The Day We Remembered Why We Gather

Twenty-five years.

It hardly seems possible that a quarter of a century has passed since September 11, 2001. For many of us, it still feels like yesterday. We remember exactly where we were, who we were with, and how the world seemed to stop in a single morning. The images, the silence that followed, and the overwhelming uncertainty became part of a shared memory that has never truly left us.

At the time, I was living my dream as a 25-year-old Broadway star of the Tony Award-winning musical, 42nd Street. Like so many actors, musicians, dancers, stagehands, and theatre lovers, I had dedicated my life to telling stories on stage. Broadway wasn’t simply where I worked—it was home. Every audition, rehearsal, and performance had led me there, and I believed that the magic of theatre could transport audiences, if only for a few hours.

Then everything changed.

In the days following September 11, the lights of Broadway went dark. Times Square, usually overflowing with life and possibility, became eerily quiet. The city was grieving, and suddenly performing felt insignificant in the face of unimaginable loss. Like everyone else, I struggled to make sense of what had happened and wondered what role, if any, artists had to play during a time like this.

Then something remarkable happened. When the theaters reopened, audiences returned.

Not because they needed entertainment. Because they needed each other.

They needed a place to laugh again. To cry together. To sit shoulder to shoulder with strangers and be reminded that beauty, hope, and humanity still existed. In those moments, I realized that theatre wasn’t an escape from life—it was a way of helping people return to it.

That experience forever changed the way I viewed performing.

As I write about in my Confessions of an Actress book series, I spent many years believing success was measured by booking the next role, hearing applause, or climbing another rung of the ladder. But life has a way of gently—and sometimes abruptly—reminding us what truly matters. Some of the greatest lessons of my career didn’t happen under the spotlight. They happened in moments that reshaped my understanding of purpose.

After 9/11, I realized that performing was never really about me.

It was about service. Music became healing. Stories became hope. A standing ovation wasn’t simply applause—it was gratitude for a shared experience that reminded us we weren’t alone.

That lesson has never left me.

Over the years, life has taken me from Broadway stages to television sets, from California to the beautiful mountains of Montana. Today, as a producer creating concerts and community events here in Whitefish, I often think back to those days in New York. Every show we produce carries the same intention: not simply to entertain, but to create a place where people gather, connect, sing together, laugh together, and leave feeling a little lighter than when they arrived.

Because sometimes, that’s exactly what people need.

Living in Whitefish has deepened my appreciation for community in ways I never expected. This town has a remarkable way of showing up for one another. We celebrate milestones together, rally around neighbors during difficult seasons, support local businesses, and fill theaters because we understand that shared experiences enrich our lives.

That spirit reminds me of what emerged after September 11.

In the midst of heartbreak, people reached for one another instead of pulling away. Neighbors became family. Strangers became friends. Acts of kindness suddenly mattered more than titles, careers, or accomplishments. For a brief moment, we collectively remembered that our greatest strength has always been each other.

Twenty-five years later, that lesson feels just as relevant.

Our challenges may look different today, but we still face uncertainty. We still navigate loss, division, and distractions that can pull us away from what matters most. Yet every day we are given small opportunities to reconnect—with our families, our neighbors, and our communities.

Sometimes that looks like attending a concert. Sometimes it’s volunteering. Sometimes it’s supporting a local business. Sometimes it’s simply putting down our phones long enough to truly see the person standing in front of us. These seemingly ordinary moments become extraordinary because they remind us that we belong to something bigger than ourselves.

As we pause this September to honor those whose lives were lost and the heroes whose courage inspired a nation, I hope we also remember the compassion that followed. I hope we remember how quickly people chose kindness, how generously they gave, and how deeply they valued simply being together. Perhaps that is the legacy we are meant to carry forward.

May we choose grace over judgment. Presence over distraction. Connection over isolation. And may we never underestimate the healing power of gathering—whether it’s around a dinner table, in a neighborhood coffee shop, at a community event, or inside a theater waiting for the show to take us away.

Because twenty-five years ago, I learned something I’ll never forget.

The greatest performances aren’t measured by applause. They’re measured by the hope they inspire, the comfort they offer, and the lives they quietly touch.

Here’s to remembering. Here’s to one another. And here’s to continuing to find the good—even after the darkest days.