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.

Wanted Dead or Remembered : A Road Trip Through Myth, Memory, and the Wild West

We didn’t plan to end up on the Billy the Kid Scenic Byway.

But by the time we left Carrizozo… sick, hungry, exhausted, and stepping over bear poop to reach the car it felt like we’d wandered into a legend without meaning to. A family of outlaws, dogs and all, ghostriding our way home through the myth-soaked hills of New Mexico.

The night before had been something out of a fever dream. We rolled into Carrizozo after a long day on the road, our bodies already fading fast with colds, the kids cranky, and the dogs needing out. The loft we’d booked was tiny. Bare-boned. No pillows. No warmth. Just wood and wind and a rock wall of mountain behind it, Carrizo Peak, towering like a quiet guardian. When we opened the car doors, there was bear scat just two feet away. Welcome to the wilderness.

The place felt eerie. Like we weren’t supposed to be there. Like time had stopped… or skipped. There was something otherworldly about it. Like being on another planet. Maybe it was the way the air held still. Or maybe it was the Carrizozo Malpais just across the basin an ancient, cracked lava flow that looked like the desert had peeled open its skin. The ground here remembered fire.

We barely slept.

But the stars?

Oh, the stars were wild. Clear, electric, infinite. They stretched over us like something out of a western movie ending. One of those endings where no one speaks… they just look up. The kind where grief and grit ride side by side, and love survives the dust.

We stood under them anyway sick, tired, dazed and still felt that quiet sense of awe. Like we were being watched by every outlaw, dreamer, and half-remembered soul who had ever passed through these hills.

—

We left early the next morning, all of us still dragging. Ready to be home, already missing the road. But first we stopped for gas in the town of Capitan, the real-life home of Smokey the Bear.

Jamie struck up a conversation with two guys training police dogs. One of them a lifelong local shared the real story of Smokey, how he was discovered after a forest fire in 1950 as a cub clinging to a tree. Something about that hit us hard. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was because we’re 90s kids, raised on forest safety PSAs and cartoon bears with ranger hats. Maybe it was just the reminder that even in fire, and devastation something good can be born.

We hit the road again through switchbacks, cliffs, and treacherous mountain passes. At one point we drove past a van that had gone off the road and over a cliff. It looked like a film set, but it was real. We were quiet after that. Grateful. Shaken in that subtle, sacred way. Jamie’s always been a solid, focused driver. That morning, I watched him with awe.

And then without meaning to we were in Billy the Kid territory.

Lincoln County. His country.

We passed the sign marking his last escape, and it felt like something shifted in the car. The sun got warmer. The road stretched smoother. And suddenly, everything felt like a movie we’d seen before.

Jamie and I have both loved Young Guns since way back Emilio Estevez blazing across the screen, that crooked smile, that wild-eyed chaos. I’ve been an Emilio fan since Mighty Ducks, and that love just rolled into Billy the Kid without missing a beat. Whether he was Billy the Kid or Coach Bombay.

He never played perfect heroes. He played the ones with a past. The ones who made mistakes and still showed up. We watched Young Guns together early in our relationship, but we’ve watched it many times since. The first one. The second one. It became ours somehow.

So when we found ourselves driving that same ground with the dogs asleep in the back and the kids wide-eyed in the middle seats… we looked at each other and just started singing.

“I’m goin’ down in a blaze of glory…”

We didn’t even play the song at first. We just knew it.

We sang it loud, off-key, half-coughing, half-laughing. The kids thought we were ridiculous. They were right. But they laughed with us anyway, and that kind of laugh, the kind where everyone’s too tired to fake anything that’s the kind that sticks with the memory like some hazy beautiful dream.

We told them about Billy. About the real legend and the one Emilio brought to life. We pointed out the hills. The town. The old ghost buildings. And for a little while, we weren’t just heading home.

We were riding the kid’s trail.

And he was riding with us.

—

That day was messy and strange and unforgettable.

We didn’t plan to walk through history or sleep beneath a volcanic sky. We didn’t plan to sing Bon Jovi with raspy voices to our kids or feel like we were being followed by ghosts. We didn’t plan for bear poop or lava plains or driving past real-life wreckage.

