Edited by: Bhavika Rawat
There’s a kind of vulnerability that comes with sharing Spotify playlists. It’s not quite the same as telling someone you have a crush on them, or crying in front of a friend for the first time, but it’s close. It’s like allowing someone to view you at a certain point in time, frozen, like saying, “This is what I felt.” This is what I listened to when I was thinking of you, when I wasn’t able to sleep, when I was walking back alone from class with my headphones on and feelings I couldn’t name yet being shaped by the music I was listening to. In a way, playlists are digital diaries—each one a timestamp of a version of you that once existed. A snapshot, made not of photos but of guitar chords, synth beats, and lyrics that once cut too deep. Those playlists titled “existentialism but make it a vibe,” or “2000s main character energy” are moments of emotional honesty, whether they are soundtracked by Phoebe Bridgers or the High School Musical cast.
There’s no escaping the cringe factor of old playlists. You’ll scroll back to 2019 and find a moody, grayscale cover photo with 17 tracks of heartbreak pop, all organized for someone who maybe never even knew you made it. Maybe the first song is Little Things by One Direction, because 13-year-old you really thought “You’ll never love yourself half as much as I love you” was the ultimate declaration of affection (you were right, by the way—One Direction is correct, always). Maybe there’s some obscure acoustic version of a Taylor Swift track, and somewhere in the middle, she croons, “You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath.” That lyric still hits, even if you now pretend you’ve outgrown the phase.
But here’s the thing: those playlists still matter. They’re not just cringey relics. They’re relics with soul. Each one represents a tiny part of who you were, whether that be the good, the messy, or the romanticized.
Then there are the shared playlists. The ones createdon Thursday nights in cluttered dorm rooms with friends sprawled across mismatched cushions, chips, and drinks, and red party cups everywhere. You all queue songs, bickering over whether Badshah’s music is a bop or just overplayed, skipping someone’s sad indie track to blast your signature Bollywood party music instead.
Those playlists? They don’t have aesthetic titles or curated vibes. They’re a beautiful, chaotic blend—like your friendships. Half of you like rap, someone adds the most basic pop, and someone keeps putting on live acoustic Harry Styles covers for some reason. And yet, it works. It’s the audio version of group photos: slightly off-center, often too loud, sometimes blurry, but full of love. The songs become shorthand for inside jokes, for moments you can’t explain to anyone outside your little world.
And then there’s the fun little features of the app itself, such as the Spotify Daylist, the AI-generated playlist that’s meant to reflect your vibe based on recent listens. But somehow, at 9:17 AM, it thinks your mood is “melancholy pumpkin spice rage,” or it gives you “sassy cottagecore heartbreak anthems” at lunchtime. It’s so ironic yet so funny at the same time because based on what it gives you as your mood at that given time, just reading its (often incorrect) estimation of your often exhausting day as “princess pilates strut evening” makes you laugh a little.
So yeah, Spotify, and its playlists, are intimate. Whether it’s the solo collection made during a 2 AM spiral, or the shared chaos of Thursday night soundtracks, they’re one of the most quietly honest things we make. We’ll outgrow some of them, and others will stay in rotation forever. Either way, it’s all a little bit of you. And maybe that’s why it feels so good when someone asks for your playlist link or your account name, because somehow, it’s like they want to understand how you feel music. And really, there’s nothing more intimate than that.