6:32 pm, before it all really fell apart
We’re happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time.
~Taylor Swift, 22 (Taylor’s Version)
Taylor Swift literally saved my child’s life. I wish that was a metaphor, but it isn’t. But that particular trauma is not one we’re ready to share yet, so here’s another story.
Much like the Wizard Birthday is eleven, the year one turns five is Music Christmas in our house. In 2010, we told Izzie she could ask Santa for any instrument and he would bring it to her with lessons. We crossed our fingers she wouldn’t choose a piano (for where would we put it?). David prayed for the drums. I made sure it was the guitar.
Speak Now, Taylor Swift’s third studio album, was released that October. For two months, I played that CD non-stop when my daughter was around, reminding her that Taylor wrote and sang all of her own songs and she played the guitar (hint, hint). When Mean came on, we would scream-sing the lyrics.
Speak Now was Izzie’s gateway drug. She asked Santa for a guitar and we started lessons. My five year-old could barely hold up her half-size Yamaha. We learned a G chord. Then C. Then D. As soon as we mastered E minor, we knew enough to learn Teardrops on My Guitar from Taylor’s debut album.
Mastering E minor
She graduated to a full size guitar in middle school
Fast forward 13 years, three guitars, and many, many Taylor songs later. We are unapologetic Swifties, sprinkling lyrics into normal conversations, worrying about Taylor’s love life, tagging each other when her cats show up on the socials, throwing parties every December 13, going to battle when someone suggests Jake Gyllenhall be forgiven or – hold my earrings – Taylor is overrated. She’s talented, seemingly kind, a savvy businesswoman, and a once-in-a lifetime songwriter.
When Taylor announced last year that she was going on tour, we lost our minds. The Red Tour was Izzie’s first concert ever. Reputation was even better. The Lover Tour was a pandemic cancellation. So this was a homecoming of sorts, a full-circle moment. Taylor would be showcasing her favorites from every album on this so-called Eras Tour.
For Swifties, it does not get better than this.
On November 15, I got in Ticketmaster’s online queue for tickets with the 1.5 million other lucky fans who received Verified Codes. By 10:17 a.m. the sale famously descended into chaos, the site crashing repeatedly. I spent the better part of 7 hours trying to get tickets to no avail. Ticketmaster’s so-called “dynamic pricing” gouged prices so high I couldn’t have afforded them had I been able to snag any. I was heartbroken.
And then, months later, the Swiftie Gods smiled. Izzie won the ticket lottery for Taylor’s May 7 show in Nashville at Nissan Stadium.
The email that changed it all
For three months, we trained. We learned and practiced every crowd shout-out. We made over 30 friendship bracelets with Taylor lyrics to pass out to our seatmates (my favorite said Scooter is a Bitch). We designed our costumes. Izzie sewed her own shirt, carefully hand-sewing LED fairy lights in the lining to sparkle (ahem, shimmer) all night. I memorized the entire discography of Gracie Abrams and Phoebe Bridgers, the opening acts (Izzie was already well-versed). She painstakingly made three glitter posters, one for each act. We stocked our clear bags like we were prepping for Y2K: water bottle, binoculars, rain ponchos, hair bands, safety pins, band-aids, sharpies to write Taylor’s lucky number 13 on our hands. God love our hearts, we even made our very first TikTok video when we were getting ready (watch it here; we look amazing).
So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it (You’re On Your Own, Kid)
To us, this was not just a concert. It was a whole thing.
May 7 finally came. As we drove toward Nashville, we sang Taylor and waved our signs at passing cars. We made a pact that, whatever happened, we trusted that the night was unfurling exactly as it was supposed to.
And then it unfurled, one disaster after another.
We arrived around 5:00, rain sprinkling enough that we donned our ponchos. We had to take an elevator to our seats, and got on the wrong one. As we exited the wrong elevator in search of the right one, a security guard was screaming for everyone to, “Go to the ramps! We are under an emergency shelter in place order! Now! Now!”
We got tuna-fished under a concrete ramp with thousands of other people as a storm of epic proportions engulfed us. The rain came in earnest, raining sideways, leaking from overhead, flooding the stadium. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in 2 minutes. The lightning flashed constantly, the thunder so close overhead that the concrete seemed to shake. We had the bad luck of getting stuck under the ramps, as opposed to the second floor (the “club level”), where there was food, alcohol, and bathrooms. Those lucky fans were in the same storm, but they were not in the same boat. Us lowly rampers? We saw one have a massive panic attack. Two other times we were pushed aside by EMTs on their way to fans who had passed out. Security would let no one move anywhere. We were cattle, but felt certain no storm this intense would last long. But every time there was a flash of lightning, the clock for the show start reset another 30 minutes.
For three hours, we rallied. Izzie and I started sing-alongs. We passed out bracelets. We asked people where they were from, what was their favorite song, how they felt about the break-up.
Izzie’s posters. We asked some new friends to hold them.
In the fourth hour, our enthusiasm waned. We were still huddled, cold, drenched, hungry, and increasingly in need of a bathroom. Evidently, Nissan Stadium tweeted that they did expect Taylor to play at some point, but no one knew this because no one on the ramps had cell service. We just assumed the stadium didn’t want anyone leaving in the storm because of liability (and to be clear, I feel certain it wasn’t Taylor’s call. I can’t imagine her management showed her photos from the ramp. They only shared the videos of the dry and well-fed fans on club level).
At 9:02, lightning flashed again. Everyone around us was certain the show would be rescheduled, like the fated 2021 Garth Brooks show.
With tears in her eyes, Izzie admitted she was exhausted, cold, and hungry, nervous system warning signs for anyone, but especially someone with OCD. She realized that she didn’t have it in her to sit in the rain for another 3-4 hours. Even for her icon.
So we left at 9:07 (10:07 according to our Kentucky body clocks), knowing there was no re-entry. Dejected, we walked back to the car in the pouring rain. Had we stayed, it would have been 3:00 am our time before the show ended. We promised to design even better costumes for the make-up show. When we got to the car, cell service restored, we found out the show was expected to happen.
On Monday, we drove back to Kentucky, then moped and napped, recharging our nervous systems. We ignored most texts asking us about the show and refused to get on social to learn what amazing surprise song we had missed. We sighed dramatically, wondered aloud when we could play Cornelia Street without crying.
But I also realized something incredible. My daughter, who has had far more disappointment in her young life than most (brilliant but neurodivergent brain, lots of wrong meds, blah blah) is one tough, resilient cookie. She chose her mental health over Taylor Swift. She knew her limits and was willing to honor them, even though it meant the worst FOMO she ever felt. That’s badass. Knowing that I’m sending her off to study music this fall (in Nashville, ironically), this left me feeling proud of her level of self-awareness. And is a powerful word. Just because you’re disappointed doesn’t mean you’re also not right. You can feel sad and mad and relieved and hungry and confused and determined and cold and excited and proud simultaneously.
In October, Izzie is attending the Dark Horse Recording Academy to study Audio Engineering, Songwriting, and the Music Business. Dark Horse is where Taylor recorded her debut album.
So maybe we never get a do-over. I’ll still treasure the last three months of pre-Taylor anticipation I had with my baby girl. We had a marvelous time ruining everything.
But if, by some miracle, Taylor reads this? We’re only 75 minutes from Paycor Stadium in Cincinnati. And we’re free.
For her Sweet Sixteen, she asked for an electric. She named it Taylor.
