Les Misérables, The Stars Didn’t Align.

As Les Misérables: The World Tour Spectacular rises tonight at The Theatre at Solaire, I send the whole team a heartfelt break a leg, with a quiet ache in my heart.

Some people have a favorite show.

I have a lifetime with Les Misérables.

I was there at the beginning - 1996 to 1997 - kicking out Fantine as the Foreman, blending into the ensemble, eventually stepping into the Master of the House as Thénardier. I didn’t know then that the music, the story, and the weight of it all would quietly stitch itself into my life.

Years later, in 2011- 2012, I returned not just as a performer but as a director, carrying Jean Valjean on my shoulders - onstage and off. By then, *Les Mis* wasn’t just a show. It was a language I spoke fluently. It shaped how I told stories, how I understood mercy, justice, and grace.

In 2013, my theatre family and I watched the film together.

In 2016, we sat together again for the international tour, letting the music pass between generations, letting it mean something different this time.

By 2019, my place had shifted again. I stood beside young artists, mentoring, cheering, believing in them as they carried *Les Misérables* forward in their own voices. I wasn't in the spotlight anymore. I was blessedly content watching the next generation find their way through the same songs that once carried me.

And this year - thirty years after it all began - the circle breaks.

For the first time, I won’t be part of it. I won’t be watching from the dark, or listening from the wings, or holding space for others to shine. The stars didn’t align, and some stories don’t grant us the ending we imagine for ourselves.

It’s a quiet kind of grief - the kind that only comes when something has walked with you for decades. Still, I’m grateful. Not every artist gets to live inside a story for thirty years. Not everyone gets to meet it again and again in so many forms.

Les Misérables gave me roles, purpose, family moments, students, and lessons I still carry. Even if I’m absent this time, the music hasn’t left me.

The circle may break - but the story remains.

The Chair I Return To..

They walk across the stage -

faces lit with dreams,

hearts racing toward tomorrows

they once feared would never come.

And I smile.

Because I knew them when they couldn’t smile at all.

Their names are called,

and the applause rings loud -

as it should.

They’ve earned this moment.

But as they step into the light,

I fade gently back into the shadows.

Not bitter,

just… quieter.

Because this is the part they never see:

the moment after the last goodbye,

when the room grows still,

and the echoes of their laughter

become ghosts I learn to live with.

They walk across the stage into the world -

and I return to my chair,

quietly beginning again

with the next soul who needs to be seen.

That chair has known more grief than most stages.

It’s held the weight of stories no diploma could ever carry -

silent tears, whispered fears,

and hearts held together by hope alone.

And still, I stay.

Again and again.

And again.

Letting them go,

knowing they might never look back.

Because that’s the burden and the beauty of this calling -

to be left behind

so others can move forward.

And yes, it hurts.

Every time.

But I endure it -

because somewhere down the road,

maybe one of them will pause

in the middle of their busy, beautiful life

and remember:

the room,

the voice,

the someone who tried his best

to be a steady presence..

the someone who asked for nothing,

but gave everything.

And for that one moment -

I’ll be whole again.