Grief and Gratitude Woven Together

The Hebrew calendar reveals a harsh truth about life, survival, and sovereignty: there is no clear separation between pain and purpose.

Every year, the State of Israel exemplifies this lesson in a single day. The quiet gravity of Yom HaZikaron, the national memorial for fallen soldiers and terror victims, contrasts sharply with the joyful celebration of Yom Ha’atzmaut. When the siren sounds, the fireworks begin.

That sudden, stark shift from mourning to independence is the intentional turnaround needed to genuinely understand the sacrifice that lays the foundation for a better future.

This week, I experienced that same structural tension in a very personal way. Yesterday, I quietly marked the 14th anniversary of the bicycle accident that crushed my spinal cord and left me paraplegic. Today, I am supposed to sit at a table and give thanks.

For years, that calendar pairing felt like an emotional violation. How can you mourn a loss one day and then feel grateful the next? It seemed as if I had to pretend that Wednesday’s devastation didn’t happen in order to enjoy Thursday.

I’ve heard surprising stories about people who call their trauma a gift, describing the transformation that followed. I respect their journey and acknowledge the growth I’ve experienced, but it doesn’t outweigh what was lost. I was quite happy with my “before” life, and I would return to it in a heartbeat.

But I can’t.

And what I’ve learned over these fourteen years is that the greatest danger isn’t the paralysis itself; it’s getting caught in the whirlpool of grievance that can so easily pull us in.

We live in a time when the air is filled with grievance, not just for those who have suffered the deepest pain. The environment is filled with frustration and blame, and it’s easy to get caught up in that tide. I’ve been there myself — looping through the same memories, hoping the past might offer a different ending. But living that way narrows the aperture of everything good. It dims whatever gratitude is trying to break through.

This is where the wisdom of the Hebrew calendar serves as a guide. Moving directly from my personal memorial day to a day of national gratitude requires me to take a detour from that cycle.

This calendar gives me the intentional whiplash I need. It reminds me of the advice Amit Goffer z’l, the quadriplegic founder of ReWalk, shared with me when we met in Yokne’am shortly after my accident: go and live your life without waiting for the cure. That dual command, to mourn but also move forward immediately, is the emotional rhythm built into these holidays. It teaches that you don’t get to wait for your circumstances to be perfect before you start building. It’s grief and gratitude tightly woven together.

My sorrow is real. It’s a burden I’ll carry forever. Still, I choose to compartmentalize that darkness and use it as motivation, a reminder of how brief and fragile life truly is, to stay aware of what still exists and what can still be achieved.

I’m not thankful for the crash, but I am truly grateful for what remains: the simple joy of sitting here with family today, the opportunities still ahead, and the unexpected ability to have a voice that resonates with others.

That choice — to remember the devastation and let it deepen your appreciation for what’s still good — is the same choice Israel makes every year. Especially now. It’s not denial. It’s the stubborn belief that even after such profound loss, something meaningful can still be built. In truth, it always has.