First. Stand. Go.

What Nitzavim-Vayeilech taught me about finding my voice, standing still, and knowing when it’s time to move.

At this point, I really should stop being surprised when the Torah portion shows up and starts reading my diary.

And yet, here we are again.

This week we read Nitzavim-Vayeilech.

Nitzavim: You are standing.
Vayeilech: And he went.

Standing. And going.

Two words that, at first, seem almost contradictory. One asks us to remain exactly where we are. The other tells us to move.

But maybe that is precisely why they belong together.

Because perhaps before we can know where we are going, we first have to know where we stand.

And I have spent most of my life being very good at going.

Moving felt productive. Moving felt strong. If something hurt, fix it. If something wasn’t working, work harder. If there was a problem, find the answer. If a door closed, find another door.

Keep moving.

What I didn’t know how to do was stand still.

There is, I’m learning, a difference between standing still because you are stuck and standing still because you have finally stopped running.

Not fixing.
Not reacting.
Not chasing the next answer.
Not immediately deciding what comes next.

Just standing.

Maybe that is why Nitzavim has to come before Vayeilech.

First, stand.
Then, go.

Because if you don’t know how to stand still, how do you know whether you are actually moving forward or simply running away?

And then there is this line in Nitzavim that I cannot stop thinking about:

“It is not in the heavens.”

The Torah continues:

“It is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart.”

Your mouth.
Your heart.
Your voice.

That one hit differently this year.

Because this has been, in so many ways, the year I found mine.

I started writing publicly under my own name. I started saying things I believed even when I knew some people would rather I didn’t say them. I found myself in rooms I never imagined entering, having conversations I never expected to have, writing for audiences I never expected to reach.

I learned that standing in your truth does not mean everyone will understand you.

Some won’t.
Some will misunderstand you.
Some will disagree with you.
Some may even prefer the version of you who said less.

And at some point, you have to decide whether being understood by everyone matters more than being honest with yourself.

For a long time, I think I believed finding my voice meant learning how to speak.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe my voice was already there.

Maybe I just finally stopped asking permission to use it.

But then Torah gives us Vayeilech.

Go.

Because standing your ground does not mean remaining in the same place forever.

There are things we are meant to stand for.

And there are things we are eventually meant to leave behind.

Versions of ourselves we have outgrown.
The need to be understood by everyone.
Things we once wanted desperately.
Stories we thought would end differently.
People, places, expectations and plans that mattered deeply, even if they were never meant to come with us into the next chapter.

Vayeilech brings us to Moshe near the end of his journey. He knows he will not cross into the Promised Land with the people he has led for all these years.

The story will continue.

Just not in the way he once might have imagined.

And there is something incredibly difficult, and incredibly beautiful, about that.

Because letting go is not always the same thing as losing.

Sometimes letting go is trusting that something can have mattered enormously without needing to remain forever.

Sometimes the lesson isn’t to erase what happened.

It is to understand what it gave you.

And then keep going.

As we approach a new year, I’ve been thinking less about resolutions and more about that question:

Who did I become because of everything this year held?

And perhaps the harder question:

What am I finally willing to leave behind so that woman has room to keep becoming?

I don’t have every answer.

For once, I don’t think I need to.

Maybe that is part of standing still too.

I have always known how to move.

What I didn’t know how to do was stand still long enough to hear myself.

This year, I learned how to use my voice.

Maybe now I’m learning something quieter.

How to hear it.

Stand.
Listen.
Speak.

And then, when it’s time:

Go.

Not because the past didn’t matter.
Not because you have forgotten.
Not because standing still was weakness.

But because you stood there long enough to understand what it was trying to teach you.

And eventually, you trusted yourself enough to take the next step.

I am standing here today.

After everything this year held.

Because of everything it taught me.

And I think I’m finally ready to see where I go next.