I’ve always been the “music person” in my friend group—the one who spends hours curating the perfect playlist for every road trip, dinner party, or workout session. For me, music isn’t just background noise. My playlists aren’t a haphazard mix of tracks; they’re carefully chosen, sequenced, and obsessed over, meant to create a mood and tell a story. Every friend’s birthday, breakup, or reunion has a soundtrack I’ve crafted with intention.
When my friend Melissa got engaged, I was genuinely excited for her. We’d shared countless nights listening to music, trading new finds, and soundtracking our own friendship milestones. As the planning began, I offered to help with the wedding music. She smiled and told me she already had a DJ lined up, but thanked me for thinking of it. I assumed she wanted to create her own vibe for the big day, and I respected that.
I didn’t give it another thought—until her wedding day.
The Moment I Realized
Melissa’s reception was beautiful: fairy lights strung across the ceiling, happy chatter, and a packed dance floor. But what caught my attention most was the music. It was perfect. Too perfect.
Song after song, I was struck with déjà vu. The acoustic cover of our favorite 90s hit that we’d played on repeat one summer. The obscure indie track I’d introduced her to on a rainy night, which instantly became “our song.” The upbeat number we once danced to in my kitchen at 2am, laughing so hard we nearly cried.
By the fifth song, I knew without a doubt: this was my playlist.
The Confirmation
During a break, I wandered over to the DJ, keeping it casual. “Loving the music—did Melissa send you the setlist?” I asked.
He beamed. “Yeah, she gave me this amazing playlist. Said it was hers, something she’d been working on for years. Honestly, it’s one of the best I’ve seen.”
I nodded, masking my surprise. A year ago, for Melissa’s birthday, I’d sent her a playlist titled “The Soundtrack to Us.” It was personal—curated for her, with notes about why each song mattered. It wasn’t meant for anyone else, let alone a wedding DJ.
The Sting
It wasn’t about royalties or some sense of ownership over the songs. It was about honesty. That playlist was personal, full of memories, moments, and a friendship’s worth of meaning. Hearing it repurposed for her wedding without any acknowledgment felt like someone had taken my handwriting and signed their own name to it.
Every track brought a memory. Every chorus, a flash of shared laughter or a story only we knew. But now, they belonged to a different story—one that I hadn’t been invited to shape.
Talking to Melissa
Later in the night, I found a quiet moment with Melissa. “The music’s great tonight—it sounds familiar,” I said, hoping to open a door to a real conversation.
She grinned. “Oh, yeah. I remembered that playlist you made me and thought it would be perfect for the wedding.”
I waited for her to add, “…and I told people it was yours,” or at least, “I hope you don’t mind.” But she didn’t. She moved on to talk about the cake, completely missing the point.
Why It Hurt
Weddings are deeply personal events. I understood wanting every detail to feel special and meaningful. But using something I had created—something that carried pieces of my own story and heart—without acknowledgment felt dismissive. It wasn’t about public credit or a shoutout in the middle of her reception. It was about respect, and the unspoken agreement between friends to honor each other’s creativity.
It made me realize how easy it is for a thoughtful gesture to be taken for granted—and how painful it is when someone presents your work as their own.
Moving Forward
I didn’t make a scene or demand credit that night. I congratulated Melissa, danced, and tried to enjoy the celebration. But quietly, I decided to keep my most personal creative work for people who value not just the creation, but the creator. It’s not about withholding, but about protecting the things that matter most to me.
Lessons Learned
When you create something for someone, it can take on a life of its own. But if that person presents it as their own, it changes the meaning and the memory. That’s why boundaries around creative contributions are just as important as boundaries around possessions. If you value your creative work, it’s okay to expect others to value it too.
Final Thought:
A playlist might seem small, but it can hold a world of shared memories. When someone uses it as their own, they’re not just taking your songs—they’re taking your story.
