Rabbit Hole

A note from the Director

I often find myself asking, “What did I do to deserve this?” More often than not, I chalk it up to karma—the unseen force that leaves me just a minute too late for the D train, makes my $6 coffee taste off, or puts an inevitable stain on my favorite white sweater. In the grand scheme, these small frustrations are fleeting, almost laughable. But reading Rabbit Hole reframed them for me. They became utterly insignificant; a mere blip compared to the depth of a mother and father’s grief.

How do we reconcile the unimaginable loss of a child—a son, nephew, grandchild? What reason could possibly explain such heartbreak? This haunting question shadows Becca and Howie throughout the play. While I can’t fully grasp the depth of losing a child, I do understand the weight of love—the joy it brings and and the unbearable ache that comes when that love is suddenly lost.

As a director who usually has plenty (and I mean plenty) to say, I’ve found myself speechless at times during this process. I’ve been overwhelmed. At the rehearsal table, not just by the weight of the questions we’re exploring, but by the depth of emotion that this extraordinary cast has brought to life. These actors have reminded me, over and over, of the power of silence, of presence. They’ve inspired me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. They’ve built something together that goes beyond performance—it’s a kind of healing. More than just bringing this story to life, they’ve filled my days with inspiration and joy. These actors are more than talented performers; they are remarkable people. Rehearsals have become the best part of my day.

There’s an irony in this work: after engaging so deeply with grief, we’ve found ways to celebrate life. Yes, there have been dance parties, unexpected laughter, competitive card games, and moments of genuine warmth. These things, though, aren’t just distractions—they’re proof that even in the darkest moments, we find reasons to keep going. To keep living.

Now I’ll brag. Just weeks before rehearsals began, I had the privilege of speaking with David Lindsay-Abaire. He reminded me that although these characters grieve, they also live. Humor and warmth run through their lives, even amid sorrow. One of our actors captured this duality beautifully, comparing grief to “red wine on a white carpet.” It seeps into everything, staining darker on some days than others. But there are moments, where the stain lightens, and the carpet is still usable. It’s a complicated, delicate dance—this balance between sorrow and hope.

As you settle in for this performance, I invite you to embrace both the heartache and the hope. Look for glimmers of resilience in their struggles; don’t rush to clean up the stains of their reality. Just be present. If tears come, let them; if a smile breaks through, welcome it.

Allow yourself to sit with it all.

– Gabi David ’26, Director

A note from the Dramaturg

Grief is a feeling so vast and nuanced that it is hard to define it completely. Even science has not found a way to lock down a definition. That was something I realized while researching this show. There are many different definitions of Grief. It is agreed upon that it is a reaction caused by the loss of someone or something. There is a very popular phrase that goes: “it felt like a part of me died”, this feeling is accurate, as our very being is created in relation to each other. Spouse implies a partner; siblings imply a pair. Parent means a child, when that other is gone, it feels as if our being is incomplete. I’m sure you will notice that feeling permeates through this show. David Lindsay-Abaire captures this eerie sense of what is missing from this family’s life. In a way, He gives us a definition or a more nuanced look into grief. I hope that if you see yourself within this piece, it helps you feel less alone.

– Reed Atherton ’27, Dramaturg