Editor’s Note: This article is a review and includes subjective thoughts, opinions and critiques. 

Some of my favorite conversations at Stanford started in the most ordinary ways. Once, before class, I began chatting with a total stranger at Coupa, simply because I heard them mention a song I also had on repeat that week. At a speaker event, I complimented the person next to me on her shoes — not just because they looked nice, but because I loved that brand too. When we conduct small exchanges like these, we’re doing more than filling silence. We’re searching for overlap, proof of our similarity as human beings. 

That instinct to connect shows up in all aspects of life, but especially in how we choose the art we love. In this digital age of predictable, algorithm-curated playlists and trendy, fleeting TikTok sounds, the works of art that stay with us resonate on a deeper level. Lyrics can feel like thoughts we’ve never quite put into words; characters on screen can mirror our own anxieties. Great art reflects a piece of ourselves back to us. 

One night, I was walking back from Green Library with my AirPods in. The campus was quiet, except for the occasional bike passing by. A song from shuffle suddenly came from my favorite playlist: “Grateful” by Dhruv, a song I realized I hadn’t listened to since high school. Hearing it again immediately pulled me back to that era of my life: preparing for college applications, going to debate tournaments and feeling uncertainty for what was to come. 

But this time I listened, the lyrics hit me in a different way. When Dhruv sang “I don’t know my destination but I’ve come to learn / The universe gives you the answers on its own terms, through the highs and through the lows,” his lyrics didn’t just remind me of who I used to be. They made me realize how far I’ve actually come. Since high school, I’ve gotten into Stanford and experienced amazing things. And yet, the uncertainty I felt then still lingers, even if it’s less overwhelming. 

In that moment, the song did more than bring back memories. It reminded me that the feelings I had back then are not unique to that high school version of me. That is exactly what makes music potent. It connects people across different moments in their lives, and sometimes even across completely different lives. I don’t know Dhruv, and Dhruv doesn’t know me. And yet somehow, through art, we’re connected. 

This is why relatable lyrics matter. We do not always listen to songs merely for rhythm or production value. Sometimes, we listen because we care about what the artist is saying. Relatability invites listeners to trace parallels between the artist’s narrative and their own experiences, allowing a kind of trust to emerge. We trust that the vulnerability is sincere and that the emotion isn’t manufactured for streams or virality. And that trust makes the connection feel mutual. 

I’ve seen this dynamic play out across campus. On the night of the Grammys, club meetings turned into debates about whether Tyler, the Creator deserved his nominations. Students argued over Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance between problem sets and late-night runs to the dining hall. But at the end of the day, these conversations are less about rating the music and more about gradually discovering common ground. To say “I love this song” is often to say “This speaks to me,” or “This is a part of my identity.” To find someone else who agrees is to realize, “Maybe it speaks to us both.”

At the first meeting of one of my clubs this year, our icebreaker was to share a recent favorite song. When I mentioned that I had been listening to Don’t Be Dumb by A$AP Rocky, another member immediately said they had been playing it nonstop too. What started as a quick conversation ended up with us buying concert tickets to his June concert in San Francisco. 

In this way, lyricism becomes a form of social interaction. It forges connections between listeners and artists, among listeners and within each individual — evoking the different versions of someone that have existed across time. 

So when a song keeps replaying in your headphones on the walk down Palm Drive, it may be worth asking why. The answer is rarely just that the song sounds “catchy” or “good.” More often, it is because somewhere in those words, we hear an echo of ourselves — and in hearing it, we’re reminded that we’re not navigating this place alone.