Desert Island Soundtrack: Eight Songs, Countless Memories
Reading time: About 6 minutes.
There are a million ways to connect with another person, and music is one of the best.
For me (and, I suspect, many of us), music has always been more than just sound—it's a lifeline, a steady thread weaving through every chapter of my life. Whether I've been riding waves of joy or bracing against storms of uncertainty, there’s always been a song to hold onto. Lately, with the whirlwind of events in the world, I find myself leaning on those melodies even more. They ground me, comfort me, and sometimes give me the push I need to keep going.
As a fan of British television, I became aware of a radio show known as Desert Island Discs. The long-running program asks celebrities which eight “discs,” or songs, they would take with them to a deserted island. What starts as a surface-level question quickly reveals deeper truths about the person sharing their list. Music is like that—more than just sound; it’s place, memory, and often, an anchor.
If I had to choose only eight songs to carry with me to a deserted island, each track would need to earn its place—not just as music, but as a memory, a moment, or a lifeboat that’s kept me afloat when the waters got rough. These songs are my snapshots, my anchors, and my connection to the people and places that shaped me.
1. Sweet Caroline — Neil Diamond
Some of my sweetest memories involve my mom singing along with Neil Diamond at home and in the car. She had this extraordinary voice—a soprano who could harmonize like nobody’s business—and Neil Diamond was the one artist I remember her “bee-bopping” to regularly. She and my dad saw him in concert countless times when I was a kid, and when I grew up, we all went together at least three times.
Hearing this song now brings me back to sitting in the backseat of our green 70s Ford LTD sedan, my mom’s voice filling the air with joy so tangible you could almost reach out and touch it.
2. Anything from the Thriller Album — Michael Jackson
Thriller wasn’t just my first album; it was a rite of passage. I bought it with my own allowance money, which at the time felt like buying a ticket to another world. Thanks to a burgeoning MTV, each song came with its own video showcasing incredible dance moves (and inspiring my decidedly less incredible living-room performances). No matter how much time passes, those beats still feel fresh, and I’m still moonwalking (badly) whenever no one’s watching.
3. I Wanna Dance with Somebody — Whitney Houston
Driving around in my first car, a beat-up Pontiac Sunbird that shed headliner foam like it was snowing indoors, I blasted this song as if it were my personal anthem. It was impossible not to feel joyful when Whitney belted out those high notes. Even stuck in traffic without air conditioning, I could roll the windows down, crank up the volume, and sing my heart out. This song made it feel like anything was possible.
4. Clair de Lune — Debussy
College was when I first started becoming aware of my wrestling match with anxiety and depression, though I didn’t have the words for it back then. One Saturday, I was in my college apartment watching a movie when Clair de Lune played out across a scene in the movie. The beauty of it, the gentleness of it, stopped me and the swirl of my thoughts for a few precious minutes. It became a kind of sanctuary—gentle, steady, and calming in a way I desperately needed. To this day, it feels like pressing "pause" on the chaos.
5. Dreams — The Cranberries
After college, life hit hard. I was working endless hours for a meager salary that didn’t pay the rent, let alone my student loans, and I was living in a converted tool shed with cockroaches for roommates. Loneliness became my constant companion. Dreams captured the ache of those days perfectly, but it also gave me a flicker of hope. Somehow, Dolores O’Riordan’s voice made me feel less alone, like someone out there understood.
6. Let the River Run — Carly Simon
The early 2000s were a blur of moves and transitions—Minneapolis to Seattle, then Phoenix—all while I was earning my master’s degree. Even though it’s an older tune, Let the River Run became a mantra of sorts, its soaring melody echoing the hope and determination I carried with me through those nomadic years. On long drives to and from school, I’d belt it out, imagining Carly herself cheering me on from the passenger seat.
7. Cassiopeia — Sara Bareilles
If my 20s were tough, my 40s were an outright endurance test. There were challenges that strained every fiber of my being—losses, health scares, and the kind of struggles that force a person to reevaluate everything. And yet, music was there. The songs I played on repeat during this time aren’t just reminders of hardships; they’re reminders of my resilience. Of finding light in dark places and holding onto it fiercely. Sara Bareilles’ Cassiopeia is a demand to be seen and a dare to experience the fullness of life and love. It’s just one of many songs that got me through, and it continues to inspire.
8. Waloyo Yamoni, “We Overcome the Wind” — Christopher Tin
Now, in a world that feels more uncertain than ever, this song has become my touchstone. It’s powerful, hopeful, and grounded in the realities of nature and resilience.
There are days when I look at the state of the world—at democracy, at climate change, at all the unknowns—and feel like we’re teetering on the edge of something unthinkable. But then I play this song, and it reminds me of the strength we hold collectively, of the hope we can find even in the hardest times.
Music is so personal, isn’t it? It’s never just about the lyrics or the melodies; it’s about how those notes have been stitched into our stories. A song can summon the face of a friend, the laughter of a loved one, or even the bittersweet ache of a goodbye. It’s a kind of magic, really—the way music builds a soundtrack to our lives, as unique as our fingerprints.
So, that’s my list. What would be a song on your top eight?
PS: If I could choose an entire playlist to take with me to a desert island, this would be it. It has all the songs I couldn’t include on a list of just eight.
