Today, I'm a mere month shy of 31. The theme of the past several weeks has been go, go, go. I haphazardly dipped my toe in the dating pool, kept trucking along with Junior League and Special Olympics events, and took some time out for--what else--live music. Pilgrimage fest was even better than I expected it would be (Langhorne Slim, City and Colour, and Kacey Musgraves being the highlights--in addition to the 300+ folks we got registered to vote!), and a return trip to ACL was just what my soul needed... so much of my favorite music in my favorite city, right smack dab in the middle of a week with all of the people who know me best. I spent a lot of quality time--usually over Mexican cuisine--with my Pops (and visited with mom too), and laughed and wined with my Baylor friends as if no time has passed since I left Texas four years ago. Hockey season returned (!), and all at once we found ourselves basking on the porch, soaking up the chilly nights and dewy mornings of a changing season as our pool days concluded. My girlfriends have been a welcomed, constant fixture on weeknights and weekends alike, as we find any excuse to make grandiose events out of chili nights and debate-watching parties. I excitedly hopped on board a spin bike for the first time in months, as my friend opened a brand spanking new studio on the east side. I also ventured back to Vanderbilt to work my fifth year at Reunion--which is always a ton of fun for me, reigniting all of excitement of playing event manager, if only for one night.

Working out and sleep took a backseat, but I still managed to somehow get exactly what I needed. Crazy to think that in just a handful of weeks, a new year--of promise and challenges, growth and so much laughing--will be at my feet. Until then, I'm (planning on) taking time to just lay a little low.

But then? Bring it on 31.

My musical education was fostered very early on. While my mom favored '90s country and the Eagles, my dad inundated us with the very best of classic rock, incorporating the steering wheel and dashboard of his F250 (lovingly known as Ol' Blue) as his percussion elements, head-banging along the drive from point A to point B, offering us performances unrivaled by anyone who'd ever graced the cover of Rolling Stone.

I spent an inordinate amount of my junior high evenings, hunched over my beloved boombox, recording top 40s music from 97.5 on a beloved cassette tape, complete with broken bits of DJ introductions and hokey, local commercials. Think TLC, Sheryl Crow, Blues Traveler, Lisa Loeb.

The highly coveted CD burner was unveiled during my high school years. Two words: game changer. Cue my best friend, the budding entrepreneur, who debuted her bootleg CD business in the hallways of Lorena High School--five bucks a pop for a custom mix , complete with jewel case and laminated playlist insert. Fun fact: I very recently found two of the CDs she made me--aptly dubbed "Meg's Mix" and "Meg's Mix 2" which are every bit as quality as you can imagine (BBMak, Coyote Ugly soundtrack, Mandy Moore, to highlight a few). She had minimal competition (looking at you, Ben Geeslin), so was obviously an overnight success.

For as long as I can remember, my every memory has a song interwoven within it... whether it was my Mimi cooking in the kitchen to "Unchained Melody," to my mom blaring "Hotel California" while cleaning, to my parents rocking the Beatles Anthology (cassette) on roadtrips across the country... and of course the break-up ballads, what we girls danced to in the locker room, and finally, the jams that filled up our ipods once Apple tapped (no pun) into that little gem (still have mine, by the way. Both of them.)

(is it any wonder my favorite movie is Almost Famous?)

Thankfully, my tastes evolved. I transitioned from whiny boy rock (think Ataris and All American Rejects) and angry girl rock (Liz Phair and the like) to lots of Bob Dylan and some oldies, everything in between--and finally an acoustic/indie/Americana phase that planted itself in 2002 and just never ended. If I was a genre, that'd be it. Strum an acoustic guitar for me and watch me melt.

I first learned about ACL as a Baylor girl... a few of my friends made the 90-mile trek to Austin all in the name of good jams, and I desperately yearned to go too. Alas, the price-tag for a three-day pass far exceeded my measly budget as a coed, and I instead vowed to myself "one day." My "one day" finally rolled around last year, I returned this year, and will go again and again and again. It's just that good.

Disclaimer: my photo game was weak due to my snap game being strong--hence the temperature report on the following. Can't win 'em all, right?

Here I am, your self-appointed ACL tour guide...






I elected the one-day situation, as I wanted to allocate the majority of my vacation with friends and family (all over the great state of Texas).

When I made it down to Zilker Park on Sunday, here's the ridiculous line-up I dove into:





If you're planning on heading to a festival, here's my advice:

1. Make a friend who works for BMI.
Ha--okay, so maybe a little harder to hook this one up, but my dear friend Kat got me into their VIP tent for 1) drinks, 2) a better bathroom situation, 3) snacks, 4) TV for football (although on Sunday, this was less of a thing for me), and 5) yeah, maybe a little shoulder-rubbing with their bands. It was nice to sip on my Tito's and decompress from the crowd a little.

2. If you're getting merch, get your merch upon arrival. They always sell out of the coolest designs, so make this a priority.

3. Plan on eating the best food ever. I live for Salt Lick's nachos... (see also: empanadas, tamales, snow cones. Take me back already.)

