Some people remember exactly where they were when they heard Princess Diana died. Or when they realized what was actually happening on September 11. Or when OJ Simpson and his white Bronco appeared on every TV station, weaving through LA on a slow-speed car chase down the 405. Same, same and yup. I also remember exactly where I was first time I heard Taylor Swift on the radio.

Yes, this one is 97 percent about Taylor Swift. The next step is yours, choose wisely.

Time Magazine named Taylor Swift 2023 Person of the Year. Had they chosen literally anyone else, I would’ve instantly turned hard toward conspiracy theories, severely questioning the qualification standards louder than Trump screamed voter fraud in the 2020 election. Why? A lot of reasons. Let me start at the beginning, cuz me and Taylor, we go way back.

One summer over seventeen years ago, I was driving my boyfriend-at-the-time’s brand new Toyota Corolla north; he was on a job servicing a train trestle (or something) near Wausau, and I was the weekend plan. Why I was in his car and not mine is a mystery, I mean, we first met at bar called Monkeyshines, life was just different back then, but I’m forever grateful, because his had that super fancy Sirius XM Radio. You could see the name of the song + the artist, kind of like Shazam, without having to Shazam. Built-in Shazamming. Also, did you know Shazam became an app in 2008, but before then, you could dial 2580 (only in the UK) to get the music recognized and be sent a text containing the song title and artist name? I feel old. Because this was even before then. Who even Shazams anymore? (I’m the problem, it’s me. 148 Shazams since September 2008, most recent one being August of 2023, yes they have stats.) Anyway.

I was in the preferred state of my own world, when Tim McGraw (the song, not the singer) came on the country station I was tuned into. Who was this gift escaping through the airwaves smoother than the Little Mermaid taking her voice back from Ursula? I read the words lit up on the windshield contraption that also looked suspiciously like a police scanner. I had never heard the name before and it seemed too cool to be real, like a fake name people use to get famous. I said it out loud: Taylor Swift. Then something like: Holy shit, this girl is going somewhere. She’s gonna blow it all to pieces. And I was just referring to the country music scene.

Monkeyshines Guy and I didn’t work out for all the reasons, but he did give me Taylor Swift. And though I had a decade more chapters in my story when we met, she and I would continue to grow up together, because let’s face it, I’ve always been about a decade away from the rest of my peers when it comes to going with the age-appropriate flow; too old, too young, whatever and forever wondering why I didn’t fit into a place I never wanted to be.

It’s think important to note, I am not a Swiftie. I do not refer to her as Mother. I think that’s weird and it makes me uncomfortable. I just recently started following her on Instagram for the nonzero chance she reads this post someday, and it makes her smile. I do not care who she dates, where she eats, what she wears, how she parties, or more often doesn’t. I do not overanalyze her lyrics, try to find the easter eggs, wonder who she wrote that song about, or connect dots that aren’t meant to be connected. Or maybe they are, she is after all, a mastermind. I think it’s nice ya’ll have a hobby, but the only living thing I idolize that much is my dog, and I just don’t have room for two borderline unhealthy obsessions. 

But I definitely get it. Because from the first day Taylor’s interpretation of life burrowed into my ears by way of Sirius XM and a Toyota Corolla, she continued to write songs, create music, tell stories that spoke to my parallel yet completely separate life journey, from miles away and years apart. Here’s where I veer off from the rest of the Swifties: I’ve never made Taylor Swift about Taylor Swift, I make Taylor Swift about Me. I’m the main character.

Historical Facts:

• After I received visual confirmation of shadiness I was actively avoiding acknowledging, I yell sang Should’ve Said No followed by Picture to Burn no less than one million times, but in this strange happy, upbeat mood. I may have burned an actual picture. For some reason I felt like the real winner, and you know what? I was.

• When someone I thought I was in love with just couldn’t find it in them to be the same kind of in love back, I howled Haunted in the shower, pretty much every shower for months, forever my favorite place to cry. It feels so natural and allowed.

• I solidified professional connections with one of my client directors in a “shoot, right, you’re a real person too” moment as we bonded heavily over our love for Red, especially 22, both of us being signficantlyish older. He couldn’t even totally blame his kids. They were still a bit too young to “get it”, though little dudes and dudettes everywhere have since convinced me there’s no age limit on finding something to “get” about Taylor Swift. (Kids today are so much more grown up than I ever felt back then, even now sometimes.) Nah, he was just an adult male who genuinely appreciated Taylor Swift and wasn’t afraid to show it, a rare breed, then and now. Haven’t checked in with him in regards to Taylor these days, but if you’re reading this Soren, I hope our appreciative fascination trended in the same direction.

