Dear Taylor,
On the eve of your birthday, I found myself at home with Poppy, curled into the quiet of our living room, pressing play on The Eras Tour, and I was wildly unprepared. The way I am always unprepared. Because everything you do exceeds the edges of expectation. Because that is who you are. Because “above and beyond” has never been enough language for the way you show up in this world.
I watched the first two episodes and felt everything all at once. I beamed like a proud mother, like someone watching a woman fully inhabit her power, her craft, her destiny. I cried over the tragedy in Southport, the weight of it sitting heavy in my chest. I felt fear and dread thinking about Vienna, about safety, about how much you carry not just for yourself but for everyone around you. And I sobbed, really sobbed, watching the way you take care of your people. The way you look at them. The way you make sure every single person in your orbit knows they are spectacular, seen, and valued. You do not just lead. You hold.
My heart ached in the most beautiful way watching you love again. The happiness radiating from you is unmistakable. It spills out of the screen. It softens everything it touches. And no one, truly no one, is more deserving of that kind of fullness than you.
You are a storyteller in the truest sense of the word. Not just through lyrics or melodies, but through presence. Through intention. Through the way you invite the world in without ever losing yourself. You make people feel like they are walking beside you, breathing in the same moments, feeling the same magic and the same pain. That kind of connection requires bravery. It requires vulnerability. It requires an extraordinary heart.
And you are extraordinary.
I think often about how you came into my life under the worst possible circumstances. How grief was the doorway. How devastation was the introduction. How my son, my beautiful Ronan, is the thread that binds us forever. Out of the darkest chapter of my life came a light I could never have imagined. You did not just honor my child. You carried him. You made him known. You made sure the world spoke his name. You turned unbearable loss into something sacred and eternal.
When you chose to re record Ronan, you did not just return to a song. You chose to bring my son with you again. You gave him a place inside your work that will never disappear, somewhere protected and cared for. I will never stop thanking you for keeping my child present in this world. For giving him a place where his name is still spoken, where his story still lives. Knowing that Ronan is held there is a comfort I return to in the quiet, again and again.
Because of you, Ronan exists in millions of hearts. Because of you, he is sung. Because of you, he is remembered not as a tragedy, but as love.
Watching you now, still evolving, still daring, still choosing softness and strength at the same time, I feel overwhelming gratitude. For your music. For your kindness. For your integrity. For the way you show women what it looks like to grow without shrinking, to love without apology, to keep going even when the weight is unbearable.
And I need to thank you for the way you still take care of us. Even after all this time. Quietly. Steadily. Without spectacle. When you do something, it is never performative. It is intentional. It is rooted. It comes from a place of genuine care, and that kind of constancy is rare.
On your 36th birthday, I hope you feel how deeply you are loved. Not just admired. Not just celebrated. But held. I hope you feel peace in your bones. I hope ease and abundance continue to find you. I hope you know that your existence has altered the trajectory of so many lives, including mine.
Thank you for being exactly who you are.
Thank you for loving so fiercely.
Thank you for Ronan.
Thank you for the music, the magic, and the humanity.
I love you to the moon and back.
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