“Alexa, play Taylor Swift.” On a random fall evening at home, I’m smirking at the realization that it’s me – not one of my teen daughters – who requested this playlist.
Years ago, when my oldest daughter, then 13, started asking for Eras Tour tickets, I could recite lyrics to perhaps two of Taylor’s songs. I didn’t think there was a place for me in the modern Swiftie fandom, which seemed overwhelmingly Gen Z. As a 1980s kid who grew up rocking jelly shoes and frizzy hair, I’m both mystified and intimidated by my children’s generation – from its slick “Get Ready With Me” videos and Birkenstocks slapped over white Nike socks to its ever-changing Snapchat etiquette.
When we realized our family travels would coincide with the July 2024 Eras Tour in Zurich, my husband was able to snag two tickets. And my relationship with Taylor’s music began to morph in ways I didn’t expect. (I learned later that I’m not unique: Plenty of midlife women are big fans.)
In preparation for the Eras Tour, my daughter insisted I learn more songs, because it was unacceptable to attend the Tour and be one of those fake fans. Fair enough, I thought. Recovering from surgery for breast cancer and dealing with the joys of perimenopause, I found surprising comfort and catharsis in Taylor’s music. The repertoire of songs I knew began to grow, slowly but surely, beyond “Blank Space” and “Shake It Off.”
At long last, on July 9, 2024, my daughter and I boarded a bus from our Zurich hotel to Letzigrund Stadium, joining a gleeful parade of other sequin-, feather- and glitter-clad fans. The line to get inside the stadium wrapped around several times and resembled the queue for Disneyland’s most popular rides. As my carefully applied makeup began melting in the summer’s heat, my daughter and I struck up conversations and traded bracelets with the people around us: a father and his college-aged daughter from New York; a mother and daughter from Texas.
We waited nearly 75 minutes to get inside the gates, finding our seats with enough time to catch part of Paramour, the opening act. A few minutes after 7 PM, in a swirl of flashing lights and booming chords, Taylor took the stage. She was radiant, authentic, and comfortably in command of every moment, but never once gave off a snarky or conceited vibe. With the warm temperatures and crowded conditions on the floor, Taylor stopped the show several times to signal to medical personnel. Her performance held us in a mythical state of awe for hours.
Looking back, I realized Taylor has achieved something few women today are afforded: success, admiration, and accolades, but without sacrificing her trademark kindness and charm.
Now, months after the concert, my daughter still loves Taylor’s music, but her enthusiasm has faded somewhat. Instead, I’m the one who calls herself a Swiftie, listening to her songs on repeat, finding meaning and encouragement in beautiful strings of lyrics. Finally, I can confidently sing the words to enough songs that no one would ever mistake me for a fake fan. I love the range of emotions captured in Taylor’s songs, from the bitter rage in “Look What You Made Me Do” to the plastered-on cheerfulness in “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart.” There’s a delight in combing through her albums over the years, listening for snippets that seem to speak directly to me. Words about wisdom and love, pain and betrayal.
I may be late to the Swiftie party, but I’m grateful to be here nonetheless.
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