There’s a certain kind of joy that doesn’t feel real the first time it comes back. The first laugh that doesn’t feel forced after a breakup. The first night you get through without crying. The first moment you catch yourself humming in the car, and you almost stop mid-note because it feels like betrayal. Joy after heartbreak is awkward, fragile, almost suspicious. And that’s exactly why Taylor Swift’s new album, The Life of a Showgirl, feels worth talking about.

On the surface, it’s glitter, sequins, and champagne-bubble pop hooks. But underneath, it’s about what happens when you’ve already unraveled, when the curtain has already dropped, and you’re finally stepping back into the light. Not because everything is fixed, but because joy has found a way back in.

The thing about joy is that it’s never the first step. Nobody walks out of heartbreak glowing. And Taylor didn’t either. Just last year, she gave us The Tortured Poets Department, a sprawling, grief-soaked album that sounded like someone who hadn’t slept in months finally picking up a pen. It was messy, angry, spiraly, and raw. And if you’ve been through divorce, a breakup, or any kind of emotional demolition, you know that’s the honest first act. You don’t soft launch into happiness. You cry in closets. You replay every conversation until your phone battery dies. You convince yourself you’ll never laugh again, and then you spiral about how you’ll never laugh again. The breakdown has to happen. And sometimes it lasts longer than you want it to.

Which is why Life of a Showgirl feels like such a shift. Suddenly, Taylor is singing with joy again. The production is brighter, the melodies are lighter, and there’s this sense of playful romance running through the whole album. People are calling it her most joyful work in years, but the part that hits isn’t the glitter itself. It’s the fact that the glitter only works because we saw the shadows first.

The showgirl idea is basically a metaphor for all of us who have smiled through the unbearable. Hosting Thanksgiving with an ex while still technically married. Going out to brunch pretending you’re fine when your insides feel like static. Posting like you’re thriving when you’re barely breathing. The performance is exhausting. But when joy finally returns, even just a little, it’s not performance anymore. It’s a flicker of real light. Swift’s sequins, in this album, aren’t just costumes. They’re survival. They’re proof that the breakdown didn’t win.

Here’s the part nobody tells you: joy after heartbreak feels guilty at first. When I laughed again after my divorce, I felt like I was cheating on my grief. I was convinced people would think I was over it too soon, or that my pain hadn’t been as deep as I said it was. That’s the same thing I hear from so many people. It feels safer to stay broken, because at least it matches what the breakup took from you. But eventually, something shifts. You catch yourself putting on lipstick again. You listen to a ridiculous pop song on repeat. You realize you’ve gone hours without spiraling. And then it hits: maybe joy is allowed back in. That’s what Life of a Showgirl sounds like to me. Not forced optimism, but the sound of someone daring to enjoy herself again, even after everyone has seen her at her most broken.

The image of a showgirl is so layered. It’s about performance, yes, but it’s also about endurance. Showgirls smile through blisters, exhaustion, heartbreak. They keep moving even when their personal lives are collapsing. And if you’ve ever been through a breakup, you know what that’s like. You’ve performed “I’m fine” when you weren’t. You’ve put on mascara and gone to work when your chest was still hollow. But there’s another side to the metaphor. Showgirls don’t just perform through the pain. They also get to revel in the spotlight once they’ve survived it. There’s empowerment in sequins. There’s pride in knowing the show went on and you’re still standing. In that way, the showgirl era isn’t just Taylor’s. It belongs to anyone who has survived heartbreak and somehow managed to laugh again.

That’s why Life of a Showgirl resonates. It’s not saying the pain wasn’t real. It’s saying the joy is just as real. It’s a reminder that the breakdown doesn’t get the last word. For anyone still mid-breakdown, this album might feel jarring. Too happy. Too soon. Too unrealistic. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s proof that your joy hasn’t died. It’s just waiting in the wings, sequins ready, until you’re able to step back out.

Joy after heartbreak is never tidy. It doesn’t arrive fully formed or wrapped in wisdom. It sneaks in through laughter at the wrong time, or when you sing too loudly in your car, or when you buy a dress you never thought you’d wear. It stumbles in. It’s awkward. It’s imperfect. And still, it’s joy. That’s the part that matters. The show goes on. The sequins come out. The breakdown doesn’t get to define the whole story.

Taylor Swift’s Life of a Showgirl isn’t just an album about performing joy. It’s about reclaiming it. For those of us who have performed heartbreak on our own smaller stages — divorce papers, Instagram unfollows, the silence of a now-empty apartment — it’s a reminder that joy does return. And when it does, it doesn’t erase the breakdown. It shines in spite of it. Maybe the real takeaway is this: sequins don’t cancel out grief. They prove you lived through it.