My hypocritical reaction to "The Life of a Showgirl"

Things I claim to be:

A feminist
Capable of interpreting the deeper meaning of poetry and prose
A Taylor Swift fan

Things I realized I am on Oct. 3, 2025:

A hypocrite
Blind to the message right in front of my eyes
Still a Taylor Swift fan

Swift released her 12th studio album earlier this month, and the irony of the release being on the date notoriously known as Mean Girls Day is not lost on me.

That’s who I was when I first heard the album: a mean girl.

I’ve grown up listening to Swift. I went to her final Eras Tour concert in Vancouver, and I swear she reads my diary and puts it to music.

But when I first listened to The Life of a Showgirl, I had to reckon with what happens when my internal soundtrack doesn’t align with hers. I’ll tell you — I become a bitch.

I listened to her new album, and I cringed. It was too much pop, too happy. It had no moments that made my skin erupt in goosebumps, like when I first heard lines like “Now you hang from my lips like the Garden of Babylon” or “Is it romantic how all my elegies eulogize me?”

After one listen of the new album, I’d had enough.

I turned instead to one of my favourite songs off her second-latest album: The Tortured Poets Department. As the “But Daddy I Love Him” bridge filled my head, I shivered, realizing I was behaving exactly like the villain Swift and I would belt about in the car.

“I don’t cater to all these vipers dressed in empaths’ clothing. God save the most judgmental creeps who say they want what’s best for me,” we’d sing together.

It turns out I’m the viper. I’m the judgmental creep who only claims to want what’s best for her. This is her first album in approximately 19 years of making music where she doesn’t sound crushed or devastated even once — and I say it’s too happy? Who do I think I am, calling myself a fan?

When The Tortured Poets Department came out in 2024, critics thought it was too melodramatic and “wanting for an editor.” Why do we need to take out our dictionaries for every song? This is music; it should be easy to enjoy.

We want Taylor’s lyricism until she gives it to us.

Then, when The Life of a Showgirl came out, it was widely received as boring and shallow, with Pitchfork claiming, “Her music’s never been less compelling.”

Critics say that her singing about sex and love is too surface level. This is music; it should make us feel something.

We want Taylor to be happy until she rubs it in our faces.

I don’t love this album, but it is unfair for me to deem it too anything.

The fantastic thing about music these days is that it’s here to stay. I can listen to different albums simultaneously. I can turn off these “easy” songs and get my dictionary out to listen to her tragic poetry. I can wallow in my sorrows, ones that Swift once wallowed in, too.

Just because she’s happy now, doesn’t mean she took away the songs she made when she wasn’t.

In an interview with BBC Radio 1, Swift said, “I used to have this dark fear that if I ever were truly happy and free being myself and nurtured by a relationship, what happens if the writing just dries up?

“What if writing is directly tied to my torment and pain? It turns out that’s not the case at all.”

If I really want what’s best for the woman I’ve grown up adoring, then it shouldn’t be the case for me either.

There are so many things to analyze about the release of this album, be it Swift’s references to Shakespeare’s Ophelia, or the fact that the public response to this album is perfectly proving the relevance of its title. But this album also forced me to look inward and consider my own biases.

Taylor doesn’t owe us anything.

I claim to be a fan and to understand Swift’s lyrics when, really, I’m outright ignoring the messages those lyrics hold.

I bet you are too.