The Life of a Showgirl: What Taylor Swift Teaches Us About Surviving
Whether you are a Taylor Swift fan or not, you probably have heard about her new album: The Life of a Showgirl. There’s something about the image of a showgirl that sticks. The sequins. The smile. The timing that looks effortless. On stage, she shines. Off stage, she’s tired. Sometimes she is not even sure who she is when the lights go dark.
Many of those that have experienced trauma have learned to live like this. Maybe not with feathers and glitter, but with a smile that stays put no matter what is happening inside. We become good at playing a part. We read the room. We soften our voice. We help everyone else first. We tell ourselves we are fine. We get really good at performing safety.
If that is you, you are not broken. You are smart, your body is smart and you have found a way to keep yourself safe in a world that did not always feel safe. The performance worked at one point. It kept the peace, won approval (hopefully) and it got you through.
But… Performing is tiring. It asks the body to stay on. Even when you sit down, your shoulders are up by your ears. Even when you laugh, your jaw stays tight. You might sleep, but you do not rest. You might be praised, but you feel unseen. It is a strange kind of loneliness. And that kind of “performing” requires rest. I can even think of interviews I have seen since Taylor has finished the Eras Tour and with a smile on her face but a firmness in her voice.. she oftentimes says “I’m tired.”
But what does her experience tell us about trauma and surviving? Well, that makes me think… what does YOUR “show” look like in everyday life?
Being the reliable one who never needs anything
Saying yes before you even check in with yourself
Keeping the mood light so no one gets upset
Working harder and harder so the anxiety stays quiet
Shrinking yourself so you will not be “too much” for anyone
If you recognize yourself, you are not alone. So many trauma survivors and neurodivergent folks learn to mask, charm, overachieve, or stay small to keep relationships and environments predictable. It is not fake. It is survival.
Healing begins in small, ordinary moments. The costume starts to itch. The music feels too loud. You catch yourself saying yes and something inside whispers no. You feel the pull to stop curating every expression and every sentence. You want space to be a person, not a role.
Therapy can be that quiet backstage room. You sit down. You take off the metaphorical heels. You let your shoulders lower. You tell the truth about how hard you have been trying. You notice how much energy it takes to always be “on.” You practice new things. Things like pausing. Saying “let me think about that.” Asking for help. Resting without a list to prove you earned it (even when it is really, really hard.)
None of this is instant. You do not go from spotlight to soft pajamas in one day. At first, taking off the costume can feel scarier than putting it on. Your body is used to the show. The show felt safe. So we go slow. We build safety inside your body, not just in the room. We notice signals. We get curious about tension. We make room for emotions that used to get rushed off stage.
Here are a few signs the performance is loosening:
You check in with your body before you answer a request
You notice a no and you honor it, even if it is awkward
You feel tired and you rest before you hit a wall
You let someone see you when you are messy or unsure
You feel a little less afraid of silence
If you have a history of trauma, people pleasing can feel like love. Perfectionism can feel like safety. Charm can feel like connection. The goal of therapy is not to take away these parts of you but to give you choice. You get to choose when you shine and when you rest. You get to choose who gets the show and who gets the real you.
If you try to picture a future version of you, maybe she still loves glitter. She just wears it on nights that feel joyful, not every day to survive. She can walk off stage and feel at home in her skin. She can say, “I need a minute,” and mean it. She can hear applause and enjoy it, then go backstage and take a deep breath without guilt.
You do not have to perform to deserve safety in relationships. You do not have to earn rest. You do not have to be perfect to be loved. You are allowed to be a full person with needs, limits, and preferences. That is not selfish. That is healthy.
If this lands for you, consider it an invitation. Notice where you still feel pulled to put on the show. Notice what happens if you pause instead. Notice who feels safe enough to see the real you. Let those people in. If you want support, reach out. There is room for you here. Sequins, bare face, all of it.
The lights can go down and you can still be whole. The show was never the only true thing about you.
