Hakuna Matata.

February 14, 2026

For our Valentine’s Day, Maria and I did something that felt both simple and meaningful. We went to Broadway to see The Lion King. That story has been tied to us for more than thirty years. It was the first movie we ever saw together in a theater in 1994. We were just two people then, sitting close in the dark, not knowing what the years ahead would hold. Somehow that night attached itself to our story and Simba and Nala have stayed with us ever since.

When the lights dimmed, the whole room seemed to settle into a shared breath. The opening notes rose slowly, and then the aisles came alive.

Giraffes moved past us with long golden necks that caught the light.

Bright birds swept overhead.

Antelopes crossed the stage in long, graceful strides.

The performers were visible and invisible at the same time. You could see the craft, but you also believed in the illusion.

The stage shifted without calling attention to itself. Colors changed with the mood. The savanna glowed with heat. The jungle felt dense and alive. Pride Rock stood there with quiet authority, more than a set piece, something steady and rooted.

The music did not stay on the stage. It reached into the audience. Drums carried a pulse that felt familiar. Voices rose and fell with a kind of honesty that caught me off guard. At times it felt less like entertainment and more like being part of something shared.

While I watched, I kept thinking about the time we took the boys to see the shorter version at Walt Disney World. I can still picture them sitting there, completely locked in. Their eyes were wide the entire time. They did not squirm or whisper. They just stared at the stage like they were afraid to miss a single second. Maria and I kept exchanging looks that said everything without words. It felt like watching the story pass from us to them.

Sitting beside her this time, I realized how much life has happened between that first movie in 1994 and now. We have been young and unsure. We have been parents watching our sons discover the world. Now we are here again, older, carrying more than we did back then, but still sharing that same sense of wonder. The story has grown up with us.

When the curtain fell, I did not feel like I had just seen a show. I felt grounded. Grateful. Steady. It reminded me where we started and how far we have come.

This past year in New York has not been easy. We built a life here around appointments, treatment schedules, and waiting rooms. We learned how to function inside uncertainty. We will still be back every three weeks, so the city will continue to be part of our rhythm. Even so, this season of living here full time is coming to a close.

When we look back, I think we will see this cancer stretch as my soggy middle. The part of the story where everything feels heavy and unresolved, where progress is slow and doubt is loud. It has also been, in many ways, a dark night of the soul. The season where fear, faith, exhaustion, love, and hope all sit at the same table. The season that strips you down and asks what really matters.

Last night on Broadway felt like a quiet answer to all of it. It said that beauty still exists. It said that joy still finds its way in. It said that we are still here.

We are still choosing to sit next to each other in dark theaters. We are still finding reasons to smile. We are still showing up for each other. Years from now, we will remember the stress and the fear, but we will also remember moments like this. Walking out into the cold night air. Holding hands. Knowing we went through it together.

Hakuna Matata.