Tonight I’m in London with my youngest daughter, about to watch The Phantom of the Opera.
It has been over thirty years since I first saw this musical.
The first time was just after I graduated from university.
I remember the hype. It had debuted in Toronto the year before and tickets were impossible to get. Always sold out. Everyone was talking about it.
I didn’t grow up with a lot of culture.
Going out meant going to the movies. That was the extent of it.
So dressing up and going to a musical felt elevated.
Different.
Adult.
I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to see what the fuss was about.
And then the chandelier rose.
The stage transformed.
The orchestra swelled.
The music wasn’t coming from speakers —it was alive. Breathing. Vibrating through the seats.
The set moved.
The lighting shifted.
The actors weren’t pixels on a screen —they were right there, flawed and powerful and human.
I fell in love that night.
Not just with Phantom but with live theatre. The idea that a stage could become anything. A ballroom. A sewer. A dream. A nightmare. That music could carry emotion in a way dialogue alone never could.
Many musicals followed over the years. But Phantom has always been my favorite. Since that first show, I’ve seen it multiple times. I brought my oldest daughter years ago. I even watched the Japanese production in Osaka not understanding every word, but understanding every feeling.
Now the only long-running production left is here in London. And since we’re passing through, it felt like a sign. A reason to stop. Tonight I sit beside my youngest daughter. She’s in anticipation. Curious. A little dressed up. Eyes wide.
And I realize something.
This isn’t just about nostalgia.
It’s about passing on wonder.
I love watching her excitement. I love that she gets to experience what once felt so new to me. I hope she enjoys it —not because it’s famous, not because it’s historic, but because there’s something irreplaceable about sitting in a theatre, lights dimming, orchestra tuning, and feeling that collective inhale before the story begins.
Thirty years ago, I walked into a theatre unsure of what to expect.
Tonight, I walk in knowing exactly what it gave me.
And now I sit beside my daughter, watching her anticipation build as the lights dim and the orchestra tunes. I see the same curiosity I once had. The same openness.
I hope she feels what I felt that first night —that the stage can transform, that music can move you, that stories can linger long after the curtain falls.
Because long after tonight is over, long after London is behind us, I know this much is true:
The music of the night stays with you.