How a Taylor Swift Song Helped Me Confront Grief After My Sister's Death
When the pandemic struck in 2020, it had been five years since my sister Emily passed away. She lived with cystic fibrosis her entire life, but we were a close-knit, affectionate family who often laughed, hugged, and sang together. Emily died relatively suddenly at age 30, when I was 27, and I believed I was coping well with the loss. I prided myself on my outward resilience, speaking to a therapist, starting a new job, and immersing myself in a busy schedule in a bustling city.
The Pandemic Paused Time and Forced Reflection
It wasn't until 2020, when time seemed to stop, that I truly sat with my grief. Like many others, I was made redundant that summer, leaving my days unstructured. My one small freedom became a daily walk around my south London neighborhood, as I waited for something to change in the uncertain world.
Taylor Swift's album Evermore was released in December 2020, and like its predecessor Folklore, it quickly became a constant companion during my strolls. I often walked around Tooting Common, following a comforting route past the athletics track, along the tennis courts, and looping around the small lake. There, I would pause to sit on "my" bench, watching the ducks ripple the water.
A Song That Released Pent-Up Emotions
One day, as I sat on that bench, track 13 of Evermore, titled Marjorie, began playing through my headphones. The opening synths shimmered into my ears, and before I even processed the lyrics, tears started to fall. The ethereal sound and simplicity of the words transported me back to the winter five years earlier, the early days of my grief.
Swift sings, "If I didn't know better / I'd think you were talking to me now," addressing her grandmother Marjorie, who died when she was young. Yet, Marjorie is not a particularly maudlin song; it builds to a pulsing, almost club-like beat that speaks of being alive. Towards the end, Swift samples her grandmother's singing voice hauntingly, just audible over the production.
Connecting with a Lost Loved One Through Music
On my walks, I could feel what Swift was doing—reaching out beyond this life to touch the spirit of her loved one. Just by listening, I felt I could do the same. I could almost physically sense Emily sitting beside me on the park bench, gazing at the bulrushes, as the lyrics echoed: "If I didn't know better / I'd think you were still around."
I first encountered Swift during her 1989 era, when she was known for glossy pop anthems about Manhattan nights. Dancing to Blank Space or belting out Style at karaoke, I never imagined turning to her music in times of grief. But Marjorie achieved something I hadn't managed in five years of therapy and packed diaries—it made me sit still with the grief I had compressed for half a decade.
A Healing Experience at the Eras Tour
In 2024, I was fortunate enough to attend the Eras Tour. Twenty-seven weeks pregnant with my son—the nephew my beautiful sister never got to meet—I stood in the stands with other Swifties as the pulsing intro to Marjorie built in the pitch-black stadium. As Swift sang the opening words, 90,000 people flicked on their phone lights, creating a constellation of stars that seemed to say, "we're here with you." I felt the baby kick and wriggle, and tears streamed down my face, knowing I wasn't alone in that emotional moment.
I don't attend church, but that experience may be as close as I'll ever get to communal faith and euphoria. Through a pop song and a pandemic, I found a small ritual so meaningful that it healed something I didn't realize needed healing. If that isn't great songwriting, I don't know what is.
