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.

The Woods: Between the Flames and the Stars

The fire crackles, embers floating into the night like fireflies. The air is thick with woodsmoke, warmth radiating from the flames. Somewhere deep in the trees, the wind hums through the branches, and for a moment—just a flicker—time bends.

The way this song moves my soul—it carries me through time, through embers and echoes of what once was. I am a child again, in a tiny Texas town where bonfires mark the seasons, where homecoming means flames licking at the sky and the whole town gathered around. The heat of the fire against cool night air. The feeling of something unshakably familiar. Belonging. Safety. Warmth.

I see my dad, standing by the fireplace in our childhood home, the glow of the flames flickering across his face. He loved the fire. Not just for its heat, but for what it meant. Stillness. Togetherness. A moment that needed nothing more than itself. He would back up to the flames, hands in his pockets, letting the warmth soak into him like it was part of some ritual. I can still hear his laugh. I can still see him there.

It is New Year’s Eve, 1999. The whole world waits to see if the clocks will glitch, if Y2K will swallow everything we know. My mother is with Carl then. Carl, who is steady and kind and feels like something solid. His kids are there too, laughing, running through the cold, their faces glowing in the firelight. The bonfire is enormous, flames leaping into the sky, heat rolling across our faces. Sparks spiral upward, vanishing into the night like tiny shooting stars. I don’t know what the future will hold, but in this moment, I am warm. I am safe. I am here.

The fire shifts, the scene flickers.

Time moves like a slow-burning ember, stretching between what once was and what comes next. I am older now. My mother is with my stepdad, a drunk but a nice enough man. However, the people who linger around the fire at night—they are not safe. I remember lying awake in my bedroom knife under my pillow just in case I needed the protection, the flicker of flames through the window, the shadows shifting on the walls. Bonfires that once meant community and comfort now feel different. The flicker of flames through my window is no longer inviting, but haunting. A gathering of drunks and addicts right outside. Shadows shifting, voices slurred, laughter that doesn’t sound quite right. Something I do not trust. Something unsettling. Unsafe.

The fire flickers again, and time shifts once more.

I am in California. The mornings are crisp and cold, and my husband and I wake early, flipping on the fireplace before anything else. The warmth spills into the room, chasing the chill away. He feels like home, like something I can hold onto. We sit close, wrapped in blankets, watching the flames dance and listening to old records.

Another flicker.

Later—pregnant with our sweet Maverick, back in my dad’s house, watching him do what he always did. Backing up to the fire, warming himself like it was the most important task in the world. He was always doing that. I never thought about how much I’d miss it.

The embers glow, and another memory rises.

Hot Springs, Arkansas. The woods, but this time, they are ours. The National Forest stretches beyond our backyard, wild and endless. The trees whisper, and for the first time in a long time, the woods feel like magic again. Like home.

My son is small and some of our best moments are spent by the fireplace—reading, lying together, warmth wrapping around us like something holy. The crackling of the flames, the weight of him in my arms. I will hold onto this forever.

The fire flickers, reshaping time once more.

New Year’s Eve, 2025 in Texas. The fire burns high, casting long shadows. But this time, it is not my childhood. It is my children’s. I watch them sitting there, faces flickering in the firelight, laughter rising into the night air. Carl’s kids are here too, their own children sitting beside mine. The people I love surround me, old and new, bonded by something deeper than blood.

I sit there, watching the flames, feeling time fold in on itself.

I think of my dad, of the way the fire always pulled him close.

I think of all the warmth that has held me, all the places the fire has burned.

And I know—woven between the flames and the stars where fire meets sky, where embers become stardust—something greater lingers.

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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