On January 14th, Alan Rickman died.
I was up until 4:00am the night of January 13th. My wife didn’t know, and she woke me up at 7:30am. I couldn’t go back to sleep. Usually, once I’m up, I’m up for good.
Lying on my couch in my office, I pulled up my phone and opened Twitter. I heard the news.
I laid on the couch and cried for about an hour.
Just a few days ago, David Bowie had died. I felt the loss, but no grief. I never got into Bowie. I was just a little too young, and hung out with the wrong crowd.
But Alan Rickman was a big deal to me. He was on the list of people I want to meet in my life. He was an inspiration for years. He tried to get into film acting for years—decades. His first film ever was Die Hard, and he got the role in his forties.
Decades of trying. He never gave up.
Success in his forties. Can you even imagine?
The first half of 2015 was one of the hardest of my adult life. I was broke. Meghan was covering way, way more than her fair share of the family’s finances. The stress was killing both of us—me, maybe literally, with all my late nights. I always remembered Rickman’s story. It kept me going when I was ready to give up.
I will miss his influence. And I’m out of words again.