That time I went to a Taylor Swift concert

The autistic joy of sensory rooms, grief + sibling time

Last November, I spent hours on my laptop along with millions of friends, trying to buy tickets for a Taylor Swift concert. After a few failed starts, I got into the official queue. The whole experience rattled with scarcity, which made me want the tickets even more. Had I spent my entire life being a Swiftie? Not at all. But her latest albums got me through the pandemic. My sister was a certified Swiftie, so I was on a mission to get tickets for my two siblings and I to see her in Seattle.

The end of the queue of 2000 drew near and my giddy excitement bubbled over. How much would I spend on seats? Should we sit in the nosebleeds? What if the tickets are already gone?

My page refreshed and I arrived at the holy grail. The seating chart. I clicked on a group of three tickets and about fell out of my chair. I am NOT paying that much for this concert. I kept looking.

By the time I clicked on another set of three, they’d disappear. Click. Disappear. Click. Disappear. OMG.

Moving as quickly as I could and getting a sense of the true range in prices, I clicked on three spots in section 313, row C, seats 5-7. Victory! I paid and got out of Ticketmaster as soon as I could.

My sense of victory was tempered by my large number of friends who fought the battle but never got out of the queue. So I kept fairly quiet about the tickets besides one quick social media post. Once in a while I’d check my Ticketmaster app to ensure the tickets were in fact real and still mine.

Enchanted to meet you

Fast forward eight months later. Three days before the concert, I went to look at our AirBnb reservation details but couldn’t find the email anywhere. Checking in with my brother, he said, “I thought you got it.” My stomach sank as I replied, “But I thought you got it…”

We had tickets to a record-breaking concert tour, the sparkly outfits, pre-concert dinner and shuttle tickets, but nowhere to sleep.

After a few frantic hotel and AirBnb searches, my sister reached out to friends who lived in Seattle and miracle of miracles, they welcomed us to crash at their place!

The day before the concert, my sister and I road-tripped from Salem to Seattle, listening to Taylor on repeat and singing along. We picked up our brother at the airport as he arrived from Alaska. Sibling time together is a bit fuller with meaning since our youngest brother died. There’s an extra energy in the air. Be present. Don’t take this for granted. Wish we’d done more together while he was alive. He should be here. We talk about him when the three of us are together. In some way, it will always be the four of us.

Here’s the part where I tell you what the concert was like as an autistic human. I didn’t know I was autistic when I booked the tickets. But now, July 2023? I knew. And I was nervous. It’s a lot of people. A lot. And it’s going to be noisy. These tickets weren’t cheap. This better not fall apart. Large venues with lots of people have been hard for me my entire life but I assumed it was run of the mill anxiety. I’ve stepped out of many theaters and concerts because my anxiety spiked pretty hard. Ask any of my friends over the decades. I never quite understood why.

Now I know. My autistic brain struggles to process that amount of data coming in. It manifests in my body as anxiety. Lights. People. Smells. Noise. A zillion conversations. I imagine these moments feel energizing for some people. But my autistic body is deeply sensitive to the overwhelm.

One of the best gifts of the weekend was my brother and sister’s support for whatever accommodations might help me enjoy it all. Since day one, they’ve been learning more about autism with me. Looking back, they see the thread through our growing up years. It’s drawn us closer together to have an explanation for why I was the way I was. Throughout the weekend together, we paid attention to how long we spent in certain spaces and what my body needed.

Cue - pure joy.

This is unmasking at its finest. I’ve spent decades covering up (masking) what my body felt, especially in social spaces. As a woman, I’ve been socialized to ignore my own needs and prioritize others. Add to that undiagnosed autism/ADHD, and my nervous system has been a train wreck for a very long time. So it’s a sweet and miraculous gift to move through a space with people who genuinely care about what I need.

Are you ready for it?