• Coincidentally, when I realized she wasn’t really country anymore (but what even was “country” any more), my own country bubble popped just by dabbling elsewhere, my ears taking a head first dive into that deep beautiful rabbit hole in search of my musical soul. HOLY SHIT, HOW WILL I EVER LISTEN TO ALL OF THE MUSIC?

• I blasted Welcome to New York in my ear buds, singing loudly as I danced across New Jersey state lines into my 9th of 14 states on the Appalachian Trail. Ah, New York. She really was waiting for me, all this time. And damn, did I look strong. I felt strong. I WAS strong.

• Depressed and out of sorts after the highs of finishing the Pacific Crest Trail, I found myself roaming aimlessly through life when I became aware that musicians still made music videos on a friend’s suggestion to check out …Ready For It, still possibly the best thing I’ve ever seen with my eyes. Well, shit. The old Taylor really was dead, and I was here for it, feeling reborn myself. Permission to stop trying to fit back into my old self. Sweet relief. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve invited to sit down and watch the journey of Taylor Swift via YouTube, but it’s a lot and it’s often.

Oh my god. Should I be calling her mother?

• But perhaps most importantly in my Book Of Important Things, Taylor Swift is responsible for transitioning my dining room into The Parlour over the ye old Summer o’ 2023. My friend Erica (who is definitely a Swiftie, you can thank her for all this Taylor eye candy) needed another email address to work whatever dark magic is required to potentially score a spot to wait to be acknowledged for a ticket queue to possibly, but unlikely have a hat nod to etc., etc., Eras Tour for her third show or something, and I offered mine. And I (she) had a better (unconfirmed) chance if I was a verified fan, but to be a verified fan, you apparently needed to buy merch. As if discovering her in a Toyota Corolla on Sirius XM radio in 2006 wasn’t enough. Okay sure. I scrolled through my options, unwilling to buy something I would never use (sorry Taylor, I don’t need to wear your face), I decided to buy the only thing that felt like not a waste of money: a few records for the record player I didn’t have. Yet. And so it began. 

My first cassette tape was Wilson Phillips, I think I stole that from my dad. My first CD purchase was Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill. My first MP3 download was I Love Rock ‘n Roll by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. And my first vinyl album was Taylor Swift’s Red (Taylor’s Version). You’ll find no shame here.

Anyway, my point is, a few weeks ago Dog Dad Steve was going through it. Just through it. Like wading in quicksand dragging bowling balls behind him, through it. Me? I was in the middle of painting my kitchen more black from partial black. Paint it all black! ALL OF IT, I SAY! He was at the point of realizing he needed to not be alone. Breakups are tough. Especially when it blindsides you.

He appeared in the kitchen with his wolf. Wanna talk about it? I chirped from my little perch on the kitchen stool, painting the wall above the doorway with the tiniest brush this world has ever seen, We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together whispering knowingly from Taylor’s record player mouth.

He did not, not really. 

Except, when you’re boiling at the brim, stuff just starts to seep out, but in this disjointed way, like when 8 million bugs hit your windshield at once and you don’t know what to focus on or where to go because you can’t see through all the shit. Just so much shit. And then you put your windshield wipers on, thinking it might help, but it just smears the shit all over, making it thicker? How?!? Wiper fluid? All out, except for the smallest drizzle, just enough to add to the literal shit show. Because of course. 

I was trying to take it all in, when I heard him say something that made sense: Did you play this song on purpose? 

I did not, but OoOoo..it was wooOorkiiiiing. The Magic of Taylor Swift finds you, not the other way around. You don’t get a choice.

My hands loosely held some of the details of his situation from our previous conversations, but it seemed he had reached a new level in the Game, one he hadn’t experienced yet. It’s become increasingly difficult for me to hold judgement against most people, things and circumstances. With three sides to every story, each of them equally fascinating and deserving to be told, most of the time I’m just trying to understand it all before prematurely giving all my hard-earned emotions away. Over time, I’ve found myself on all different sides of the same basic story. It’s a wild and strange perspective.