4. Plan to park downtown (I paid $10 for the day) and shuttle down to Zilker. So much easier than trying to park near the show... I walked four blocks to Republic Square to catch the (free) shuttle that takes 15 minutes to usher on down to the festival.

5. Cell service blows there. Take screenshots of the festival map and line-up so you don't drain your battery further by accessing the internet.

6. Dress comfortably (I wore a tank, sandals and cut-offs). Here's your arsenal:

A couple times a year, usually in early spring and early fall, I begin sensing this insatiable itch. A slow-rolling anxiety for a shift. It sneaks in subtly, and my constant breakneck pace overpowers it just enough that I blindly dismiss it as a need for something else: another project or maybe a haircut or to delve into a plan to get distracted. But when I strip away the mental nonsense, take a breather and consciously reflect for a sec--it dawns on me.

Of course: time to go home.

Life in my hometown is so reliable, so constant. My family still being there is the obvious, foremost reason for my venturing back, but the routine of Waco is as consistent as it is sleepy. Y'all know how much I love the life I've built in Nashville, but the sweet predictability of life in central Texas gives me the recharge I crave every few months.

My most recent trip back (with the exception of trekking to ACL) was by most counts unremarkable... a blur of backroads and breakfast tacos, big city skylines and having a front row seat to all the stars in the sky. But this is what I love and what I crave. It's what rejuvenates me: that the more things change, the more they stay the same.



Home is the same series of errands and meals--down to sitting in the same places, at the same tables, in the same restaurants. At HEB, I scoop up Shiner to share with my Pops, and my favorite Texas Pecan coffee to bring back to Nashville. At Spice, it's Circle E candles and tops and dresses I can't find here. I always read the Wacoan and Texas Monthly cover-to-cover before nodding off in my childhood bedroom (to be awoken right at sunrise by the aggressive light pouring through the east-facing window... something I hated in high school, yet have come to love as an adult). I visit mom at the cemetery, usually with flowers in one hand and a half-and-half tea from Bush's in the other.



As a kid in Texas, you learn the backroads as soon as you slide behind the driver's wheel (funnily enough--my dad was asking me for names of roads when I was home... and I reminded him that I've been gone for over four years). A day into my trip, I excitedly raced to Houston to stay with my childhood best friend, a three-plus-hour drive from my parents', connected by two-lane highways and farm-to-market roads that are as memorable to me as if I still drove them as frequently as I did as a college girl. 77 to 7, 6 to 290, 45 to 3--GPS utterly unnecessary. With my pup assuming her position in my lap, spotify blaring, and the familiar stream of main street strips zooming past us, the roadtrip melted away and in no time, we were sipping on Shiner, laughing on the patio with my best friend since I was 11 (and her hysterical husband, who just as effortlessly as she did in fifth grade, has become family to me).



We watched football and feasted on steaks, sizzling from the grill. We swapped stories on high school friends and commiserated about politics. Lauren and I talk nearly everyday, but there's just no substitute for face time with your best friend--the one who knows all your secrets and loves you anyway. Twenty years of inside jokes and encouragement, bitter loss and heartache, the knowing side glances and uncontrollable laughs. I've never called Houston "home" but make no mistake--home is absolutely defined by the people in your life. A little piece of my heart absolutely lives in Houston.


I spent Sunday at ACL (much more on that later), and returned back to Waco, groggy but so very content. The next few days held minimal plans, which allowed me more time to just immerse myself in the small-town life I left. Isn't it funny--those things that make us almost desperate for a change of pace, are the exact things you dream of and cling to when you get to go back?






Home is roads peppered with monikers like "Bullhide Creek" and "Pecan Ridge" and "Longhorn Trail." It's I35 being perpetually under construction, and Blue Bell in every fathomable flavor, and the fact that it takes 15 minutes to get anywhere you need to go. It's running into your high school teachers and friends' parents at the grocery store, knowing which snakes will hurt you, and the flood of nostalgia at seeing the stadium lights flicker on, as the sun sinks behind the visitor's side of the field.

It's the farmer's cows grazing in the pasture next door, gargantuan pick-up trucks, and huevos rancheros with my dad after we walk his Airedale, Ben on the Cotton Belt Trail at the crack of dawn. It's a smattering of leopard paws--my high school mascot--painted on the residential roads that serve as the perimeter to the schools. My non-Texan friends get a kick out of my pride, but there's really no explaining it. I liken it to a time warp--little has changed in my teensy hometown of one stoplight since well before I left it in my own rearview.

It was a pretty fantastic trip for me. I ate too much whataburger, lit up at the sight of Baylor's campus (repeatedly), and sat with my dad at the vet with Ben (to receive his next anti-venom shot after an encounter with a rattlesnake last month, no less).  I spent Monday night laughing with my dear friends from my Baylor career days, cooked dinner for my parents, and successfully got my dad into Narcos.


After a tumultuous return trip (diverted flight back to Love Field after a "hydraulic emergency" and the rockiest plane landing I've ever experienced), I hit the pillow for a three-hour nap, heart so overwhelmingly full.