The Blogs: I Didn’t Think It Would Be This Hard

I didn’t think it would be this hard.

I really didn’t.

It’s Rosh Hashanah. I had places to go. I had invitations. People called me and invited me. I had people who wanted me to be there.

And I had every intention of going.

I prepared.

I made the matbucha Vita loves. Babaganoush and plus for the Vardis. I went a little crazy with the food, honestly. I was preparing things to bring to people, to contribute to meals.

I was planning to go to Hindel’s house. I was planning to go to the Arielis. I had every intention of going.

And then I stopped.

I don’t really know how else to explain it.

I just stopped.

And at the end of the day, I didn’t go anywhere.

I haven’t really left my house in three days.

I took Bibi for his walks. All his walks. That was pretty much it.

And then Sunday morning, while I was taking him for his walk in the park, some random Chabad guy asked me if I wanted to hear shofar.

I probably wasn’t going to go hear shofar that morning.

But he asked.

And I did.

And there’s something about that random Chabad guy that I keep thinking about.

Chabad has always felt like home to me.

Not because of where I am or what my journey looks like, but because of the familiarity of it. The sounds. The songs. The feeling of being somewhere I know. The things that are part of me.

The feeling that, somehow, no matter what, Chabad is still there.

And that means something to me.

It’s not something I take for granted.

So there I was, Sunday morning, taking Bibi for a walk in the park, and some random Chabad guy asked me if I wanted to hear shofar.

I probably wasn’t going to.

But he asked.

And I did.

And somehow, even when I’m not where I thought I would be, there’s still something familiar there.

I’m never home for Tishrei.

Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot — it’s usually the busiest time of my year. I don’t go home. I don’t even really think about going home.

But this year, I want to be home.

And that’s a strange feeling.

Because Israel is my home. My life is here. My work is here. My people are here. This is the place I’ve built my life.

But I’m also being pulled toward that other home in a way that I haven’t felt before.

And I think I’m being pulled in both directions by myself.

Nobody is making me stay home. Nobody is telling me not to go anywhere. Nobody is stopping me from seeing people.

I live alone with a dog.

I go to work, I come home, and I can go the rest of the night without seeing another person or speaking to anyone if I want to.

And sometimes I do.

There’s something very easy about isolation when no one is forcing you out of it.

And that’s part of what makes this so complicated.

My grief and my mourning are my own. Everyone’s are. There isn’t really a right way to do this, and I know that.

But mine feels very, very isolated.

And I think I have gotten very good at letting it be that way.

I can close the door.

I can stay home.

I don’t have to explain myself.

I don’t have to talk to anyone.

I don’t have to pretend I’m okay.

And at the same time, there is this other part of me that wants to go home.

That wants the sounds I grew up with. The davening that I love. The songs I know by heart. The niggunim that somehow bring you back to places and feelings you didn’t even realize you were missing.

The feeling of being somewhere familiar.

Somewhere that feels like home.

And maybe that’s part of why this Rosh Hashanah has been so hard.

Because I’m home.

And I’m not.

I didn’t think I would struggle this much.

I thought I would be okay.

I had invitations. I had people reaching out. I had food prepared. I had places to go.

And still, I stayed home.

And I don’t really know what to do with that.

Because Rosh Hashanah is supposed to be about starting again. About standing before Hashem. About crowning Him as King.

And I suppose I always imagined that would look a certain way.

In shul. With people. With the familiar sounds and routines. With a feeling that I recognize.

But this year, it looked different.

This year, it looked like preparing food for people I love, even though I wasn’t sure I would make it to their homes.

It looked like taking Bibi for a walk.

It looked like hearing shofar in the park because someone happened to ask me if I wanted to hear it.

It looked like being home.

And I don’t want to pretend that was easy.

It wasn’t.

I don’t have some beautiful lesson about it yet. I don’t have a neat way to explain why I couldn’t go, or why something that I thought would be manageable turned out to be so hard.

I just know that I had every intention of going.

And then I stopped.

Maybe there is something about Rosh Hashanah that I am only beginning to understand.

That standing before Hashem doesn’t necessarily mean standing where I thought I would be.

Maybe it means standing where I actually am.

I don’t know if that’s what this is.

I don’t know what to call it.

I just know that this is where I am this Rosh Hashanah.

And it’s really, really hard.

And maybe this is also part of what I need to say to the people I love:

I’m struggling.

I’m isolating.