The Danica Naz Blog

heatre has always felt like something that belongs to me in a quiet, personal way, but The Phantom of the Opera isn’t just something I enjoy. It’s something that holds my dad in it. It’s one of the last clear, tangible links I have to him, and I don’t take that lightly.

He was the one who introduced me to it. I remember sitting there with him, watching it, not really understanding everything but feeling something even then. I didn’t realise at the time that those moments would mean this much to me later. Back then, it was just something we did together, something normal, something small. Now it feels like something I would give anything to experience again, just one more time.

And knowing that he once played the Phantom in a local theatre changes everything. It’s not just a fun fact to me, it’s something that sits heavy in my chest. Because when I think about it, I imagine him on that stage, becoming that character, putting himself into something that demands so much emotion, so much presence. I try to picture it clearly, but it still feels a bit unreal, like I’m holding onto something that only exists in memory and imagination now.

Losing him is something that still doesn’t feel fully real sometimes. It’s like there’s this space in my life that should be filled, but isn’t. And instead of going away, that space just became part of everything. It’s in the quiet moments, in the things I don’t say out loud, in the parts of me that still wish he was here. But somehow, theatre, and especially The Phantom of the Opera, feels like one of the only places where I still feel connected to him in a way that makes sense to me.

When I listen to it, it doesn’t just feel like a musical. It feels like something I share with him. The music, the intensity, the emotion, it all feels like it carries a piece of him. There are moments in the music that feel heavy, moments that feel like they’re holding something deeper than what’s being said on the surface. And when I hear those moments, I think of him. I think about what it might have felt like for him to be part of something like that, to stand in that role, to feel that kind of emotion and bring it to life on stage.

There are times when I hear certain parts of the musical and it just hits me in a way I can’t control. It’s not even just about the music itself, it’s about everything attached to it. It’s about him. It’s about what he loved. It’s about the fact that something he was part of still exists and still reaches me, even now. And in those moments, it feels like he’s a little closer than usual, like there’s still some kind of connection that hasn’t completely broken.

What makes it harder is that I don’t just miss him in the obvious ways. I miss the small things. I miss the idea of sharing more moments like that with him, of talking about the musical, of watching it together again, of hearing his thoughts on it as I got older and started to understand it more. I feel like there’s so much that was left unfinished, so much that I wish I could go back and experience differently, but I can’t.

So now, when I sit and listen to The Phantom of the Opera, it’s not just something I put on. It’s something I sit with. It’s something I feel. It’s something that reminds me of him in a way that is both comforting and painful at the same time. Because it keeps him close, but it also reminds me that he’s not here anymore.

Theatre, in general, feels different to me because of him. It’s not just art or performance, it’s something that connects me to a part of my life that I can’t get back. And The Phantom of the Opera will always be the one that holds the most weight, because it’s not just a story to me. It’s something that carries him in it.

And maybe that’s why I hold onto it so tightly. Because even though he’s gone, there are still things that keep him present in my life. And as long as those things exist, it doesn’t feel like he’s completely gone. It feels like he’s still here in some way, even if it’s not the way I wish it could be.