A Starcruiser, A Spark, and A Journey to Hope

How the Starcruiser led me from Grief to Art

Art has always been my compass, guiding me through the brightest and darkest moments of my life (as Ive told before in "The Story of The Gate"). But there was a time when I truly lost my way—when the canvas felt too dark, and the colors seemed to fade. It was during this time that I found myself drawn to a galaxy far, far away, and it was there that I rediscovered the light.

This is the story of how a journey aboard the Galactic Starcruiser lit my way through the dark, and forged an entirely new collection of art.

When the Brushes Became Too Heavy

After losing both of my parents—a journey I’ve touched on before in our blog—I ended up in Virginia, surrounded by memories and old family echoes, tasked with sorting through the pieces left behind. I had art supplies there. I could have painted. I should have painted. It was simply...impossible.

The last artwork I had finished was a piece I made for my dad that he would never see - of his dream surf-shack on a tropical beach. It was meant to say what words couldn’t; it was both a goodbye and a stubborn hope that maybe art really could hold things together. After that, though, the studio door may as well have been welded shut. Every brush felt heavy, and every blank page seemed to double-dare me to even try.

For a long time, I couldn’t pick up a pencil, let alone paint. The colors drained out of my world, and I let them. Call it a creative blackout, or just survival mode—but I packed away the supplies and tried to ignore the gnawing itch for expression that never quite left.

It wasn’t just about losing my parents. It felt like I’d lost the parts of myself that used to light up at possibility—the playful, restless urge to create. For a while there, it looked like the only things I’d be producing were dust bunnies and melancholy playlists.

The Shipyard

Evenings in Virginia brought their own kind of quiet, the kind that settles in your bones. To keep my mind from getting stuck on an endless loop of memories, I found myself often escaping into recollections of my time aboard the Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser—a place where immersive storytelling and outlandish adventures offered a much-needed respite from reality.

If you’ve never heard of it, the Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser was Disney’s wildest experiment in immersive storytelling—a two-night, choose-your-own-adventure set in the Star Wars universe, staged entirely aboard a starship called the Halcyon. Guests didn’t just check in; they stepped into their own personal saga, mingling with actors, taking part in missions, and—if you were anything like me—shamelessly role-playing your way through cantina jams and Resistance plots. It was imaginative, communal, nerdy, and, yes, a little bit bonkers—in all the best ways. Sadly, it made its final hyperspace jump in September 2023, but for a brief time it was the closest any of us got to actually living out a Star Wars legend.

One night, somewhere between exhaustion and some vague attempt at closure, I found myself staring out the window of my parents’ porch, looking out at the shipyard across the Elizabeth River. The place was quiet, but the lights of the cranes and towering ships burned on, flickering and stretching along the water like distant constellations. It was cold—the kind of cold that seeps under your skin and makes the silence ring in your ears.

But in that hush, my mind started wandering. Staring at the rippling reflections of steel and sodium-vapor glow, I could almost imagine hyperspace lanes buzzing just beyond the horizon, and for a split second, a ship in drydock might as well have been the Halcyon itself—preparing for another voyage.

The Turning Point

Here's the surprising bit: it was a single, silly doodle on my iPad—born right there in that moment—that sent the first jolt through my creative circuits. That act of sketching wasn’t just a distraction; it was the first crack in the wall I’d built around my creativity. Somehow, the simple linework rewired something inside me—a reminder that making even a tiny mark on the page could change the energy in the room (or, in this case, on a lonely porch in Virginia).

But it wasn’t just about drawing starships and starports. My thoughts kept drifting to the characters I’d met—or, let’s be honest, followed around eagerly like a kid who just met Luke Skywalker—aboard the Starcruiser: Sandro, the hopeful idealist with more heart than sense, and Raithe Kole, the roguish, never-down-for-long band manager-slash-space-Han-Solo. Their wild optimism and stubborn resilience felt oddly familiar—they were, after all, just as lost and searching as I was. Creating imagined gig posters and piecing together little scenes from their stories became my sneaky way of processing my own grief and searching for hope.

The Halcyon Collection

Art became more than therapy; it became a lifeline. Channeling memories of unlikely heroes, raucous cantina bands, and wild heists, I started piecing together what would become the Halcyon Collection. Each piece was a way of reaching out—of telling myself, and anyone else who needed to hear it, “You’re not alone on this voyage.” It became a tribute to getting back up, dusting off, and finding new community, even when it seems lightyears away.

That night, looking out at the shipyard, the quiet wasn’t just silence—it was a portal, and for the first time in a long while, I was ready to step through.

Igniting The Spark

If you’ve made it this far, here’s the honest truth: art—at its best—isn’t just about what hangs on a wall. It’s the story it carries, the spark it reignites, and the bridge it builds between people who might otherwise drift apart in their own galaxies. In the darkest stretches, when the silence gets too heavy and old wounds start whispering, creativity has a way of tossing us a lifeline woven from color, memory, and hope.

The Halcyon Collection isn’t just a series of paintings or playful posters—it’s proof that resilience can take the oddest forms, that community might start with fandom but ends in real connection, and that hope is rarely in short supply for those willing to look for it.

My wish is that when you see these pieces, you don’t just find art—you find a shared journey. A reminder that we’re all travelers, patching together meaning and laughter and a little mischief as we go, and that sometimes, the smallest act of creation can light the way for someone else.

So as you wander through the Halcyon Collection, know that every line, every wash of color, and every out-of-tune band poster is an open invitation. Not just to remember, but to connect, to heal, and to set course for wherever the next chapter takes you—together as one.

May the stars light your way, as they did for me.