Why Hamilton Matters to Me Now

At a Christmas party a couple months ago, someone made the comment, "Hamilton sucks." I objected. They remained firm. Neither of us changed our mind.

But the moment was enough to give me pause. It gave me a reason to stop and ask myself: Why does Hamilton matter enough to bother me when someone says it sucks?

Not just that I enjoy it—though I do. But why it resonates in a way that feels almost spiritual now that I've redefined what spirituality means to me.

I think it's because it's a story about several things I desperately needed to hear even before I began deconstructing my faith:

That flawed humans can do extraordinary things.

That you can write your way out.

And that you get to tell your own story.

The Son of Immigrants

Hamilton is written by Lin-Manuel Miranda, a son of immigrants. My own heritage has its own immigration story—my many-greats grandfather came from England to the United States, then crossed the plains to Utah in the mid-1800s.

The musical enshrines this legacy of immigration. It takes Alexander Hamilton from "a forgotten spot in the middle of the Caribbean" to New York City and shows his journey to becoming a central figure in the American Revolution and the government that arose in its aftermath.

It's a story about coming from nothing and becoming something.

And as someone who's spent the last few years rebuilding an identity after leaving the only framework I'd ever known, that resonates.

I came from a small town in Utah. From a Mormon family. From a predetermined path.

And I'm trying to become... something else. Someone I actually choose to be.

Hamilton's story reminds me that transformation is possible.

The Style I Had to Warm Up To

I'll be honest: it took me a while to warm up to the music.

Rap isn't something I've ever been heavily into. I'm still not.

A family member actively dislikes Hamilton for exactly this reason—the style doesn't work for them, and that's fine.

But something in the message of the musical worked its way into my mind and heart. Something that made me love it despite the genre not being my typical preference.

And here's something I learned: the rap style isn't just aesthetic. It's functional.

The musical packs roughly 20,000 words into the production which is nearly double the pace of a standard musical. That density allows for a much more detailed, nuanced narrative. You get complexity, backstory, political maneuvering, personal relationships, all woven together at a pace that would be impossible with traditional Broadway singing.

The medium serves the message. The style allows the depth.

Sometimes the form you're not used to is exactly what's needed to tell the story that matters.

Writing My Way Out

Alexander Hamilton was a writer.

He wrote constantly. Essays, letters, financial plans, political arguments. He wrote his way from poverty to prominence. He wrote to clarify his thinking, to persuade others, to defend himself, to build systems.

He wrote his way out.

I'm nowhere near as prolific. But that desire—to write my way through things, to make sense of my experience by putting it into words—is a deep part of who I am.

It has been for most of my life. But for the longest time, I kept it to myself.

This blog is me writing my way out.

Out of the shame cycle. Out of the binary thinking. Out of the framework that told me who I had to be.

Into something I'm still figuring out.

Hamilton wrote because he had something to say and no other way to say it.

I write for the same reason.

The Flawed Founders

Growing up, I held the Founding Fathers in high esteem.

George Washington was the man who "could not tell a lie." In the foyer of the church I grew up in, there was a painting of Washington kneeling in prayer—enshrining him as not just a political leader but a spiritual one.

I didn't know the complexity.

I didn't know that Thomas Jefferson, who wrote "all men are created equal" maintained a sexual relationship with a slave named Sally Hemmings.

I didn't know Washington himself owned slaves, though it wasn't until his death that he freed them in his will.

I didn't know Aaron Burr shot and killed Alexander Hamilton.

I was only vaguely aware that-like many politicians-the Founding Fathers were wrapped in scandal, contradiction, and moral compromise.

I don't remember these things being taught in the classes I attended—either in church or in school.

But I do remember how these figures were held in nearly prophetic regard. Mythologized. Sanitized.

But Hamilton doesn't sanitize them.

It shows Alexander as brilliant and flawed. Ambitious and self-destructive. Loyal and unfaithful. A visionary and a scandal.

It shows him as human.

And that matters. Because I was raised to believe that prophets, whether religious or civic, were somehow more than human. That their authority came from their moral superiority.

But they weren't. And it didn't.

They were just men. Only human.

The only thing that substantially set them apart was their political power and influence. And yes, even their flaws and proclivities were part of what shaped the country.

What This Means for Prophets

The parallel to Mormon prophets is obvious.

I was taught that prophets were special. That they had a direct line to God. That their counsel was divinely inspired and therefore trustworthy in ways ordinary humans' wasn't.

But they're just men too.

Joseph Smith was charismatic, visionary, and deeply flawed. He married other men's wives. He lied about polygamy. He destroyed a printing press that criticized him.

Brigham Young led thousands across the American plains and also taught that Black people were cursed and that blood atonement was necessary for certain sins.

