Desert Dirty Dancing, Cassette Tapes, and Letting Go

In 1991, I found myself working at Highland Springs Resort—a quirky, Catskills-style retreat tucked into the dusty outskirts of Palm Springs. Think: a 90s version of Dirty Dancing but in the desert. I wasn’t dancing with Patrick Swayze, but I was coordinating activities, supervising a small group of camp counselors, and managing the rotating list of babysitters for the littlest guests. By my second summer, I’d been promoted to camp director and assistant activities director. Fancy titles, sure—but I was still organizing scavenger hunts, talent shows, and making sure the kids (and their parents) had a great time.

I didn’t land there by choice as much as survival. After my junior year of college, everything kind of collapsed. My parents split. My dad went to rehab (again). They went bankrupt. They lost their home.

And I—just 21 years old—was suddenly expected to clean up the mess.

In addition to the student loans I’d already taken out myself, I was now responsible for more than $18,000 in outstanding bills my parents had promised to pay—and couldn’t. I was financially deserted. Emotionally gutted. And I had no choice but to leave school.

So I packed up everything I owned—literally everything—and took a job in the middle of the desert.

That first summer, I shared a tiny bungalow on campgrounds with another counselor. It was cramped, chaotic, and full of cassette tapes—because yes, it was 1991, and I had to bring my entire display container of tapes with me. Every mix tape from high school. All the best of the 80s. Some made by friends who knew me so well they could create the perfect blend of angst, joy, rebellion, and hope. Others I made myself, hand-selecting each song with intention—albums I loved, songs I lived by, and playlists that told my story before “playlist” was even a word.

And all of them lived in a beautiful wooden cassette tape organizer that held dozens of tapes. I carted it around like it was a prized piece of furniture—because to me, it was.

One of my favorite parts of the job? Using the resort’s loudspeaker system to announce walking clubs, shuffleboard tournaments, and the evening entertainment lineup. I lived for that mic. It made me feel like Julie the Cruise Director from The Love Boat—a little bit in charge, a little bit fabulous, and a whole lot committed to making sure everyone was having a good time. It was equal parts ridiculous and magical.

By the second summer, the resort was busier, and staff housing was maxed out. There were simply no rooms to spare. My friend Stephanie, the front desk manager, offered me her guest room. She and her husband had recently separated, and she was happy for the company—and the $150 a month I could afford to pay. It was a win-win, and I was incredibly grateful.

When the summer ended, I moved back to L.A. to work as a live-in nanny. In the chaos of moving out of Stephanie’s place, I left a few things behind—one of them being my beloved wooden cassette tape holder with all those tapes still inside.

At first, I figured I’d swing back and get it. But “swinging back” meant a drive of over two hours in the best of circumstances—and life had already picked up speed. That plan turned into a year, then two. Eventually, five years had passed, and I was living in New York, married, and building a very different kind of life—and those tapes were still sitting in a closet somewhere in California.

Do I miss them? Hell yes. Especially the mix tapes. There’s something sacred about those hand-picked, carefully timed compilations that you just don’t get with Spotify playlists. But what lingers more than the music is the mess I left behind. The part of me that’s now a decluttering coach cringes a little. I imagine Stephanie, months later, finding that clunky wooden tape tower and going, “Really, Melanie?”

I feel a little guilty, sure. But I’ve learned not to waste time stewing over things I can’t go back and fix. We all leave something behind when we’re in survival mode. Sometimes it’s a semester of college. Sometimes it’s a piece of your past in a wooden cassette tape organizer packed with dozens of memories.

I don’t know if Stephanie kept them, donated them, or eventually tossed them into a landfill outside Beaumont. But I hope she forgave me for the clutter. And I hope—wherever those tapes ended up—that someone pressed play, heard a little Depeche Mode, and felt understood in all the ways I once did.

What about you?
What’s something you left behind—physically or emotionally—that still tugs at your memory from time to time?

Let me know in the comments. And if you’re holding onto clutter from another version of yourself, you’re not alone. This is the work I do—with compassion, humor, and zero judgment.