But we rode the trail anyway.

And for that one golden stretch of road, we were more than a tired family trying to get home.

We were part of the story. Part of a legend.

Searching For Stars

Imagine: The Savage Was the Seer Enoch’s Echo, My Father’s Voice, and the Stories We Were Never Meant to Forget

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • April 12, 2026

John Lennon: Imagine

The Girls of Rock and Roll: Rosie Blair, Chipette Energy, and a Very Special Kind of Magic

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • April 12, 2026

*A letter of light for Rosie Blair* Okay this is going to sound oddly specific but stay with me... You remind me of a very particular kind of feeling. The kind that lives somewhere between fall air, soft lighting, and a childhood movie that most people forgot existed, but the ones who remember it? Oh we remember. The 1987 Chipmunk Adventure! Which I did not expect to ever connect to another adult human about, and yet here I am. There’s just something about that movie the movement, the music, the chaos, the fun, the outfits, the chipettes... like being in motion and color and sound at the same time. And watching you feels like that again in a weirdly beautiful , full circle way. Not in a “this is aesthetic content” way more like a “this is a person who actually lives inside her life” way. And ironically that’s what makes your aesthetic top notch in my opinion. Cozy but not fake. Honest and raw but not too harsh. Funny without trying to perform funny. (which is rarer than people think) There’s a warmth in how you show up that feels familiar in a way I can’t fully explain but definitely recognize. I came across you scrolling my phone, postpartum, trying to find my footing again. At the time I was in that weird in between space, relearning my body, trying to feel like myself inside something that had completely changed... yet again. And you showed up in your space on instagram in a way that felt real. Authentic. Original. Not “perfect body positivity” not curated confidence just a woman existing in her body dressing it, living in it, laughing in it and making that feel normal again. Healthy. Beautiful. Fun! Something I really grew to respect about you was that you didn’t stay frozen in one version of that message or yourself just to make people comfortable. You shifted. And I really admire the way you talk about Changing your mind. Leaving spaces that don’t feel right anymore. Figuring out that loving yourself isn’t one fixed version it evolves. That kind of honesty is quietly powerful and extremely profound. You evolved and changed your mind out loud. And people always have something to say when a woman does that... but you stayed steady anyway. That kind of self trust? That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. That’s what bravery looks like in real time! You don’t just create content, you create an honest space for people to re-meet themselves in whatever version they’re currently in. It’s the kind of magic that doesn’t need to be announced it just exists, and people feel it when they orbit around it. You didn’t just show up on my feed, you showed up in a moment where I needed to feel like myself again. Like a song you forgot you loved until it comes back on and suddenly you remember everything. And somehow through outfits, honesty, humor, book reviews and a lot of zany ingenuity... you saved parts of my girlhood that likely make me a better mother. Thanks so much for being you! Thanks for being real. Thanks for taking up space, your energy’s reach is more powerful than you ever might have imagined. P.S... I have to add this because it lives rent free in my brain! That Taylor Swift workout series you did?!? absolutely unhinged in the best way It was funny and chaotic and somehow still motivating… I'm not deep in Taylor Swift knowledge territory, but it made me pause and go “okay wait... there’s something here.” The way she owns her work, reclaims it, redraws the line that I own me energy it felt incredibly aligned with what you were doing too. With love, light and gratitude, Stay Weird! -Lauren “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” -Louisa May Alcott

Another One Bites The Dust: Where Love Burns

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • April 12, 2026

Queen: Another One Bites The Dust

Wanted Dead or Remembered : A Road Trip Through Myth, Memory, and the Wild West

Film: Young Guns

Searching For Stars

Imagine: The Savage Was the Seer Enoch’s Echo, My Father’s Voice, and the Stories We Were Never Meant to Forget

The Girls of Rock and Roll: Rosie Blair, Chipette Energy, and a Very Special Kind of Magic

Another One Bites The Dust: Where Love Burns

Click To Hear The Searching For Stars Audiobook Podcast!

Click To Hear The Searching For Stars Sound Track!

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