Remembering Sam & Mara

Saying Goodbye

I debated whether or not I’d actually sit down to write this, but as I stare at my Delta in-flight TV screen and notice I have four hours remaining between LA and Boston, where my family is traveling to get to Martha’s Vineyard, I figure I have enough time.

We never have enough time. That’s the hard truth.

In October of 2025, my Mom alerted me that our cousin Mara, who at sixty-some-odd years old was more like a big sister to me than a cousin, tried to kill herself. Mara, who I have known since childbirth. Mara, who showed me the best of New York as a child. Mara, who always had the newest, coolest toys, slap bracelets, CDs, and prank gifts. Mara, who once unforgettably shouted in a sing-songy voice, “What a fucking idiot,” to a NYC cab driver when my brother and I were just kids, cracking up as we exited the taxi with my Mom because it was, well, hysterical. Mara, who loved my children more than life itself. Mara, who invented words like YUMBOLINA about something delicious. Mara, who was like my mother’s best friend. When the two of them would get together — and drink and smoke pot — I’d lovingly refer to them as the Banger Sisters. My friends loved partying with her.

A few weeks, or maybe even a month or so later, the timing is hazy, I started getting erratic and crazy texts from Mara. Apparently, she had crashed her car trying to park in the parking lot below her building. She sent me wild pics of her smashed door. She left me countless voicemails trying to find my Mom. She was getting in screaming matches with other people in her building. They called the Police on her one afternoon after a bout of particularly manic and crazed behavior — all of which I had never experienced in my 41 years on Earth — and they had to intervene.

In trying to protect me, my Mom told me it was probably best to keep Mara at a distance during this turbulent time. She had it covered. She was just here in LA helping my mom recuperate from hip surgery, and we hung out. She seemed stressed about moving, and this contentious legal battle she was in with the NY Transit Dept after a terrible fall getting off a subway left her with many broken bones and a black and blue face. But she was an adult. A responsible one — my entire life she was like a second Mom to me. That night as the Dodgers played I kept getting weird, seemingly drunken texts from Mara. So, I reluctantly called the Yonkers Police to do a wellness check. I was afraid she might hurt herself, or try to again. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done because I didn’t want to get her in trouble, or send the police to her doorstep. But I cared for her safety. I wanted to ensure she was okay, given that just a month or so prior she tried ingesting a handful of pills.

The Yonkers police called to let me know that they went to Mara’s apartment, that she was alive and well. There was nothing they could do. She was in a normal headspace, wasn’t drunk or high, and in control of her faculties. I called my best friend’s father, Dr. Phillips, who just so happens to be one of the brightest minds in psychopharmacology. He helped me relax, knowing that I had done all that I could do. He told me that I did the right thing in helping her, and that he would be a resource to her any time.

Mara was in a mental-health facility for some time after, the details are hazy. Some of the details were kept from me on purpose. But before long, Mara was back in her own apartment. I had been meaning to call her, but frankly, I was afraid she’d be mad at me for calling the Police on her. I was worried she’d confront me about it. So, I waited. We sent a few texts, or DMs about my girls… and then she was gone. This time, she succeeded in taking her own life. I never got to say goodbye, or apologize for calling the police.

When my Mom returned from New York after taking inventory of all that Mara had left behind, she brought home a few items for me: a cigar box from her dresser, some Angel Cards she had a in a dish… and these two crazy aerodynamic trapezoidal shaped toys for my girls. The toys were left in their play room for my daughters, and I knew before my Mom even told me that they were from Mara. They screamed Mara. They were so cool and one of a kind. Only she could have found crazy toys like this. (I knew because she found this toy called a polygonzo when I was a kid, and I kept it for decades before tossing it aside when my parents sold our home.) I looked at the toy and I just knew. Mara. And it made me smile from ear to ear.

I really miss her. I wish I would’ve called her. I wish I wouldn’t have waited.

Wherever she is, I know Mara is smoking a joint, having a vodka cocktail, and playing Canasta. Probably with David Bowie, knowing her.

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Sam. Man, where do I start? 33 years old. Gone. Just like that. So young. For those of you who might not know — and it’s no secret — Sam spent the better part of his adolescence growing up in foster care. And yet, despite an incredibly challenging childhood, he got into USC Film School, he was the youngest agent ever minted at Gersh, and he transitioned to managing at RANGE before ultimately settling in at Entertainment 360. He was written up as one of Hollywood Reporter’s NextGen of Rising Stars in 2023.

Sam was cool. Effortlessly stylish. I used to joke with him and my other writer friends that “my manager looks like he’s in the cast of Euphoria. He’s annoyingly good-looking.” He wore crazy outfits — most memorable was this crop top sweater he wore with stringy fabric dangling from it that he paired with chunky athletic sneakers and wide-legged jeans… JNCOs come to mind, though they weren’t that.

