“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, sometimes you gotta say ‘What the fuck,’ make your move.” ~Risky Business

On the 2nd of January, I said “What the fuck, make your move” and clicked Purchase on two resale seats for an Amsterdam date on Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. Buying resale concert tickets can be risky business, indeed, but missing this record-breaking concert event would be something I would regret, I told myself. I have grown to loathe feeling regret and avoid it when possible. So, I sold my soul to the demon I despise and paid StubHub a ludicrous sum, rationalizing I had no other choice. It was a personal imperative. For the past few years, Taylor Swift had been propping me up as I dealt with a lot of real life shit. The Tortured Poets Department became the final rung on my climb to catharsis. This concert was going to be a full-circle moment in part of my life’s journey, the launching pad for the next phase of my life.

In the months leading up to our tour date, we told our dirty little secret only to a select few because you never know if you’re actually getting inside a concert with a second-hand ticket. As I stood at our kitchen island making friendship bracelets and changing my mind umpteen times about which era I would choose for my concert attire, in the back of my mind the nagging thought we might not gain entrance at all swirled. I made my peace with the notion of listening to what we could hear from outside Johan Cruijff Arena and being grateful to be part of the tour in whatever small way we could, all while quietly reassuring myself seeing this concert live was a destiny that would be fulfilled.

At 5:30 pm on July 5th, wearing a black skirt, a “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” sequined t-shirt, and rhinestone sneakers, I crossed my fingers, scanned my ticket, and pushed through the turnstiles of Ajax Arena. Steve and I seeped into a throng of Swifties inside. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around. It was perhaps the most gentle and respectful crowd that arena has yet seen, fans politely inching past each other towards their designated spots. I’d chosen seats in the lower part of the upper deck close to the midpoint of Taylor’s massive stage. On one side of us were the New York City Gen Z’s from whom I’d bought our tickets and on the other side was a Belgian couple in their forties with their two teenage daughters. We exchanged some bracelets and easy conversation. Paramore, the opening act for the European leg of the tour, did their best to work the stage and warm us up for Taylor, but not a being in the place needed warming for Taylor. We were ready for it.

The clock appeared on the massive screen that ran the length of the stage. When it hit 13, the crowd began counting down aloud. I got goosebumps. The dancers appeared with their pastel parachutes undulating like flower petals in a breeze until they eventually settled into their spots, bent down, and allowed the fabric to carpet the floor. When the dancers stood again and revealed Taylor among them like Venus in the shell in Botticelli’s famous painting, the crowd roared. I teared up. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I was really there. This was really happening. I took a minute to survey the arena. Fifty-five thousand Swifties in all their Eras glory, singing along to “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince.” I was enchanted. “Here we go,” I told myself as I settled in for the three-plus story hours of love, heartbreak, drama, revenge, and redemption. I reveled in every minute of the show, taking care to be present by limiting my desire to record the moments on my phone. When the crowd began jumping to “You Belong With Me,” you bet your ass I jumped too. Well rehearsed, I shouted along during the fan participation parts, yelling “one, two, three, let’s go, bitch” during a break in the intro to “Delicate” and inserting my triple claps in “Shake It Off.” When Taylor got to the acoustic set, I allowed myself a moment to record the crowd. I said, “Remember this moment” in the back of my mind. And when she’d reached her last song and the band played the first notes of “Karma,” I gave up and let the emotion roll over me. The night had been timeless, but it caught up and it was time to grab our souvenir merch and head to the exit. So I closed the chapter on this era and stepped outside and into my next era.

It’s been 27 days since our Amsterdam concert, and I’ve been struggling for all 27 of those days trying to decide what to write about it in this post. The Eras tour has a film. When it wraps, it will have been seen in person by a staggering 10 million people, give or take. It has been reviewed innumerable times and myriad ways by Swifties, celebrities, bloggers, and publications. YouTube has countless videos of the show. Taylor Swift made the cover of Time with her ragdoll cat, Benjamin Button because of this tour. There is little I can say about it to add to what already exists in the world. There is no way to encapsulate the experience of standing among tens of thousands of fellow fans, belting out every word to every song, and vibing with strangers you’ll never meet whom you know somehow understand a part of you even some of your closest friends don’t get. It was worth every penny we spent, and I’d spend them all again. Taylor’s Eras Tour story will end in Vancouver on December 8th, and I will forever be grateful that as a middle aged, relatively new Swiftie I decided to ignore the haters and give myself the opportunity to be part of it. Life’s short, people. So, as Taylor says, “Make the friendship bracelets. Take the moment and taste it. You’ve got no reason to be afraid.” After all, taking a risk is only risky business until it pays off.

“Hold on to spinning around, confetti falls to the ground, may these memories break our fall.” ~Taylor Swift