Help, I'm still at the Eras Tour

I am the girl in her thirties crying at a Taylor Swift concert. Make that two… in the same week. I have never been as big of a fan of Taylor swift as I am today, at 32 years old. I first heard her music in the car with my mum in 2008; I was sixteen and we were driving home when Our Song was playing on the radio. As soon as we got into the house I ran up to my bedroom, turned the radio back on and listened to the rest of the song, desperate to catch the name of whoever it was singing. I was in a phase of finding new music via all the Hilary Duff chick flicks my best friend and I lost ourselves in; our ipods heavily featuring the likes of Superchick, Aly & AJ and Kelly Clarkson. There was a lot of drama in my teen years; I was only interested in boys; writing in my diary about boys, watching films about boys, reading books about boys and listening to music about boys. Naturally, I was an instant fan of Taylor Swift. And discovering her first two albums, an extensive collection of maddeningly heart-wrenching songs through which I would relate my own problems, was like uncovering a rare treasure I would hold onto for the rest of my life.

About a year later I set my ringtone for my then boyfriend to Forever and Always. I couldn’t listen to Should've Said No for at least a year after said boyfriend cheated on me, and upon leaving school and home to start university, I ditched my fandom of Taylor completely, citing she had gone too mainstream for me.

Of course I celebrated my 22nd birthday blasting 22 in my car and there was always a time and a place for Shake it Off, but the change from country to pop had dwindled my interest in her music. But I found my way back when she released Reputation and the obsession grew in lockdown when she surprised the world with Folklore, an album I got totally lost in while trying to survive the pandemic as a 27 year old living at home with my parents while my friends were all getting married or having babies. I loved this new genre she was tapping into; her songwriting had become so much richer, like stories for me to unravel with each listen. It was escapism at its finest.

I felt alone for a lot of my twenties and sometimes the sadness was so hard to navigate, with no tangible person or thing to blame, that I couldn’t listen to music, let alone relate to it. Something about the pain of facing what it is you’re really feeling, rather than just pushing it further down and away, as if it’s not really there or happening at all. I don’t know what changed in me to allow myself to feel difficult emotions again, but Taylor’s music has played a huge part in helping me process some of my feelings, when it has felt like absolutely no one in this world could understand. 

And it’s not always about the lyrics. Since discovering my love for running, there are melodies to which I can let out my anger, frustration, sadness, excitement, hope and gratitude while I move. Having the space and freedom to experience music in that way is so incredibly liberating and healing. 

Have you seen those people who express their second-hand embarrassment at the raw human emotion women like myself are showing as a result of seeing Taylor perform live? I think perhaps years ago I might have had a similar reaction, but since entering my thirties, I find myself caring less and less about what it is I’m ‘supposed’ to be doing. When you find something you love, don’t abandon it because it’s basic or cliche or already popular. There is something so freeing about allowing yourself to be exactly who you are and like exactly what you like -- rather than trying to fit into the box that someone else has deemed appropriate for you. 

Taylor Swift is not cool; she is over the top, melodramatic and cringe, and she knows it. It's part of her appeal, even though we know she’s nothing like us, there is still that little bit of relatability she exudes that keeps us interested.

What it boils down to for me, however, was that finally getting to see her perform live was like reliving every core memory from the last sixteen years, and getting to do so with thousands of others who have their own stories to tell – their own sadness, loneliness, heartbreak and loss. We were all there experiencing it together, amidst the mundanity of everyday, ordinary life, and I still cry when I think about it now.

Grandpa

The youth in your voice is wavering, like marbles spilling out of a bag

rolling onto the floor and getting lost in corners.

Leave them be, you say, it doesn’t matter if we don’t get them back.

But I collect them one by one, and you get your words out

with a few sharp breaths and a tight grip around my hand.

You still have your sense of humour, the same glint in your eye when you joke

But you don’t ask many questions now

it takes all of your energy to speak.

Your skin is a silvery purple; I wonder when did it change?

So thin I can see right through to your bones

Nearly a century supporting your frame.

Gone is the strength for Chinese burns

(or worse – something I’m sure you invented – Indian burns)

and the funny faces you pulled.

