Breaking Silence: A Yom Kippur Reflection

I did not grow up knowing about Yom Kippur. It was only after moving to the United States that I began to learn its meaning, the weight of the day, the prayers, the call to reflection and renewal. Over time, I came to understand its significance not just as ritual but as a moment to pause, to look inward, and to ask how we might live differently.

Since October 7, I find myself more deeply respectful, perhaps even protective, of Jewish holidays and traditions. They feel less like optional observances and more like sacred responsibilities. We owe it to our ancestors, who endured struggles far greater than ours, to carry these traditions forward, to fight for our people, and to remain steadfast in our identity. Yom Kippur in particular calls on us to honor that lineage with honesty and courage.

This year, my reflection feels different. It carries with it not only the weight of the past but also the fragile and surprising gift of finding my own voice. For much of my life, I carried a quiet fear of writing. English is not my first language, and with that comes insecurity about grammar, about expression, about whether what I write will ever feel original enough. Words seemed like they belonged to others, not to me.

And yet this year, I wrote. I published. I took on something I had long been afraid of because silence was no longer an option.

Writing became not just a personal exercise but an act of necessity. The world we live in does not allow us the luxury of hiding inside our own bubbles. Conversations whispered in the safety of like-minded circles may comfort us, but they do not create change. To speak, to write, to put our thoughts into the public square, that is how we move beyond the private and into the shared.

Yom Kippur reminds us that reflection without action is incomplete. We can confess silently in prayer, but ultimately, we are judged by how we live, how we show up, how we use our voices when it matters most. For me, writing has become an act of showing up. It is imperfect, sometimes halting, but it is honest. And in honesty, there is both vulnerability and strength.

This year, as I look back on my own journey, I am grateful that I chose not to let fear define me. I learned that we do not need to have the most polished words or the most original insight to contribute. We need only to speak with sincerity, because sincerity itself can break through walls of indifference and apathy.

On this Day of Atonement, I hope to carry forward not only forgiveness and renewal but also courage. The courage to keep writing, to keep speaking, to keep showing up, even when it feels uncomfortable. Because silence, I have learned, is no longer enough.