As soon as the opening lyrics to “Circle of Life” bellowed across the Minskoff Theatre, I was a goner. My chest tightened, my skin warmed, face scrunched. My body tensed as I tried to fight the emotion, but then the inevitable ensued — waterworks.

Rafiki, walking stick in hand, belted out lyrics as she gazed into the audience, inviting the attention of theatergoers. “Come. Listen to this story,” her eyes said. Then, audible gasps filled the air as we looked to our sides and saw animals sauntering down the aisles, making their way toward Pride Rock. Actors and actresses were puppeteering African animals with vibrant colors and intricate designs. The most impressive was a massive, 12-foot-high elephant, which required the strength of four people to transport.

I wept during the opening and, to be honest, throughout the performance. It was my first official Broadway show, and it did not disappoint. I had traveled to Manhattan in November to accompany my husband, who was helping time the New York City Marathon. We spent the week mesmerized by the pace of life — from watching 55,646 runners in the world’s largest marathon to looking out at the dizzying skyscrapers atop 30 Rockefeller Plaza to navigating the bright lights of Times Square.

A few weeks after returning to Maine from New York, I found myself once again transfixed by a musical, this one about two enchanting women. I saw “Wicked” in a touring production in Chicago several years ago, but it wasn’t until my second viewing of the movie that the full-on sobbing commenced.

Why? The most impressive aspect of stories is their ability to make us want to hear them over and over again. I instantly cried upon hearing the opening notes of “The Lion King” because I’ve watched that movie countless times over three decades. Throughout my childhood, I read picture books about “The Lion King.” I was given coloring books and stuffed animals and clothing featuring characters from the story.

I’m willing to bet there are books and films and songs that you’re reading, watching and listening to this holiday season for the 10th time or the 50th time or the 200th time. You know what happens. You know the plot, the characters, the dialogue, the cadence.

We return to stories because they give us gumption. They provide a moral compass. They challenge, anger and confuse us. They are the way we understand what it means to be human.

Because of anthropomorphism, when Simba loses his father and struggles with the weight of familial expectations, we feel our own personal loss and the stress of our own families. Because of the symbolism and gentle tone of the wordless “Ozdust Duet,” when Glinda extends her arms out to Elphaba and mirrors her dance, we feel the rush of sentimentality that can only come from the embrace of a dear friend.

Beyond relatability, stories help us understand other people’s points of view. We empathize when we see others struggle with hardships. After creating this connection, stories call us to action. When Simba returns to Pride Rock to face Scar, we are summoned alongside him to fight evil. At the end of Act One, when Elphaba boldly raises her head, grabs a broom, swooshes her cape and flies off to the western sky, we are summoned to assume our own power.

“Wicked” has received lots of splashy press and media attention. A cynic might see the advertising, merchandise and press tours as gimmicky and consumerist. But I believe its success comes from a deeper yearning from an American public searching for hope and humanity during difficult times. A country looking for a story to help us fly.