One of the first things I told Sam was, “in the old days, before the streaming bubble burst, I tried to sell a network show every year. The networks are buying twenty pitches that they kill by Christmas… I could be one of those dead projects! It’s free money!” // “Let’s fucking go!” Sam said. A few months into our relationship he texted me while I stood in line at CVS. “Do you have anything for Zooey Deschanel? She wants to come back to TV.” I thought about it for a few minutes before realizing that holy shit, yup, I did — a workplace comedy set in a fictional Guitar Center. She would be the Jack Black in School of Rock character. I sent Sam the one-pager and he sent me a voice note that I wish I still had. “This is perfect, dude!!! Sending to her team right now.” Within weeks I was sitting in front of Zooey, pitching her the show. She said yes before I could even finish my pitch. Sam did that. Put it all together. Connected the dots. Does what any good rep does.

The past six months or so, since January really, Sam did a few things that made me question our relationship and whether it would last, and if he was a good fit. They are things that I’m not going to go into detail here, but when I look back on them through the lens of the tragic past week, it makes more and more sense. I questioned if Sam was on drugs. The last few times we spoke he sounded… different. He usually had such a positive outlook on Hollywood, even as it continued to contract. We would outlast this change. He would alway say, “We’re going to be having a very different conversation come…” And even when things continued to suck, he was super positive… until the last time I saw him in person.

I went to E360 to participate in a table read. It was Day One of the World Cup. I remember because assistants and managers were all streaming the games on their phones. I texted Sam that I was in the building when the table read was over. He told me “AWESOME!! I’ll come down!” I told him I was coming up instead.

He came out to give me a big hug and took me back to his office. I sat down in the low-slung chairs opposite his desk and he painted a pretty dire portrait of the Town. Like I said, he didn’t sound like the Sam I knew. I left his office that day, standing in the courtyard of the building thinking to myself, “I’m not so sure if that is the attitude I like for one of my representatives.”

I had no idea what he was going through. We had joked a few times that we were both “SSRI bois” in therapy, but in LA, who isn’t? Everyone is on something and everybody has a therapist. I didn’t have a clue that he was struggling until the moment I got this text back from him as a response to something we were dealing with on the business side, the last one he would ever send: “Sorry I missed you end of last week. I’ve been dealing with some rather intense personal and health stuff and was about to let you know, but I’m taking a few weeks medical leave. If there’s anything timely, I have a couple of very capable colleagues who will step in. Looking forward to catching up with you on the other side.” I responded in kind, “Oh man. I hope you are okay. I don’t need anyone on your end… PLEASE GET WELL.”

It’s the “other side” bit that haunts me. I assumed he was referring to the other side of rehab, or wherever he may have been going. But upon reading it with 20/20 vision, I ask myself if he already knew then that this was the end. That he was going to take his own life. I try to ask myself what could’ve been so bad, that this young Hollywood phenom who had survived the foul shit of the foster care system and made it out the other side glistening like a diamond, decided that life was no longer worth living.

In the days between Sam sending that text and his death, I debated texting him to let him know that my best friend’s dad was an amazing psychopharmacologist, — the same person I called when Mara had a similar issue. I wanted to tell him that I could get him in to see Dr. Phillips ASAP. Maybe he could help. (Full disclosure: at the time I didn’t know where Sam was, or what he was in for. There were rumors and I wasn’t sure what was true, and what was made up.) I thought that if he was detoxing from drugs he probably didn’t have his phone. Or that he didn’t want to be bothered by me, his client, even if he did. So, I didn’t text him. Or call. I figured he was in the hands of capable professionals who could handle whatever he was going through. I’d hook him up with my psychopharmacologist when he resurfaced from wherever he was.

I still can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t fathom to think that I can’t call him to complain, or spin out, or bug him for the third time to set that meeting for me at Skydance Sports. He was so sweet. He was so young. We had a really fun time at the Haim concert a few months ago. He may have gone rogue occasionally, or acted in a way that was different from what I would have done had I been representing myself in his shoes, but Sam believed in me. He believed in all of his clients. As a writer, I have serious imposter syndrome… even with my own reps. I can’t believe that they’d want to have someone like me as a member of their club, to paraphrase Woody Allen’s Annie Hall intro. He would tell me constantly, “bro, you got this.” Even when I didn’t. He was either delusional, or really believed. I’m going to choose to believe the latter.

Sam’s memorial is this weekend. Due to a long-planned family trip back East I won’t be able to attend and properly say goodbye. So, I guess I will do it here.

Goodbye, Sam. I’ll never forget you, the conversations we shared over the past couple of years, the night we spent at Tower Bar, the Haim concert, and the unbridled belief you held that I was worth believing in, in fighting for, in having a seat at the table. I hope that you’re at peace wherever you are, watching movies, spitting game to the female angels, and wearing something outrageously stylish that only you could pull off.

And just like with Mara, I wish I would’ve called. I wish I wouldn’t have waited because of some dumb notion that I was an annoying client and didn’t want to be a bother. While that might be true, Sam wanted to be on my team anyway. He saw in me what I couldn’t even see in myself.

Sam was raised Jewish, a fact not many might’ve known. May his memory be a blessing.

If you or someone who know is in need of help please call or text 988 for the suicide and crisis helpline.