I could be ten years old again

reading with you on the sofa, a fresh cup of tea in your hand.

You’ve fought wars in silence, trusting only in God.

A faith fuelled by hope 

and love – always love – pushes you on 

but I wonder how you never complain?

Then I hear in the dark of your kitchen one night

as I’m washing up another day

you singing from your bed Grandma’s favourite hymn; 

Is it a song for her or a plea to God?

Again, I ask how can only praise pass your lips?

For all my life I have lived while she has been gone 

and you carry on

waiting to see her again.

Older and taller, younger and smaller

I was in my parents' living room seeing in the new year the same way I had been for the last five years. We dress up and put glitter on our eyes, drink cocktails and leave lipstick marks on the glasses. We listen to our favourite songs. It's sad that I wince as I write this – who told me to be ashamed of how I feel? This wasn't what I had envisioned for my life. I thought I'd be married by now, at least with someone, or perhaps come close to it. Watching my friends, one by one, meet the love of their lives, get married, have babies, while I stayed the same, still here, again. And it felt like the years were slipping by, faster than the year before and the year before that and time was running out; everyone around me was changing and growing while I was just stuck. It's always fun while the champagne flows, but when the morning glows I am empty. 

We watched the fireworks on the telly and as the countdown started I tried focusing on the anticipated feeling of a new year coming, but 2020 arrived and it was just like watching the numbers on my alarm clock go down as I press snooze again, and again, waiting for the inevitable. So many moments pass by without a thought, invisible, but the ones I do remember are like framed artwork in my head, and a snapshot of that night has stayed with me for the whole of this year. We shared Happy New Years and a family friend squeezed me as we clinked champagne glasses. 'This is going to be your year,' she said. 

I'm sitting on my bed and it's December again. In the year the world learned to slow down my mind seemed to speed up, and to-do lists and life goals and hopes and fears grew and grew but had nowhere to go. I don't want to miss a thing but I sleep soundly every night, and every morning the air is crisper and I am so stuck inside my own head, I've forgotten how to be still.

It's a slower pace of life here, so why can't I be still? Be still and know that I am God. How do you still your heart and mind and be with God when the demand to do is so relentless? As a Christian in 2020, being open-minded, liberal and (dare I say it) feminist doesn't always match up with what the church says. I feel alone most days, torn between pursuing a life that promises excitement and possibility, one in a city, perhaps, where I know I'll have fun and meet people like me, and one that I truly long for – the quiet of Wales, the support of my family, the church to which I belong. Nature and peace and space to run and write. This is my home, but it feels lonely.

This year hasn't been what we expected – and for much of it I have wondered when it would begin to feel like it was mine. I am thankful, though, for I would never have had this time to learn more about God, or learn about how much I need him, even when I wonder if He is there at all. I have to hold onto the part of me that knows that he is, though – what would life be, otherwise? And the promise of this year given to me as the clock struck midnight – I still believe it is my year, despite the derailing of my own plans.

I left my job in March just before the pandemic hit and we went into national lockdown. Looking back I feel like this was probably a mistake – I had no income and very little sense of belonging or purpose, and in many ways I feel I have gone backwards this year, but it's okay to have regrets. I had a plan that got torn to pieces yet somehow I stayed afloat – I started a baking business, and this creative outlet that I've known as my hobby since I was seven turned into something that gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. From the outside, an exciting venture, yet for me, fear (mostly of fear itself), the social anxiety caused by months of staying at home, so much time to spend with my thoughts caused panic at having to reply to messages and being the one in charge. It's all rubbish that stops me from seeing what I have achieved and the gift I have is, ultimately, undermined. That is not what God wanted. So this is a note to anyone reading – affirm your friends and loved ones. Tell them how you see them, remind them of how God sees them. The texts I receive from friends that simply say 'I'm praying for you' or 'I miss you' are the ones that help me to feel less alone in what has been the loneliest year of my life. 

The perspectives of others are hugely underrated in today's culture, one that tells us we should be wholly independent and thrive in doing the most, to be happy by ourselves. We shouldn't need anything or anyone to help us. But we weren't built to be alone and it's time to stop shaming ourselves for wanting companionship, love, affection, security – or whatever it is your heart desires.