Don’t judge me. I’m that 40-something adult who belts out Billie Eilish songs in my car on the drive to work each morning. I crank the volume full blast when Chappell Roan sings about trying to be the “chill” girl with trips to a Long Beach house. And I definitely jam out with Demi Lovato as she asks, “Why do I compare myself to everyone? And I always got my finger on the self-destruct”—because honestly girl? Same.

But the song that reached deep into my soul, ripped out strands of my heart and tore at my flesh with every note as it resurfaced, was Making the Bed by Oliva Rodrigo. It didn’t initially have this effect on me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved the melody, the lyrics seemed legit, and let’s face it—I’m a sucker for a snarky ballad. But listening to the song the first few times on my drive home from work while thinking about what to have for dinner, the laundry sitting in my dryer waiting impatiently to be folded, and the dirty dishes in my sink impetuously calling me out for not dealing with them sooner, I was clearly too distracted to understand the song’s deeper meaning.

In fact, my first impression of the song had me raising my hands in the air like a 1970’s groupie swaying to the music, as if every beat hit just a little too close to home. Yes! It IS me who’s been making the damn bed! Every. Freaking. Day. I can’t go to work knowing my bed isn’t made and it’s driven me insane all these years that no one else in my family shares this same compulsive need, unable to grasp how truly satisfying it is to come home to a space that feels comfortable and inviting, a space that everyone wants to be in because it looks good, feels safe, and screams organization. But why was it always me that had to do it? And more importantly, how was it possible that at age 20 Olivia Rodrigo had already felt that same heartache?

The more I listened to the song, however, its true meaning slowly began to unravel before me. And what I came to realize hit me so hard it stopped me dead in my tracks—like a freight train barreling through a quiet night, leaving nothing unscathed.

This song was me.

I was this song.

Every feeling, every thought, every word perfectly mirrored the quiet ache I’ve carried for years, the exhaustion of doing and holding it all together without anyone noticing the invisible weight. While I was literally making my bed every day, I was figuratively making it too—in every monotonous task I performed, while also dealing with the outcome of each decision I’d ever made and every path I’d chosen to follow. As the saying goes, I was making my bed……and lying in it too.

As I peeled back the layers of Making the Bed, I realized that the song’s quiet melancholy wasn’t just about the literal bed or even the chore itself, it was a metaphor for the crushing weight of self-imposed responsibility, emotional labor, and the exhaustion of simply existing. Rodrigo’s lyrics perfectly captured that numbness–going through the motions yet feeling trapped in a loop of invisible burdens.

The line “Making the bed, lying in it too” isn’t just about accountability or facing consequences—it’s about a resignation to circumstance, an acceptance of life’s disappointments without protest. For me, this turned the song from a sad ballad that I had previously been swaying to the beat while imagining myself as a free-spirited hippie in a flowy dress, burning sage to cleanse the vibes and wondering why Mercury is always in retrograde, into a heartbreaking anthem of self-alienation. Rodrigo wasn’t just singing about an untidy bed—she was singing about a life where control feels fleeting, joy is elusive, and numbness quietly takes over.

The song starts out with this dreamy, disorienting sound, already making it seem as if you’re suspended between reality and your own thoughts. A musical version of the Twilight Zone, where nothing feels quite right but you can’t figure out why. It’s as if we’re being invited into this mental fog where every action seems distant and detached.  Everything you do, everything you’ve done—none of it seems to matter or provide any sense of self-worth.

This sound sets the stage for a deeper exploration of emotional numbness, and the weight of those repetitive, everyday motions we go through without truly feeling present. It’s a brilliant backdrop for a song that isn’t just about physical exhaustion but mental and emotional burnout. What makes it so haunting is how relatable it feels—like you’re watching yourself from a distance, unable to break free from the loop. It’s a subtle yet powerful way to bring listeners into a mental headspace and convey the relatability of being stuck in our own lives and trapped in our own thoughts.

The simple, small, responsible acts—making your bed, staying organized, showing up to life—are supposed to foster a sense of control, accomplishment, or even pride. They’re often framed as the building blocks of self-worth, right? But for someone stuck in a cycle of detachment or emotional exhaustion, those actions lose their meaning. They become empty gestures, just things you do because you’re supposed to. It’s like your mind is disconnected from the outcome. Want it so I got it, did it so it’s done. Another thing I ruined, I used to do for fun. You check off the boxes—bed made, dishes done, smile plastered on—but they don’t hit where they’re supposed to. The self-worth that should follow is lost somewhere in that fog Olivia so effectively paints. Instead of feeling accomplished, you just feel…tired. It’s that quiet ache of “I’m doing everything right, so why does everything feel wrong?”

So how do we escape this feeling of disconnect? How do we force ourselves to make things matter again instead of just being tired of who we are? How do we continue living in a world that we have undoubtedly created for ourselves without wallowing in puddles of self-pity or playing the victim? It appears that by the end of the song, the answer is to pull the sheets over our heads and continue to just—make the bed again. Yet perhaps even recognizing this loop is a small step toward breaking free from it. Maybe realizing that we’ve somehow lost meaning in the things we used to find validating is a way for us to dig deep within our tired bodies and mentally worn-out minds and search for that small piece of hope that still flickers beneath the surface. It may not be enough to immediately pull us out of the cycle, but it could be enough to plant a seed—a seed that reminds us we don’t have to stay stuck forever. Maybe, instead of just making the bed again, we can start to reframe what those small, responsible acts mean. They don’t have to symbolize defeat or exhaustion; they can become small victories in the fight to reclaim our sense of self.

Perhaps the song doesn’t just leave us with resignation, it leaves us with quiet permission to feel, to acknowledge our burdens, and to start thinking about how we might lift them. And in doing so, we take the first steps toward creating a world where meaning and joy are not just distant memories, but possibilities once again within our grasp.

At the very least, recognizing that you’re not alone and that you haven’t completely lost your grip on reality can be a comforting reassurance.

When I was growing up, female artists didn’t offer the same relatability they do today. Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera didn’t resonate with me—they only highlighted what I lacked or presented a socially constructed ideal of someone I could never be. Sure, I enjoyed their music and appreciated some of the messages within their songs, but it never felt grounded in real life. It was fun, catchy, and entertaining, but I didn’t see my own struggles or emotions reflected in their lyrics in a way that felt valid or authentic. Let’s face it, how many of us showed up to school in pig tails wearing a midriff-baring top, a short skirt, and knee-high socks screaming “Hit Me Baby One More Time”? I went to a catholic school—not only would I have gotten a dress code fine from Sister Janice, but I also would have spent weeks in detention for disrupting hallway traffic with my stripper dance.

I wonder how it would have been if, in 2007, when Britney Spears shaved her head and unraveled in front of the world, she had written music about her struggles instead of succumbing to them. What if, instead of being a spectacle, she had been able to turn that pain into something raw and relatable? Would we have seen her differently? Would she have felt less alone? Maybe if the pop idols of my youth had been allowed to be messy, flawed, and real in their music, I would have felt a little less alone, too.

So there, I’ve said it. I’m in my 40’s and still love music that my 15-year-old daughter knows every lyric by heart and proudly belts them out in my kitchen on a summer evening while making a Guts cake with her best friend (their special tribute to Olivia Rodrigo’s most recent album). Other nights I hear them singing “You can kiss a hundred boys in bars, shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling” in high pitched voices that would make Chappell Roan proud.

I’m around, quietly nodding my head to the music, singing the lyrics with them in my head, all while folding laundry, doing the dishes and you know…Making the Bed.