05/10/2025
“If there’s a reason I’m still alive, when so many have died, then I’m willin’ to wait for it.”
If there’s one musical that captures the rhythm of my life, its restlessness, its yearning, its quiet desperation to leave a mark, it’s Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton.
Now celebrating its tenth anniversary, Hamilton remains a cultural phenomenon, a blend of genius and grit that redefined how history can sing. For me, it’s a mirror.
This week, I had the privilege of being “in the room where it happened.” Watching the original cast’s performance on the big screen at S Maison’s Directors Club, ten years since the musical first took Broadway by storm, was nothing short of surreal. It felt intimate, sacred almost. As if time folded, and I was standing in the same fire that first ignited Miranda’s words.
When the first chords of Wait for It filled the theater, I felt that familiar ache in my chest. Then came Burn and It’s Quiet Uptown, each performance unraveling something deep within me, each lyric a whisper of truths I’ve always carried.
People often describe me as someone constantly racing against time. Always chasing, always afraid to lose the moment. Since high school, I’ve lived with this fear of oblivion, that haunting thought of being forgotten, of fading before I’ve even begun. I’ve always believed that my life is larger than itself, that I am, in some way, a main character in an epic still being written.
My closest friends know this well: how I panic when I’m idle, how I equate rest with wasted time, how I crumble when I feel unproductive. I am both my harshest critic and my most relentless motivator.
And then, I met Hamilton.
When I first saw it in 2018, it was as if someone had taken the chaos inside my head and turned it into music. Aaron Burr, with his haunting calm and quiet restraint, became my reflection. In Wait for It, I found the words I didn’t know I was searching for. Words that turned fear into faith.
“I am the one thing in life I can control.
I am inimitable.
I am an original.
I’m not falling behind or running late.
I’m not standing still — I am lying in wait.”
It’s a revelation. A reminder that stillness is not surrender, that waiting doesn’t mean weakness. It’s knowing that life unfolds at its own pace, and that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is simply trust the timing.
Ten years after Hamilton changed the world, it continues to change mine. And as the lights dimmed and the last note lingered, I realized something: I don’t have to rush to be remembered. I just have to live, fully and honestly — and wait for it.