The modern prophets? They're businessmen. Lawyers. Administrators. With all the biases, limitations, and blind spots that come with being human.

They're not more moral. They're not less fallible. They're just men with institutional power.

Recognizing that the Founding Fathers were flawed humans who did both great and terrible things helped me recognize the same about Mormon prophets.

They don't get special dispensation for their harm just because they also did some good.

Their authority isn't justified by their righteousness. Because they weren't more righteous. They were just more powerful.

The Grief in the Music

There are songs in Hamilton that cut straight to the heart.

The emotional depth in "It's Quiet Uptown" and "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story" is devastating.

The grief felt by Alexander and Eliza after the death of their son, Phillip, is heart-wrenching. The weight of public scrutiny while experiencing private loss. The impossibility of moving forward when everything feels shattered.

I don't have the eyes of history on me. But I know what grief feels like.

Grieving the loss of faith. Grieving the person I thought I'd be. Grieving the decades spent on a path I thought I wanted.

Grieving the relationships strained by my departure. Grieving the certainty I used to have. Grieving the community that no longer feels like home.

The musical doesn't shy away from that grief. It sits in it. It lets it be real.

And that permission—to grieve deeply, to acknowledge the weight of loss—matters.

Because the church doesn't allow that. Leaving is framed as rebellion, not loss. As choosing darkness, not stepping into uncertainty. Grief is not one of the fruits of the spirit.

But it is loss. Real, profound loss.

And Hamilton reminds me that grief doesn't mean you made the wrong choice. It just means the choice cost something.

Who Tells Your Story

The final song—"Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story"—is about legacy.

About how history remembers you. About who gets to shape the narrative after you're gone.

Eliza spends fifty years telling Alexander's story. Preserving his work. Making sure he's remembered not just for his scandals but for his contributions.

And then the song asks: Who tells Eliza's story?

Who remembers the work she did? The orphanage she founded? The money she raised to build the Washington Monument. The decades she spent honoring her husband's memory while building her own legacy?

This resonates deeply.

Because for thirty years, I let other people dictate my story.

The church told me who I was: a child of God, a priesthood holder, a returned missionary, a faithful member.

My family told me who I should be: the person who stays, who doesn't rock the boat, who maintains the legacy.

The culture told me what my life should look like: mission, marriage, children, endure to the end.

But none of them asked what story I wanted to tell.

Now I'm writing my own. On this blog. In these posts. In conversations with people who actually listen.

I write my story because I don't know who will tell it if I don't.

And if no one remembers it after I'm gone, or even if nobody reads it while I'm here? That's okay.

At least I'll have told it while I was here.

Why It Matters Now

Hamilton matters to me because it's a story about:

Flawed humans doing extraordinary things. Not because they were morally superior, but because they were in the right place with the right skills and seized the opportunity.

Writing your way out. Using words to process, to persuade, to build, to transform. Writing as survival.

Immigration and transformation. Coming from nothing and becoming something. Not through divine destiny, but through work, ambition, and a bit of luck.

Grief and loss. The cost of ambition. The price of choices. The weight of living in the public eye while experiencing private pain.

Who tells your story. The fight to control your own narrative. The question of what legacy you leave. The recognition that you might be forgotten. And the decision to matter anyway.

Before, after, and while leaving the church, I needed all of those things.

I needed to know that flawed humans can still do meaningful work without putting them on a pedestal.

I needed permission to write my way through the deconstruction.

I needed to believe transformation was possible in different ways than I grew up believing. That I could become someone other than who I thought the church was telling me to be.

I needed space to grieve without being told my grief was evidence of making the wrong choice.

And I needed to claim the right to tell my own story even if others tell me to be quiet.

The Story I'm Telling

I don't know if anyone will remember this blog in ten years. Or five. Or one.

I don't know if my story matters to anyone but me.

But I know this: for thirty years, I let other people write my narrative.

The church wrote: faithful member, priesthood holder, returned missionary.

My family wrote: the one who stayed, the one who didn't cause problems, the one who maintained the legacy.

I wrote: the one trying desperately to fit, to be enough, to make it all make sense.

Now I'm writing something different:

Someone who left. Someone who questions. Someone who's rebuilding from scratch.

Someone who's flawed, uncertain, and still figuring it out.

Someone who's claiming the right to tell his own story. Even if no one else ever reads it.

That's why Hamilton matters to me.

Not because it's perfect. Not because I agree with every choice Alexander made.

But because it reminds me: You don't have to be perfect to matter. You just have to show up and do the work.

Write. Build. Question. Grieve. Transform.

Tell your story. Even if you're the only one who ever hears it.

Because nobody knows it better than you.