Written by Yassmin Elmouzaieg
There are eras that define an artist, and then there are eras that free them. The Life of a Showgirl is Taylor Swift’s great unburdening, the moment she steps out from behind the pain and the myth, the cardigan and the confession, and says, simply: I’m happy. And that’s revolutionary in its own right.
I first heard The Life of a Showgirl on the night of its release sitting on a doorstep with my roommate Jafreisy Garcia, a half a pizza between us, the air around us was alive with the echo of every impossible record we’ve ever heard, and the excitement of another impossibility unfolding before us. We couldn’t predict or expect, but we pressed play, and before the second song, Jafreisy said something that’s remained with me ever since: “It reminds me of Eternal Sunshine [on the Spotless Mind], the way it sparkles even when it’s sad.”
She smiled through the shimmer of “Wi$h Li$t,” her favorite, and called it similar to Ariana Grande’s “Dandelion.” That’s when I realized what Taylor did here: she made an album which makes room for happiness and truth alongside sadness, which makes fun the endpoint instead of the distraction.
There’s much discussion surrounding this album, labeling it as surface-level, as it lacks depth or that the lyrics are millennial. That’s missing the magic. She wrote these songs with a glitter pen intentionally. They’re cheesy because love is cheesy. They shine because happiness is loud. Taylor isn’t writing for the think pieces anymore but rather she’s writing for the individuals dancing barefoot within their own kitchens, for friends turning heartbreak into karaoke, for humans who’ve lingered too long analyzing heartache and are poised to inhale again.
After Midnights, folklore, and evermore, where darkness and self-analysis engulfed the harmony, The Life of a Showgirl is a beacon of light cutting through. This isn’t a cynical album but rather a healing record. You hear it in the production, that reassuring Max Martin sheen which makes you roll down the windows and sing along to the chorus at the top of your lungs. You feel it in her voice, which sounds lighter, freer, as if she’s stopped trying to prove her hurt and started honoring her peace.
“Actually Romantic” is the one everyone’s talking about, and with good reason. It’s bold, bitey, and intentionally self-aware. The verse, “You called me boring Barbie when the coke’s got you brave” is not just a dig at Charli XCX but it’s a masterclass in Swift’s mockery reclamation. The whole track is Taylor making fun of the absurdity of being so publicly dissected. She makes criticism into confidence, insult into intimacy. When she calls it “actually romantic,” it is at once sarcasm and reality because even in a feud, she finds a strange kind of affinity. That is the excellence of Taylor where she makes what would have been bitter a shining thing.
And yet, despite all the criticism of the internet, the album itself is remarkably coherent, a no-skip collection of moments that shine between truth and showmanship. “Elizabeth Taylor” is cinematic and nostalgic, replete with Hollywood melancholy and soft rebellion. “Opalite” transforms something that doesn’t exist into a metaphor for what does exist as love, an exercise in exploring the difference between false and true. “Father Figure” digs deep into betrayal, but instead of wallowing, she makes an anthem out of the wreckage. “Ruin the Friendship” aches with longing, an understated acknowledgment that reminds us that Swift still has the ability to whisper hurt into song.
But it’s “Wi$h Li$t” that stands out, a daydream in a love song. “I just want you,” she sings, the words held something so delicate about its reserve, so bold in how unashamed it is. It’s not about celebrity or yachts or revenge, it’s about the softness of wanting something real. And when Jafreisy said it sounded like “Dandelion” by Ariana Grande, she was right. The albums are both unadulterated hope shaped into song. In a time that lives on irony, they’re not afraid to believe in softness.
This record is about radical honesty, refusing to be embarrassed by joy. Swift knows what the crowd will say about her; she’s spent the last half-decade of her life as a punchline and a headline. But The Life of a Showgirl has the tone of someone who’s decided she doesn’t care anymore. She’s still referencing herself, still winking at her own legend (“They called me a puppet, but I built the stage”), but she’s winking with euphoria, not bitterness. The showgirl metaphor is perfect: she’s not pretending the show isn’t going on, she’s only now getting to appreciate it.
Listening to The Life of a Show Girl is like exhaling a held breath after ten years of holding one. After all the emotional excavation of her past eras, Taylor sounds as though she’s come into herself. Songs like “Honey” and “CANCELLED! ” emit playful energy, the sort that doesn’t take itself seriously but packs meaning. Even “Eldest Daughter,” the more mellow of the set, has warmth in its candour. There is no cynicism on this record, no sting beneath the grin it’s just one woman who’s gone through it all and concluded joy is something to be defended.
People keep searching for metaphors in her words and for depth disguised as darkness but maybe the depth this time is in the light. Maybe happiness can be literary. Maybe a lyric can be silly and sacred at once. Maybe that’s the point. Taylor has written the kind of album that reminds us fun is not frivolous but it’s survival. That sometimes, dancing is the only way to process everything we’ve endured.
As the final notes of “The Life of a Showgirl” fade away, with Sabrina Carpenter’s heavenly harmonies, it becomes hard not to grin. The song is an open curtain, a wink, a bow, two women embracing the insanity of stardom and the brilliance of still wanting to perform in spite of it all. It’s not a goodbye to vulnerability; it’s a come-on to revel in it.
When I think back to that first listen with Jafreisy, the way we laughed, the way we sang, cried a bit, the way the streetlamp caught the ends of her hair like tinsel, I know that’s what this record is. It’s that golden-hour kind of happiness. The kind you can’t put into words, but feel. The Life of a Showgirl isn’t trying to convert you. It’s reminding you that you’re saved. Period. Sometimes we don’t need a lesson or a parable. Sometimes all we need to do is dance.
