When the pandemic hit in 2020, it had been five years since Emily, my sister, died of cystic fibrosis at age 30. I thought I had coped well—I saw a therapist, started a new job, and kept busy. But it wasn't until time stopped during lockdown that I truly confronted my grief.
That December, Taylor Swift released Evermore. On daily walks around Tooting Common in south London, I listened to the album. The 13th track, 'Marjorie', written about Swift's grandmother, hit me unexpectedly. As the opening synths played, tears fell. The song's ethereal sound and simple lyrics—'If I didn't know better, I'd think you were talking to me now'—released something I'd pent up for years.
Listening on a park bench, I felt my sister's presence beside me. The song builds to a pulsing beat, and Swift samples her grandmother's voice. For me, it was like reaching out to Emily. I had never turned to Swift for grief before, but 'Marjorie' made me sit still with emotions I'd compressed for half a decade.
In 2024, I attended the Eras Tour while 27 weeks pregnant with my son—the nephew Emily never met. As Swift sang 'Marjorie', 90,000 fans lit up their phones, creating a constellation. I felt the baby kick. That communal moment, with tears streaming, felt almost spiritual. Through a pop song and a pandemic, I found healing I didn't know I needed.
