The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

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TAYLOR SWIFT
I was being obliterated online. The memory is still fresh enough to make me wince. For one, I got married for a sixth time. And two, it was to Matty Healy of all people.

For my management team, it turned into nothing but damage control. They scrambled to find ways to spin the narrative in my favor, to undo the mess I'd created. It wasn't just about my reputation anymore—it was about the tour, the endorsements, the image I had spent years carefully building.

When the tour started, I was like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. I wanted to disappear, to hide from the world. But I couldn't. I had a record-breaking tour to keep up with, and there was no backing out.

I pushed through, even though every step on that stage felt like I was dragging a hundred-pound weight. People were cheering, screaming my name, but all I could think about was the chaos of my life. I didn't have the luxury of breaking down. Not when I had an entire stadium depending on me to put on a show and a child just learning to walk.

I remember standing backstage before each show, hearing the crowd roar as the lights dimmed. My heart would pound, but not from excitement—more from anxiety. My mind was always racing, replaying headlines, tweets, and the comments from people I once considered friends. Every performance felt like I was faking it, pretending everything was okay when it was far from it.

Matty was unfortunately there for most of our marriage. He had his own issues to deal with, his own chaos to manage. Sometimes I wondered if we were just two storms colliding, creating more destruction together than apart.

But the worst part was, I couldn't afford to focus on that. I had to stay sharp, keep the machine running. There were contracts, obligations, and fans who had spent their hard-earned money to see me. And then there was London, my little boy, who needed me to be his anchor in the middle of the storm.

On stage, I went through the motions, hitting every note, every mark, but inside, I was unraveling. No one knew how many nights I cried myself to sleep after a show, how many times I stared at my reflection in the mirror, questioning every choice that had led me to that point. All anyone saw was the spectacle, the lights, the fireworks, and the polished smile I wore like a mask.

But deep down, I was terrified. Terrified that the cracks in my facade would finally show, that one day I wouldn't be able to hide it anymore. And I think, in some ways, that's what scared me the most—how much I was willing to bury to keep it all together.

Matty's presence felt more like an obligation than a partnership. There was no warmth, no connection, and it showed in the way London reacted to him. It broke my heart every time London cried in Matty's arms, and worse, I couldn't even bring myself to comfort Matty. I just stood there, cold, numb, as if I was watching someone else's life play out.

I knew, deep down, that this marriage was a mistake. I had rushed into it, thinking it might fix something, or maybe prove something—to myself, to the world—but it didn't. All it did was make me feel more alone, more trapped in a life that wasn't really mine.

London was my only anchor, the only thing that felt real in the middle of all the chaos. Every night, I'd hold him close, trying to shield him from the storm of my choices. But even then, I couldn't help but wonder how much longer I could keep pretending, how long before everything finally crumbled.

Those early months, when the marriage was simply "tolerable," were nothing compared to what came next. It was like a switch flipped. Matty became someone I didn't recognize—angry, erratic, unpredictable. The verbal attacks, the gaslighting, the constant tension—I never knew what would set him off, and I found myself walking on eggshells just to keep the peace.