All Good Things

Back to our regularly scheduled lives

Facebook, March 15, 2026, post-Fiddler on the Roof’s final show:

What I feel, I think, is that I was able to give the best of myself in the way that was most personally fulfilling, and then it ended. So I need to reorient. And grieve.

My favorite part of a vacation is… well, the vacation. Duh. But a close second is the planning and anticipation of the vacation. You spend days, weeks, months — maybe even years — planning the trip. You daydream about it when you’re in meetings, you make endless packing lists, you casually mention it to anyone you happen to run into in hopes that they will be excited for you. The day of departure finally comes, your planning comes to fruition, you have the best time (or not), and then… you come home. That thump you hear is both your luggage hitting the floor — not nearly as much fun to unpack as to pack — and also your metaphorical feet hitting the metaphorical earth. If you have ever been in this situation and thought, “Now I have nothing else to look forward to in life, ever,” you are not alone.

The morning after the above Facebook post, a coworker asked me if a show ending is similar to when a wedding has come and gone, and I agreed that in many ways it is. Initial excitement over casting/proposal? Check. Months of building sets/designing the ceremony and reception? Check. Making/buying costumes/wedding party coture? check. Anxious checking and rechecking of ticket sales/RSVPs? Check. Enormous culminating event that involves you being the center of attention and hopefully an audience/guest list crammed with people? Check, check, check! The crash that comes after having the Special Occasion ripped away is severe. After a wedding you have a brand-new spouse to comfort you, and in the same way, we actors have family and friends who haven’t seen us in weeks and are eager to have our time and attention. Still, “real life” pales in comparison to the hoopla, particularly for those who are the type of solar-powered where the “solar” is a spotlight instead of the sun.

In the middle of our penultimate performance, I found myself waiting for my entrance from “my house” and thinking of the end of my second pregnancy. Odd, right? Well, I have a very specific memory of sitting in my recliner about two weeks until we were going to meet Billy in person. I knew, mostly, that this was likely to be my last pregnancy. I sat there, feeling him punch and kick me from the inside, trying to memorize the sensation. I concentrated on being in the moment, in appreciating the experience. I tried to do the same, standing at the doorway of the house, waiting for my cue line, ready to announce, “Ah, you’re finally home, my breadwinner!” I tried to be grateful.

Any kind of activity, hobby, or special event has this particular type of pitfall, because it has an end. The end of an athletic season is something I’m understanding a bit more now that I have a varsity athlete of my very own. Season ends mean goodbyes to seniors, reflection on successes and failures, and a yawning space of time to fill (unsure why this time is filled by grouping up all of their trucks in local parking lots, but I’m sure I was bizarre as a teenager, too).

My parents have always been athletic, so it is no surprise that when I asked them about their hobbies, they chose to talk about snowshoeing (Dad) and biking (Mom). While these sports do not have seasons, as in baseball and football, they are seasonal, so they both reach a point during the year when they are no longer able to do them. My mom describes feeling “bereft” and “envious of people who live in warm climates who can just keep going.” My dad — always the optimist and looking forward to the next thing — is simply happy for having a good year of snowshoeing, and says he “dreams about the next time out until it happens the following year.”

When Community Chorus is active, we have two “semesters” a year, and maybe a Christmas one as well. Even with the knowledge that the next rehearsal period will begin in (at least) a week or two, or (at most) a few months, we have to say goodbye to that program of music. If there was a number that particularly moved me, or was terrifically fun, or was a solo opportunity, then there is a mourning period as I come to turns with never performing it again.

I’ve written about the end of school years before, and while the come-down isn’t exactly the same as these other examples, it has similarities. I take the time to weep over the students who won’t be in my classroom again (although they are forever “mine”) and reflect over the good and bad of the year. However, the crash is exacerbated by utter exhaustion in a way that the others are not (though a play comes close!) and also involves a major shift in my day-to-day living. It is both an easier and harder ending.

Now that I’m contemplating the phenomena of Endings, I realize that I experience this crash after I’ve finished a particularly good book as well. What are the hard endings for you? What experiences do you need to mourn when they are over?

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie

The outside of my house, the inside of my house, and the beautiful bracelet my “daughter” (Hodel/Janelle) gave me on our last show day. I’m wearing it every day and it makes me feel a little better.