Taylor Swift’s song “I Can Do It with a Broken Heart” has turned me into a full-on Swiftie. Yes, you read that right: This 60-something widow is now belting out lyrics about pain and power with a vigor that could rival any teenage girl wrapped in friendship bracelets and glitter.

How does a song about young love speak to someone my age? That, my friends, is the magic of Taylor Swift. She’s not just a pop star. She’s a sequined goddess who deserves every accolade that’s been heaped upon her, and possibly a few more. Her songs bridge the generational divide. Suddenly we oldsters have something in common with today’s teenyboppers: a timeless, ageless need to jump out of the darkness and into the light.

Whether young or old, we can all borrow Taylor’s lyrics whenever we need a pep talk. Although I’ve had twice as long as Tay to perfect my own inner monologues, they pale by comparison. My latest go-to: “Live every minute like it’s your last.”

Yawn. Besides sounding like something you’d see on a Pinterest board, it’s impossible to live up to. I’d find myself mindlessly scrolling through my Google feed and feel wracked with self-doubt. Why couldn’t I make every minute count?

So it was time for me to add some new lines to my brain loop. After crying for the zillionth time over a box of birthday and anniversary cards I’d saved from my late husband, Fred, I told myself, “You’re a real tough kid and you can handle my sh—uh, stuff.” Ah, so much better!

Best of all are personal pep talks that you can sing rather than just say in your head. The upbeat synthesizer in the background? It’s like an audio hug from a sparkly motivational coach.

So I made a U-turn back onto the Boulevard of the Fully Living. And here’s where Taylor and I share some deep wisdom. Sigmund Freud himself, the father of psychoanalysis, said, “Love and work … work and love, that’s all there is.” Well, Taylor took that, put it to a beat, and turned it up to 11.

Much like Ms. Swift, I’ve poured myself into my work since losing the guy who was supposed to be my co-navigator on the road called Life.

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Now, don’t get me wrong; this old rusty car still sputters sometimes. Grief is that invisible backseat driver who refuses to pack up and leave. It taps me on the shoulder every time I see Fred’s bright yellow fleece jacket hanging on the coat rack, or when I pass his old seat at the kitchen table, or when his mischievous voice floats into my head.

Granted, Taylor’s got her own challenges. Every step she takes gets scrutinized under a microscope and blown up for all the world to see. I’d take my quieter life any day. While she gets fans screaming “I love you,” I can tap away at my keyboard, still dressed in my pajamas, with my dog Desi as my muse.

At my stage of life, many friends have retired from their longtime jobs to dip into their passions. Grandchildren. Ukele. Art. Me? I’d rather chop off my limbs than quit writing. Sure, paying gigs are harder to find these days, but each new project is as bright and shiny as one of Taylor’s stage costumes. On my good days, anyway.

Then there are the bad days. Is heartbreak brutal? A-ha. But does feeling like a slug make it any better? No, absolutely not. That’s why every time I cross something off my mundane little to-do list, I feel like Wonder Woman.

Therapists might caution that working too hard can lead to burnout and more. Duly noted. I learned my lesson after a particularly tough case of carpal tunnel. A crackerjack OT got me cruising again with a better ergonomic set-up. A brand-new mouse. Pacing myself. I’m Getting Smarter All the Time. Doesn’t that sound like the name of the pop star’s next album (geared to us older Swifties, of course)?

Like Taylor, I’ve managed to build a network of people who’ve seen me at my worst and somehow love me anyway. And let’s not forget my loyal pooch Desi. My life is a far cry from Tay’s sold-out stadium tours, but hey, a home-cooked meal with friends who laugh at my bad jokes is about as good as it gets in my book. And, to all you broken-hearted folks out there, remember that sorrow need not be the final note of your song.

Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence and is working on a collection of essays, “Rock On: A Baby Boomer’s Playlist for Life after Loss.” Reach her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.