A Man Who Loves Life Openly
Some people move through life with a permanent layer of irony protecting them from sincerity. They are too cool to appear excited. Too guarded to appear vulnerable. Too curated to appear real.
Lin has always struck me as the opposite.
He loves things openly.
You can feel it in conversation. You can hear it in his work. You can watch it spill out in interviews, performances, tweets, collaborations, and spontaneous interactions with strangers.
That kind of joy is contagious.
And I think it explains why his work resonates so widely.
People often analyze Hamilton through the lens of innovation. The structure. The language. The blending of hip-hop and musical theater. The historical reinterpretation.
All of those things matter.
But beneath the technical brilliance is something simpler:
It was made by someone who genuinely loves creation.
That energy transfers.
Children feel it.
Adults feel it.
Audiences feel it.
Artists feel it.
And over the years, Lin has continued channeling that same enthusiasm into countless projects. He has written music that millions of families now associate with childhood memories. His songs echo through living rooms, car rides, kitchens, and bedtime routines all over the world.
In my own house, those songs have become part of the soundtrack of parenting.
I’m personally a Moana man.
With all due respect to the Family Madrigal.
There is something deeply moving about watching your children sing lyrics written by someone you once met in such an ordinary context. Life has a strange way of collapsing distances like that.
One moment you’re standing outside the machinery of culture.
The next, someone you casually met years ago is helping shape the emotional vocabulary of an entire generation.
The Thing I Admire Most About Lin
But as much as I admire Lin’s creative achievements, that’s not what I admire most.
What I admire most is how consistently he uses his platform to support other people.
Fame often narrows a person’s field of vision.
Attention becomes addictive.
Public identity becomes a full-time maintenance project.
The world starts revolving around preserving relevance.
And in that environment, generosity becomes increasingly rare.
Especially genuine generosity.
Not performative support.
Not strategic alliances.
Not carefully calculated acts of public kindness designed for visibility.
Real support.
The kind that happens when someone uses their influence to elevate others with no obvious personal benefit.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone do that more consistently than Lin-Manuel Miranda.
He amplifies fellow artists constantly.
He celebrates emerging creators.
He recommends books, music, plays, poets, filmmakers, performers, and writers with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely wants others to succeed.
There are people who climb mountains and then pull the ladder up behind them.
Lin seems determined to do the opposite.
He keeps reaching downward.
Keeps extending a hand.
Keeps inviting people into the room.
And perhaps that instinct comes from understanding how difficult creative life can be.
Artists spend enormous stretches of time working in obscurity.
Creating without guarantees.
Believing without evidence.
Trying to sustain momentum before the world validates their effort.
Most creative projects fail quietly.
Most artists spend years wondering if anyone is paying attention.
A single encouraging word during those years can matter more than outsiders realize.
A recommendation.
A mention.
An introduction.
A show of support from someone established.
Those moments can become turning points.
Lin seems to understand this intuitively.
Dear New York and Grand Central Station
Which is why, years later, when I invited him to participate in Dear New York, he immediately said yes.
Dear New York has always been rooted in the same belief that guided my work from the beginning:
People matter.
Stories matter.
Human connection matters.
The city itself can often feel overwhelming—millions of strangers rushing past each other beneath skyscrapers and schedules and obligations. But underneath the chaos are countless small moments of tenderness, longing, humor, grief, resilience, and hope.
That is the heartbeat I’ve always tried to document.
For this particular project, I asked Lin if he would stop by Grand Central Terminal and play the Steinway Concert Grand.
His response was immediate agreement followed by relentless expectation management.
“I’m not a pianist,” he insisted.
“All I can do is noodle on the keys.”
He repeated versions of this warning multiple times.
As though he genuinely feared disappointing people.
Which, again, tells you something important about character.
Truly arrogant people rarely attempt to lower expectations.
But Lin kept emphasizing that he was not some concert pianist arriving to deliver a masterclass.
He was simply someone who loved music.
Someone willing to sit down at a piano in one of the busiest transit hubs in the world and share a few moments with strangers.
And this morning, that’s exactly what happened.
Continued on the next page
