What Comes After the Goodbye
Before I knew it, nearly two weeks had passed since my last post on March 20. Part of me feels a little guilty about that, if I’m honest. I like rhythm. I like consistency. I like showing up for the things I say I care about. But the truth is, I wasn’t absent because I had nothing to say. I was absent because life was happening faster than I could process it.
Maggie left on her mission the Wednesday after that last post. We had talked about it, prepared for it, even tried to emotionally brace ourselves for it—but when the moment actually came, it still felt surreal. Quiet. Final in a way I don’t think I was fully ready for. And then there was the drive home from the airport. Max and Mayzie held it together as long as they could… until they couldn’t. The floodgates opened, and with it came the reality of it all—the sadness, the ache, the shift. But even in the middle of that, there were these unexpected, beautiful moments. Laughing through tears about how there would be “nobody to lay on me” anymore, or how “the house is going to be so much quieter now.” It was one of those moments I know I’ll always hold onto—watching them let their guards down, be vulnerable, and admit just how much they’re going to miss their sister. (If only they had told her that… HA!)
A few days later, we got to video chat with her. And I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I saw her face. She was smiling. Laughing. Settling in. Her companion is awesome, they get along, and she’s surrounded by really good people—which, if you know Maggie, matters more than anything. One of her biggest worries going into this was, “What if they don’t like me?” She feels things deeply. She cares deeply. Sometimes to a fault. So to see her not just okay, but already connecting, already building relationships… it was a relief in a way I can’t fully put into words. It’s only been a week, so I know there’s still a long road ahead—but in that moment, none of that mattered. She was okay. More than okay. And something in me finally exhaled.
And then… life didn’t really slow down. Two days later, Allyson and I were on a red-eye to New York, landing in the city Saturday morning. The timing couldn’t have been more unexpected—or more needed. We hadn’t even planned on going. We were trying to make it work and kept coming up short, but this was too big of a moment for Bryson. We needed to be there. (And if I’m being honest… there was a little bit of FOMO knowing friends and family were all making the trip too.) Somewhere along the way—whether it was persistence, timing, or Allyson graciously saying yes—we made it happen. And somewhere between the ache of saying goodbye and the energy of stepping into one of my favorite places in the world, I found myself not moving on… but being carried forward.
New York has always been a bit of a reset for me. There’s something about the energy of the city—the movement, the noise, the constant sense that something is happening—that pulls me out of my own head. And this time, it met me exactly where I was. I didn’t feel like I had to push the grief away or force myself to “be okay.” It just… held it with me. Gave me space to feel it without getting stuck in it. Space to laugh, to breathe, to reconnect—and to slowly find my footing again.
One of the main reasons we made the trip was to see our nephew Bryson perform at the MET in Lamb of God. And watching him on that stage was something I’ll never forget. He wasn’t just up there alongside Tony and Grammy Award-winning artists—he belonged there. It didn’t feel like “them” and “him.” It was just… them. He held his own with a level of confidence and presence that made you forget anything else. It was one of those moments where you don’t just feel proud—you feel certain. Certain that someone is exactly where they’re meant to be.
The rest of the trip felt like a series of small, meaningful moments that I didn’t realize I needed as much as I did. Running into friends. Sitting across from Allyson at our favorite spots—Jacob’s Pickles, Levain Bakery—laughing, decompressing, just being together again. Eating incredible food, catching up, and feeling, for the first time in a while, like myself again. At one point, Nathan Lane walked right past me on the street. I stopped him, told him I had played Max Bialystock once and that it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. He laughed and said, “You and me both.” I got the picture… and then just stood there for a second thinking, “Did that really just happen?” And then, on our way to the airport, my friend Casey—who’s currently playing J.D. in Heathers—called, asked where we were, and literally ran through the streets of New York to catch up to us just to give me a hug goodbye. That moment stuck with me. To be seen like that. To matter enough for someone to go out of their way—literally—to show up. It meant more than I can fully explain. In a week that started with letting go, I didn’t expect to feel so deeply reminded of how much I’m still held.
I thought this week was going to be about sitting in the ache of saying goodbye. About adjusting to the quiet. About learning how to carry the weight of that shift. And in some ways, it was. But what I didn’t expect was how life would meet me in it. How joy and grief could exist in the same space. How I wouldn’t have to “move on” from one to experience the other. I wasn’t avoiding it. I wasn’t pushing it down. I was just… being carried through it.
And now, here we are—back home, stepping into the next rhythm of things. Rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream have started, Max’s senior year is winding toward its final stretch, and life just… keeps moving. In the middle of all of that, Mayzie turns 14 tomorrow. And the day after that, Allyson and I celebrate 24 years of marriage. Two moments I almost let sneak by without fully pausing to take them in. And maybe that’s part of what I’m learning right now—that even in seasons of change, of letting go, of recalibrating what “normal” looks like… there is still so much right in front of me worth celebrating.
This is what I’m learning about what comes after the goodbye. It’s not just quiet. It’s not just grief. It’s not just absence. It’s life continuing to show up—sometimes gently, sometimes all at once—reminding you that joy and ache don’t take turns. They coexist. I can miss Maggie deeply and still laugh in a crowded restaurant. I can feel the shift in our home and still celebrate the life we’ve built inside of it. I can hold onto what was and still step fully into what is. That’s the tension. That’s the beauty. That’s the and.
