in the middle of something massive, trying to make sense of where you belonged inside it.


Built to Spill, Burned CDs, and the Language of Music


Before he left to drive back to Lake Charles, he handed me a stack of burned CDs— Hum, Built to Spill, Cursive, a few others scribbled in Sharpie across the discs. ‘You’ll love these,’ he told me. And he was right.”


If Hum felt like weightlessness inside a crushing atmosphere, Built to Spill felt like motion loose, sprawling, unpredictable. Where Hum sounded like watching something from a distance, Built to Spill sounded like running straight into it, arms open.


There’s Nothing Wrong with Love became one of my favorite albums of all time, but at 14, I didn’t know that yet. I just knew that this CD in my hands was important. That my brother had given it to me. That this music was going to mean something.


The Gift of Music and the Ones Who Carry It


My brother has always had an ear for music not just listening to it, but playing it, absorbing it, understanding it in a way most people don’t.


When he was 14, we were at our cousin’s wedding, and a woman was playing the piano. He sat next to her, watched her hands move across the keys, and when she got up, he slid into her seat and played exactly what she had played.


She turned back, surprised. “I thought you said you’ve never played piano?”


“I haven’t,” he said. “I just watched you.”


Some people don’t just play music they breathe it in, let it live inside them. My brother is one of those people.


Bobby gave me my first guitar. I toyed with the idea of being in a band in high school—picked up a few chords, even convinced myself I might have potential. (Spoiler: I did not.) Some people are born to make music, and some of us are just really good at making mix CDs and overanalyzing lyrics.


The Circling Course of Stars


I don’t know how many times I’ve heard Stars since that first listen in my brother’s car. Maybe hundreds. Maybe more.


When I was 14, Stars made me feel like I was floating through something bigger than myself. Now, even as time passes, the lyrics and the sound still move through me. It’s a quiet kind of peace standing outside, looking up, knowing the stars are still there.


Music is strange like that. Some songs stay with you, orbiting your life, waiting for the right moment to pull you back in. They become part of your DNA, tangled in the places you’ve been, the people you’ve loved, the memories that never really fade. And when they resurface sometimes when you least expect it they remind you of who you are, who you were, and who you’re still becoming.

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My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
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