Taylor always seemed to glow when she was doing what she loved most—no, not writing, though that was a close second. It was performing, without a doubt.

When she stepped onto that stage, everything around her seemed to fade. The lights, the music, the energy of the crowd—it all disappeared, and in its place, she became someone else entirely. Someone bigger, freer, like a different version of herself that could only exist in that moment. She didn’t just sing; she became the music, lost in the rhythm and the emotion that she poured into every note.

And honestly, watching her from backstage, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride and admiration every single time. You’d seen her perform countless times, but each show felt like the first—each song a fresh burst of energy that left you in awe. You always waited for her after the final song, just like you did tonight, anticipating the moment she’d step off stage and into your arms.

As she walked toward you, her tired smile softened the exhaustion in her eyes, and she gave you a tired, but genuine grin. “Hey,” she said, her voice hoarse from hours of singing. “My throat is killing me.” She reached for the water bottle one of her assistants had handed her, taking a deep sip, the cold liquid helping to soothe her parched throat.

You could see the effort it took for her to relax after such an intense performance, but the joy she radiated—despite the exhaustion—was undeniable.