Swiftly…Incidental?
Unless you’ve lived off the grid for the last dozen years or so, you know global icon Taylor Swift has all but become the music industry. Record after record, stream after stream, she’s the fly on the wall that never fully goes away — yet you know is always there, lurking. Watching. Waiting.
I’ll admit it, I was a young “Swiftie”, too. I used to collect my change and frantically count my birthday money to buy the next Taylor Swift album, dancing alone in my room to Speak Now’s Enchanted, Fearless’ eponymous track, or 1989’s Wildest Dreams. I understood yearning more than algebra, mastering the golden wistful longings off which Swift built her brand. Like countless others, she made me feel seen on a broader scale — something my childhood sorely lacked.
Much like Swift herself, I had big, head-over-heels fantasies of being loved one day. I shared in her desire for chosenness, reveling in the fact that perhaps one day, I too would be worthy of love. So I watched. I waited.
An anxious attacher born out narcissistic circumstance, I felt the sharp, stinging reminders of abandonment with each new connection forged, lost, or that which I was somehow better off without. I knew loss, and I knew it well. Specializing in maternal heartbreak, mismanaged anger, and a heaping lack of self worth, I was left to my own devices long before the first iPhone made waves.
Suffice it to say, I’m far from an expert — but admittedly I’m closer to wise than ever after several years of trauma healing. I know what insecurity dressed up as glitz and glamour looks like, even if I could never master the aesthetic for my heart-on-sleeve self. The living, breathing embodiment of rejection day in and day out, the lack of color in my life swept me away. Out of the woods of dull, lifeless infamy to vibrant, enchanting dream lands.
In her early prime, the daydreamy tales of happily ever after made sense.
Fitting her age like tightly woven fabric in the peak of autumn, wishing on all things shooting stars and Prince Charmings were appropriate. But now? As a thirty-something? Uh? It just feels so… tired. Recycling the same theme over and over doesn’t make for unity — it makes for a truth overstated.
When do we peer beyond the surface-level insecurity and fairytale landscapes to actually discover…Taylor, the person?
Taylor, sans love and relationships? Sans, fame?
As an empath moving toward secure attachment for the first time in her life, I am overjoyed she’s found refuge with Travis Kelce. Alas, what she’s been watching and waiting for — a love that sees, hears, and holds space for her loudest and proudest self. She’s relentlessly ambitious, undeniably business savvy, and a gifted poet. As both an artist and a writer myself, I appreciate her work on multiple levels. What she lacks in vocal acuity she makes up for in clever and vulnerable turns of phrase. Yet somehow, even as the occasional nostalgic fan or poet-in-progress, her work often leaves me, and the greater public — in lack. So we’re left watching and waiting.
Listen, I get it. She was bullied and ostracized from a young age, and then bullied further in the music industry. She has good reason to be protective (possessive, even) over her name. All I’m asking for is a real “look behind the curtains” into her psyche.
Aside from criticism-averse clapbacks and her entire hopeless-romantic-schtick, it begs the question: what if she turned the lens inward? What if she could embrace the authenticity she brings to others-centered experiences, for her own? What if there was an All Too Well (10 Minute Version) that spared righteous blame and seized accountability?
Enter, Midnights.
Aside from the occasional Folklore/Evermore promenade, I haven’t proudly streamed Swift in years; however, Midnights marked the return of late night jam sessions on the drive home from work. Although a breakup album, it offered sonic versatility, danceability, and a rare feat of self-introspection: “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem it’s me”, to put it lightly. No longer just an album about relationships, perhaps for the first time we catch a glimpse of the real Taylor.
Enter, Showgirl.
Catchy, undeniably dancey, but ultimately…underwhelming. After weeks of anticipation and fan-frenzied easter egg hunting, I was expecting more from this album. Giving less Showgirl and more “horny in-love-girl”, I was hoping Swift would make good on her promises of legitimately unveiling life as a showgirl. Where’s the rehearsals? Where’s the camaraderie? Where’s the delicate balance of umpteen day-to-days? No, I’m not talking her theatrical movie release. No, I’m not talking chronology during the biggest, best selling tour of all time. What if, instead of Actually Romantic, she’s just Actually Tired? Or loses the whisper-sung Wi$H Li$T in favor of present contentedness?
I’ve heard a thousand love songs. How about we dive into the monstrous pressure she’s under? (And no, not I Can Do it With a Broken Heart’s gaudy “I’m so depressed I act like it’s my birthday everyday.”)
Let’s dive into her self image, her attachment style, her friends and family of origin. Please, let’s hear family impacts beyond a brother’s “eating out of the trash” or a mother’s “you were dancing through the lightning strikes.”
I won’t lie, Wood is devious and infectious. Sampling Jackson 5 added just the right amount of verve and vigor on a rather NSFW track. Opalite’s rich imagery mirrors Midnight’s shiny Bejeweled. Father Figure pokes familial fun at her not-so-simple journey to reclaiming her masters. And Eldest Daughter feels serious, yet borderline satiric as she whispers “I’m not a bad bitch, this isn’t savage.”
Rather than continue idolizing love and happy endings, when can Swift’s confidence and seemingly-yet-to-be-achieved self assuredness be the primary focus of her work? When will Taylor, in all her glittery, vulnerable, snarky honor — believe she’s enough?
Finding love with another is fine and lovely and all, but what I’d most love to see? An even happier Taylor Swift homecoming, to herself — once and for all.
That, would be So High School.
