Moments of light

This Rosh Hashanah, as we prepare for a new year, I feel a weight that’s almost too heavy to bear.

In the neverending middle of this war, how can we celebrate when hostages are still trapped in darkness, terror filling their days? I think of the Bibas babies — forever babies.

And then I think of the children in communities we’re told to call our enemies — they’re suffering, too, and I can’t turn away from that.

Meanwhile: Our soldiers risk their lives every single day. We live with loss that cuts so deep it’s hard to breathe. Shiraz. Vivian. Shani. Hersh. Zechariah. Haim. Gilad…. And still, there’s this expectation — to smile, to say “Shana Tova,” to find joy. But joy feels so far away.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this.

I know so many of us feel like we’re carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders as we move toward the new moon, the start of our cycle. Part of me just wants to shut it all out — bury my head in a bottle of whiskey, curl up with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and numb myself from the reality that surrounds me. But somehow, amidst the chaos and the sorrow, I find myself still looking for those moments of light.

It’s in the rain that catches me off guard next to a rosemary bush, its fragrance reminding me that life continues, stubbornly blooming even in the storm. It’s in the quiet comfort of a drink with a friend who just knows. It’s in the unexpected reconnections with people I’ve drifted away from, because maybe this is the year we find each other again.

But grace — it’s the hardest thing to find, especially when it feels like we’re all just barely holding on. Last year, I was getting into a taxi with my kid. He was screaming, I dropped the milk, and his water cup spilled. I was trying to juggle it all, with him strapped to me in the baby carrier, and out of nowhere, a neighbor started blasting her horn. She wouldn’t stop. Over and over. And there I was, on the verge of losing it, trying to pick up the pieces, and she just kept hitting that horn.

I snapped. I yelled at her to be patient, but it wasn’t enough, and so I screamed, “Be *fucking* patient!” It was a raw, ugly moment, and as I got into the taxi, I apologized to the driver for my outburst. “I’m just having a really hard morning,” I told him. And then it hit me. Maybe she was too. Maybe the woman behind the horn was having just as hard a morning as I was. I didn’t know her story, just like she didn’t know mine. All I could see was my own frustration, my own struggle. But isn’t that what we’re all doing right now — carrying our invisible burdens, unseen by everyone else?

This Rosh Hashanah, I’m trying to remind myself that everyone, everywhere, is carrying something heavy. We don’t know the full story of the person honking the horn, the stranger next to us in line, or the loved one who lashes out. All we know is our own pain, our own fear, our own desperate search for peace in a world that feels anything but peaceful. Maybe that’s the work this year — to hold space for each other, to find grace even in the hardest moments, because if we can’t, we’ll crumble under the weight of it all.

So, as we step into the new year, may we find grace — grace for ourselves, and grace for others. Because in a time like this, grace might be the only thing that carries us through.