Come From Away tells the true story of how the people of Gander, Newfoundland opened their homes and lives to 7,000 stranded airline passengers after flights were grounded on 9/11. The Tony-winning musical (yes! it’s a musical!) follows a small group of those travelers and the townspeople who took them in; feeding them, comforting them, and somehow making room for all of them in the middle of unimaginable circumstances.

I’m not sure I’ve ever left a performance feeling so thoughtfully uplifted.

There’s no curtain in this production, and no intermission. The set is open and exposed from the moment you walk in, almost as if the show is inviting you into the story before it even begins.

A small Celtic orchestra – including an accordion, mandolin, bodhrán, Irish flute, tin whistle, and Uilleann pipes – sits on either side of the stage, and the musicians drift in and out of the action as part of the performance itself. They were, to a one, extraordinary.

The show begins quietly, without fanfare. The musicians sit casually on tables and chairs center stage, warming up the audience with a lively Irish reel. And somehow, before a single word was spoken, somewhere between the merriment and the opening number, I found myself remembering that terrible day with unexpected clarity.

Then we meet the people of Gander, moving through their ordinary routines before the news arrives. And when it does, tears started falling down my face before I even realized it. I remembered waking up to the clock radio alarm that morning. I remembered the towers, and the smoke rising, and the first responders, and the catch in my throat, and the fear.

I had no idea, walking into the Bowmer Theater, how much unresolved grief I still carried from 9/11. It came rushing back with such force that at one point I found myself gripping the arms of my seat, trying to steady myself in a room full of people who were probably doing the same thing.

I could go on about the cast – how wildly talented and multifaceted they are – or the cleverness of the staging, or the almost unbelievable precision of the constant musical-chair choreography that seemingly never misses a beat over the course of the entire 100-minute show. But honestly, you can go see all that for yourself. (Take tissues.)

What stayed with me most wasn’t just the craftsmanship of the production, though there’s plenty of that. It was the reminder of who people can be when everything else falls away. This show gives the audience space to revisit that shared global moment – not just the horror and fear of it, but the kindness that rose up alongside it. The meals cooked. The spare beds offered. The strangers who became community overnight.

That’s what made it feel special to me, even beyond the world of theater. It reminded me that good people really do exist. That connection matters. That maybe, at the end of the day, taking care of each other is the only thing that ever has.

After the show, as we walked home, our conversations were softer. More thoughtful.

“I remember where I was,” one of us said.

“So do I.”