My fatal flaw is finding the good in everything, so I collected the pieces of his broken heart to reframe the story in a slightly less E V E R Y T H I N G I S D E A D way, which can be extremely, annoyingly frustrating to a friend who just wants to be held in their anger and seen in their sadness. Now was not the time to play devil’s advocate. And he wasn’t trying to fix anything or see any bullshit silver lining. He just needed to feel his feelings. And sometimes it’s hard to face those feelings alone, that’s literally what friends are for. So I kept my mouth shut and offered what I could; an ear, a shoulder, a hug, but like a real one that lasts long enough for everyone to let go of what they’re carrying, unclench fists for a fight they’re not fighting, inhale the good shit, exhale the bullshit, straight-up human connection. And then I passed the baton.

Don’t feel bad for being a good person, Steve. You loved with the entirety of your heart and she dropped it. And that really fucking hurts. And now I’m gonna play a very long, like a 10 minute long Taylor Swift song, that I think you need to hear.

I left him on the couch with a couple of dogs, some wool blankets and his feelings. That’s the thing about Taylor. She lives in your moment, not in toxic positivity, argument or agreement. She hears you and sees you and understands you, then turns the mirror around and makes you sit with your feelings. Examine them. But she doesn’t make you do it alone, she’s right there with you, reading line by line from her museum of broken relationships and life battles, holding your hand, kicking, screaming, fist-bumping, dancing, laughing, whatever you need, she’s narrating your exact emotions and you don’t even have to say a word. And when you’re done, you get up, leaving ten pounds of emotional weight with her. She’ll forever carry the burden, ready to feel your pain with you next time, from her corner speaker in the Parlour. And if it’s love you’re feeling, she’s got a basket from which you can choose your favorite fairytale. Regret? Confusion? Revenge? Lust? If an emotion exists between Love and Loss, Taylor Swift has lived it and invites everyone into her subconscious for a group meeting.

But no fairy tales tonight. Tonight we listened to All Too Well five times, so for like an hour. At some point during time three, Steve wandered into the kitchen with a revelation. You know, I’ve listened to Taylor Swift before, I’ve just never really listened to Taylor Swift before. 

Me: Oh good, two more times of this one should do it. **Switches from vinyl to Sonos to prepare for the best of T Swift breakups playlist, curated by me in the moment**

Taylor Swift may not be the cure for everyone (wait, what), but when she is, what a gift to be able to give! Is it a gamble to assume it will work for a dude? I mean, maybe. But Steve was THE friend who appreciated her Ex Machina Era (aka…Ready for it) enough to suggest we entertain ourselves with it after my friend Amanda and I sort of broke into his house to seek refuge from cats (it’s a long story), and we all spent the next few hours swimming in the Taylor Swift YouTube rabbit hole, and boy did I need that little treat at that extremely low point in my life. I’m not gonna say it lifted me entirely out of the dark place, I came out of that chasing Freddie Mercury (the dog), but it certainly brought some much needed light, and sometimes that’s all you need to find your next move.

So yeah. Six years ago, when I needed something to grab onto, Steve gave me the Gift of Swift, and it was an honor to be able to give her back. Because, you know. Me and Karma vibe like that. 

All that to say. She’s got a gift ya’ll, The Gift of Swift. Swift Gift. And I’m not trying to argue about it. Never-Swifties be like (insert one of many criticisms, I’m gonna choose a dumb one, they’re all dumb) she can’t dance. Good lord people, WHAT MUST THE GIRL DO TO BE TALENTED. She’s a poet, a storyteller, an artist. She writes her own songs. She plays multiple instruments, from several musical families. Her hands in the shape of a heart produced a dot on the Richter scale. And with one single finger, she can command a stadium full of her tribe who actually DO call her Mother. People of all ages and places and faces feel her words. We’ve been her. She is us. The woman’s a goddamn superhero, and her superpower is musical connection. MUST SHE DANCE FOR YOU TOO? But also like, she can dance, everyone can dance, it’s just not the main event.

Isn’t it wild to want to find something to hate about someone?

Anyway Miss Swift, you truly were the best thing about 2023. The only friendly face in a courtroom of chaos. Thank you for putting your diary out there year after year, for the world to tear you apart. You know the rest of us will be there to build you right back up, whoever you decide to become, by choice or by necessity. We’ve all died a thousand deaths. Climbed out, shook it off, moved on. Reinvented ourselves. Manifested our destiny. And we remember all of our versions, all too well. We got you. 

XOXO,
A fellow appreciator of allegorical art, beautiful music and the magic of storytelling