Let me say, this past year has been a ride through music and memories that have shaped my character with it all pinging me back like messages I never sent. I’m something like a mailman by trade, but my soul’s always been tied to words—rhymes and poetry, (RAP), the kinda music that spills out from your soul when life gets heavy like pushing weight.
Over a year ago, I had the privilege of completing a 6-month internship with 740 Project, a leading marketing agency in the urban/pop digital space. Growing up, I spent time in a Black- and Brown-owned radio station owned by family, unaware of the unique privilege it offered—a space where people who looked like me blended their work with the art and wisdom of our ancestors. This internship became, in a word, my "second childhood." As adults, we sometimes revisit a childlike state, whether for joy, as a response to life's challenges, or, as NaS describes on track eight of Stillmatic, as a reflection of life in his hometown, Queensbridge, NY.
After navigating the grind of a pandemic — where I lead AT&T communication services migration and transformation as well as the same for edTech corporation, Udemy (at the time of their public market listing) — I never imagined I’d find myself in such a reflective place, but my spirit brought me here to reclaim executive agency.
At 740, we got to hear tracks before they dropped for the world to hear. One day, in a virtual meeting, Will Smith’s Work of Art came on, and man, it struck a deep chord in me. The first time I heard it, it brought me a moment of clarity, much like it did for Smith himself. During this meeting, as the song played, I found myself visibly emotional, tears welling up. I turned my virtual meeting camera off. I brushed it off as a kind of "paternal postpartum," a sentiment that seems to resonate with much of Hip Hop’s recent messaging. I went for a drive and continued to listen to the song.
Every song needs to be able to pass the preverbal “car test”. These car test rides for me though, they became moments for the last 12 months, moments that pulled tears from me, not the same song, but sometimes the same feelings I re-experienced with each song tied to a piece of my story—grief, resilience, and redemption.
Here’s the ten that brought me to tears over the last year, and why:
Will Smith - Work of Art: That meeting was just the start. Driving alone, the song’s clarity washed over me, reminding me of the privilege of creating in spaces that honor my roots. It wasn’t just tears—it was pride in rediscovering my purpose.
Big Sean - Apologize: In my backyard, touching grass and watering my garden, I was trying to work pass feeling from a call with my ma, while listening to the leaked version of Big Sean’s newest album. My mothers old words—they were far from apologetic.
Ray Vaughn - 3PM @ DAIRY (ft. Sydney Leona): It wasn’t just this song, but also a voice message on the album featuring this song. It reminded me of a time, I needed my mother for emotional support, but she treated me like I wasn’t her child. This song though is more in the middle as it triggered nostagic moments during those late-night McDonald’s runs—Fish Filet, no cheese, Big Mac sauce—and those times I thought I was "helping" my uncle pass drug tests, but only enabling his continuous substance abuse.
Ab-Soul - The Sky Is Limitless (ft. Blxst, Asia Holiday): Hunched over legal documents, fighting a now-dismissed case, Ab-Soul’s lines about solving problems through struggle gave me quiet confidence. The song’s hope fueled my resolve to rewrite my narrative, each lyric a step toward victory that I often knew would come at the price like the law of equivalent exchange on some Full Metal Alchemist type shit.
Chance the Rapper - Buried Alive: It’s often difficult to shed the emotions and experiences when playing you’re acting especially method acting and when I heard Chance’s words about being “buried alive, but very alive” they mirrored the pain I poured into my self to emote during moments on camera. It also echoed my own survival—through homelessness, parenthood through the loss of relationships.
Future - LOST MY DOG: I once played a character in this play, PROOF. He had an unhealthy love for his dog more than his wife. Future’s mournful ode to loss hit me hard, pulling up memories of that one time I cried after the death of my childhood dog, the one my mom biked home in the rain. She lived for 18 years.
Killer Mike - HUMBLE ME: The song is his testimony as a father. The way it ebbs and flows to the glory of God blessing him and his son. I wanted so much to feel his triumph the day his son got his kidney surgery following his arrest at the Grammys. It was the sort of praise I imagined a parent would glorify as a testament to pushing through battles and past hardships.
Clipse, John Legend, Voices of Fire - The Birds Don’t Sing: Driving my son to school, the song’s grief over lost parents cut deep, John Legend’s chorus "The Birds Don't SIng", Pharrell's adlibs "No they don't", Malice lyrics: "I love my two sons was the code to your phone. Now you home." triggering tears as I thought of my relationship with my children’s mother and the weight of being a present dad. It was a reminder to be his compass, no matter the cost. Also, it reminded me of how important it is to know the passwords to my parents phones in the event of their demise.
Lecrae, BEAM - Lift Me Up: Still in my character’s headspace, in fact this was a time when we were reviewing post-production film, Lecrae’s lyrics spoke to the pain of each characters journey. The song’s spiritual lift felt like a lifeline, echoing my own search for hope through dark times, tears falling as I leaned into its faith.
¥$ (Kanye West, Ty Dolla $ign) - RIVER (ft. Young Thug, Leon Bridges): It was nothing that Kanye, Young Thug or Ty Dolla $ign saig, it was Leon Bridges’ soulful outro, “RIVERS”, broke me every time. Whether I was driving or reflecting, it stirred emotions in me even now, I will save it for another day, when I need a good cry.
Bottomline: These ten songs didn’t just make me cry—they poured into me, forcing me to face grief, celebrate resilience, and embrace my role as a father and creator. From my uncle’s loss to my mother’s words, from the set to the studio, each track wove a thread through the last twelve months of my life. Music is my therapy, my mirror, my prayer—guiding me to heal and keep moving forward.
— I’m Lucky Lawrence
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Listen to the full playlist of songs here: