I didn’t attend the Taylor Swift concert in Toronto. It wasn’t in the budget. Yet, I would have gone if I could just to watch my daughter be immersed in a crowd of Swifties, all glittered up, sharing friendship bracelets, embracing one another as a community of positivity. The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, but those fans were able to shake it off in a giant, inclusive experience.
Fun fact: my daughter was not a Swiftie until this past year. Whenever Taylor came on the car radio, there would be a battle about changing the station. I would win because it’s my car. While not a true Swiftie, I’ve always respected the talents of the young songstress.
But then, I’m all about the lyrics. I am a sucker for a good story. You have to hand it to Taylor for writing a 10-minute song about a scarf she left behind with a man who broke her heart. She wraps you up in the pain, shame and sorrow, but then reminds you of the warmth when you embrace yourself with acceptance as the drama passes. I have been that girl. I have experienced that heartache. It was a million years ago, yet I remember it all too well.
I also remember a car ride with my daughter when she was in high school. A Taylor song came on and my daughter started making fun of how all her songs were about celebrity boyfriends and bad choices. I nearly drove over the curb. Did the daughter of a writer not understand that heartbreak, betrayal and the messiness of love were paramount to a good narrative? Did I need to break out my Alanis Morrisette CD again? Hurt makes great art.
Maturity, a life circumstance and a heartfelt song changed all that. My daughter became an overnight Swiftie. Suddenly, every one of Taylor’s eras had new relevance to my now self-aware daughter. I should have said, “told you so.”
Another car ride. Another Taylor tune, only this time, my daughter turned the volume up and said, “this song makes me think of you.” The song was I Can Do It With A Broken Heart. My daughter said it was relevant to me for two reasons: Taylor’s sarcasm and humour about keeping it all together so nobody sees you’re falling apart (my two coping mechanisms); and because she’s watched me push through some hard moments and still function with a smile.
My first thought was, have I taught her to fake her emotions even when they’re tough? These last two years have felt like a roller coaster: the death of my dear friend, changing my career, moving homes twice in two years, learning and losing a dream job, landing another, working multiple jobs to make ends meet, watching people I love struggling with illness, helping where I am needed and coping as best as I can with all of it. Great days. Tough days. She has been there for it all.
As the lyrics go, “I cry a lot but I am so productive. It’s an art.” I make no apologies for feeling my way through whatever life throws at me. Heartbreaks, by any definition, heal when you allow yourself to feel. Hard times don’t hold me back; they hold me still until I am strong enough to carry on.
If my daughter learns that, I’m good with it.
Besides, karma is my boyfriend. Swifties get it.
