How a Taylor Swift Song Unlocked Five Years of Suppressed Grief
When the global pandemic brought life to a standstill in 2020, it had been exactly five years since my sister Emily passed away. She lived her entire life with cystic fibrosis, yet our family remained incredibly close, tactile, and full of laughter, hugs, and frequent singing sessions. When Emily died relatively suddenly at age thirty, while I was twenty-seven, I believed I was coping as well as anyone possibly could.
In fact, I took pride in my outward resilience. I spoke with a therapist, started a new job, and immersed myself in a packed diary and the bustling energy of city life. It wasn't until time essentially stopped during the 2020 lockdowns that I truly sat with my grief for the first time.
The Pandemic Pause and Daily Walks
Forced into redundancy like countless others that summer, my days lost all structure. Living in a city flatshare, my sole little freedom became a daily walk. Taylor Swift's Evermore album, released that December, quickly joined its predecessor Folklore on heavy rotation as I wandered my south London neighborhood, waiting for something to change.
My walks primarily centered around Tooting Common, following the same comforting route each day: past the athletics track, along the tennis courts, and looping around the small lake. I would pause to sit on "my" bench, staring at the ducks rippling the water's surface.
The Moment 'Marjorie' Broke Through
That's exactly where I was when track thirteen of Evermore, titled Marjorie, first played through my headphones. As the opening synths shimmered into my ears, tears began to fall uncontrollably. Before I even processed the lyrics, the very sound of the music released something deep within me that had been pent up for five long years.
Each subsequent listen transported me back to winter five years earlier, to those early raw days of grief. "If I didn't know better / I'd think you were talking to me now," sings Swift. I later discovered she was addressing her grandmother Marjorie, who died when Swift was young.
Yet Marjorie isn't a particularly maudlin song. It builds to a pulsing, almost clubby beat that speaks powerfully of being alive. Toward the end, Swift's grandmother's singing voice is sampled hauntingly, just audible over the production. On my walks, I could feel what Swift was accomplishing here—reaching beyond this life to touch the spirit of her loved one. Simply by listening, I felt I could do the same.
Feeling Emily's Presence Again
I could feel Emily, almost physically, sitting on the park bench beside me, gazing at the bulrushes. As the lyrics say: "If I didn't know better / I'd think you were still around."
I first encountered Taylor Swift during her 1989 era, when she was gazelle-limbed with a glossy bob, stomping in six-inch heels and singing of Manhattan nights over bouncy Max Martin productions. In subsequent years, dancing to Blank Space and belting out Style at karaoke, I never imagined turning to Swift in times of profound grief. But Marjorie accomplished 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 Communal Experience at the Eras Tour
In 2024, I was fortunate enough to secure a ticket to 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, ninety thousand 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 inside me. I don't believe I was the only fan with tears streaming down my face that night.
The Healing Power of Music and Ritual
I don't attend church, but that experience may be as close as I'll ever come to that kind of communal faith and euphoria. Through a pop song and a pandemic emerged a small ritual so profoundly meaningful to me that it healed something I didn't even realize needed healing. If that isn't great songwriting, I truly don't know what is.
Music possesses a unique power to unlock emotions we've buried deep within ourselves. Sometimes, it takes a global pause and the right song to finally release what we've been carrying for years.