We arrived at the arena and the anticipation energy carried us along. As the sun set, the opening acts played, and 72,000 Swifties slowly found their seats. I pulled my Loop earplugs out (which I adore!) and the roar reduced to a manageable level. I’d heard there was a sensory room at Lumen Field so I went on the hunt to see what it was like. My ableist shame argued with me as I spoke to five different venue staff who didn’t quite know where it was. You’ll be fine. Stop acting like you need help. This is so embarrassing. That space is for people who need it way more than you. Just go back to your seat.

I acknowledged the shame and kept walking all the way down to the bottom corner of the entire stadium. There was a lovely sensory space tucked away in a small room. One woman sat by a large fan with her eyes closed. Two little kids ran their hands over a bumpy toy on the wall. The lights were soft and dark. Someone laid on a bean bag in the corner. I spotted an open bean bag and gratefully sank into it. I figured I might as well unmask even more and actually get the support I could tell I already needed. I kicked off my shoes, nestled into the oasis of beads, let my muscles relax, and closed my eyes. Immediately, my brain started to simmer down with relief.

Tears sprang to my eyes. It felt so good in that space. I wrote a note in my phone: “I’m so grateful to be at this concert and it’s so overwhelming. I’m embarrassed that I need this space. That I have to ask for it.”

After 15 minutes, there were others who wanted to use the space, so the attendants invited us to move on. It made me wish there were more of these spaces throughout the stadium. But one 15x15 room was a start.

I found my way up to our seats and the long-awaited countdown clock appeared on the screen. Smiling at my siblings, we leaned forward in anticipation. As soon as Taylor appeared on stage and we heard “It’s been a long time coming…” emotion swept through me. I glanced at my sister and I wasn’t the only one. There’s something about seeing a legend in real life that’s surprisingly emotional. But my tears were more than that. It felt like the grief and isolation of the pandemic rose up as I sang along with thousands of new friends. We were together. Singing and dancing. Celebrating that we made it through a difficult season. What a gift.

As Taylor danced, cracked jokes, and sang her heart out, I felt the grin in my body. This woman loves what she does. I’m sure this tour has been exhausting. But none of us knew it by her presence that night. It was such fun to watch someone else have so much fun! It’s part of why we took our daughters and mom to see the movie a few weeks ago. And why I’ll watch the concert at home when it’s available to stream. We want to be around people who have done the work to figure out what brings them alive. Their joy is contagious!

One thing I’m learning about being autistic is that the sensory overload builds up over time until I hit a breaking point. Cue a meltdown. (Looking back, a lot of my panic attacks likely were autistic meltdowns, which are handled a little differently).

As the evening progressed, I wondered how my body would handle this amount of energy around me. About an hour into the evening, I noticed I felt queasy and uncomfortable. A headache kicked in. I stepped out and walked around the concourse several times to give my body some space. Grateful to be able to hear the music but disappointed that I couldn’t just pull it together, I did my best to accept the reality of how my body experiences a night like this. Returning to my seat several times throughout the night, I danced and sang with my brother and sister. Trusting it would pass, I didn’t want to miss the magic.

After the last firework dissipated and we trekked a mile or two back to our car, I laid down on the back seat and placed my cheek on the cool leather fabric. My body started to unwind and I felt better. We chatted about “the best concert of our lives” as we drove to our friends’ home.

I drifted off to sleep that night, profoundly grateful that I got to experience this evening with my brother and sister. Jeremy would have loved it and I so wish I could have bought him a fourth ticket. Instead, I looked to the heavens as the stadium sang “Marjorie” and filled the arena with phone lights and tears. What died didn’t stay dead…You’re alive, you’re alive, in my head…And if I didn't know better, I'd think you were listening to me now…If I didn't know better, I'd think you were still around…

And best of all? I’m learning how to live in my lovely confusing body a little bit more. It took 3-4 days to recover from the concert but still. I’m befriending her and learning her edges. We’re learning each other. After a lifetime of anger and frustration toward her, it feels holy to trust each other anew.

Well. That is my Taylor Swift concert post and how I became a Swiftie. Why yes, I do arrange my work schedule around Chiefs games so I can watch Taylor’s boyfriend play football. Thanks for asking.

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