There was something about Tom Nissley that settled a room. It wasn’t his volume—he rarely raised his voice. It wasn’t a commanding presence—though his energy suggested a deeper current. It was his way: deliberate, measured, constructive. He carried himself as if time were something to be honored and others something to be esteemed. For those of us lucky enough to sit with him each week at the New Canaan Sentinel coffee, his was a kind of civil ballast—a gentle resistance against the noise of modern life.
He was the sort of man who reminded you, by his example alone, that support doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful. Engagement is often confused with confrontation, instead Tom brought clarity: be gracious, be thoughtful, be present.
He was all three.
Each Friday, he came—a little early. Coffee in hand, notebook tucked under one arm, newsprint neatly folded. He listened first, then offered a comment or an insight—never performative, always generous. It wasn’t just that he cared about the Sentinel, though he did, and we felt it deeply; it was that he believed in the larger civic fabric it wove. He contributed regularly—dispatches from local stages and playhouses—finding the moments worth celebrating, even in the flawed or the unpolished. He was a critic only in name. In practice, he was a celebrant.
In his passing, we are reminded that good communities are made not by those who dominate the room, but by those who show up, week after week, with care, curiosity, and good cheer. His instincts were restorative: to notice, to preserve, to support. He saw institutions not as monoliths but as living things—churches, historic houses, land trusts, newsrooms—all in need of tending, of stewardship.
To describe his legacy is to speak in plural: he left behind protected lands, preserved homes, nurtured relationships, emboldened neighbors. He served as a minister, a therapist, a preservationist, a writer, and a Realtor. But even these labels fail to capture what he actually did. He helped other people become better versions of themselves. He encouraged. He steadied. He noticed.
Civic life is often marked by flash and clamor, but its endurance relies on something else entirely: on patience, on grace, on the steady hum of commitment. Tom Nissley gave his town that. And now, in his absence, we are left not only with sorrow but with instruction.
Leave nastiness at the door. Support what you love with enthusiasm and a positive approach. Be gracious. Be energetic in your praise and limited in your scolding.
There was never anything passive about Tom’s gentleness. It was principled. It was practiced. And it was, in a sense, defiant—in the best sense of that word. “Grace is not part of consciousness,” wrote Marilynne Robinson. “It is the amount of light in our souls, not knowledge nor reason.” Tom carried that light. It shaped the way he preserved homes, greeted newcomers, reviewed plays, or lingered after meetings to thank someone for their effort.
He reminded us that community is not a given—it is a posture, a set of habits. And those habits must be taught, modeled, protected.
The lesson he leaves is not complicated, but it is essential: If you want to change something, support it. If you want to be heard, listen first. If you want to be remembered, lift others up.
We will miss him—his gentle voice, his colorful ties, his love of performance, his knack for making people feel seen. But more than that, we will try to be a little more like him. It’s the least we can do. And maybe the best.
