The Promise of Showing Up
I’ve written some version of this too many times.
There was Pittsburgh, where my dad grew up, where my grandparents met and married, where my parents began their life together. I remember the ache of the Tree of Life shooting like it was yesterday. Not just grief for the Jewish community, but grief for my family’s history.
Then there was El Paso, my home for seven years. A shooter drove across the state to target my community, killing 23 people at a Walmart on a Saturday morning. In the aftermath, I sat with people who ran. I listened to graphic stories of survival and overwhelming heartbreak. I held space with my friends. And I felt the weight of what had been lost, and what would never feel safe again.
And, still more —the shooting at the Fourth of July parade in Highland Park, Illinois. My hometown. I watched in disbelief as the news unfolded, trying to reconcile those images with the childhood memories I carried from that very street.
And then, DC.
Another shooting. Another Jewish space. Another place that feels targeted.
We are all still grieving the murder of Sarah Milgrim z”l and Yaron Lischinsky z”l, a young couple who were leaving a Jewish event. They should have been celebrating what’s ahead. Instead, we are facing their incomprehensible loss.
Grief layered on grief: living in a country where gun violence is relentless, and in a world where Jewish safety is never guaranteed. It is a strange thing —to walk through the world knowing you are someone’s target.
Violence like this keeps shaking our sense of safety. And for so many of us, that fear is consistently deepened by rising antisemitism, especially in the days, weeks, and months since October 7th.
It shouldn’t be this way. We shouldn’t have to look over our shoulders when we leave Jewish spaces. And we shouldn’t have to keep learning how to hold all this heartbreak.
I’ve found myself moving slower lately. Holding my breath when I walk into familiar spaces. It’s not just fear, it’s the constant calculation of safety in places that are supposed to feel like home. And I know I’m not the only one carrying this.
So we show up. We light memorial candles, we organize vigils, we hold each other through breaking news alerts and newfound fears. That choice —to stay connected, to keep showing up— is a promise to one another, and a kind of Torah, too.
Like Esther, who asked her people to gather around her for strength in her moment of deepest fear.
Like Moses, who brought his brother Aaron with him to confront Pharaoh, because no one should face power alone.
Like Ruth, who refused to let her grieving mother-in-law walk the road alone.
This is when we need each other the most. In the fear, in the grief, in the aftermath of too many tragedies, community has never mattered more. We are not meant to carry this alone. We are meant to hold each other through the weight of it all. We are meant to show up for each other, again and again, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
That’s what community is supposed to be; not just a place we gather, but a promise we make. Community means we hold each other up when the world feels like it’s falling apart. All I can offer is a spot next to me —to breathe, to cry, to be seen. I know these are enormous emotions —grief, anger, exhaustion, confusion, fear. They are real. And you’re not alone in any of them. Reach out. I’m reaching out, too.
That’s what I want to hold onto in all of this —the way we reach for each other. Because showing up for one another, in our full humanity, with everything we’re carrying and everything we’re feeling —that is the sacred work of community. We cannot let go of it. The biblical power of the word “hineni” —I am here— keeps echoing in my mind. Sometimes being here is all we can offer. And sometimes, that’s everything.
Torah binds us together. It lives in the space we create with one another. We will keep showing up for one another. Holding each other in our full humanity is sacred work —and we’re not letting go of it.
Author’s Note:
A version of this reflection was originally shared with the community of SVIVAH —a cross-denominational, multigenerational space for Jewish women*. SVIVAH is rooted in the belief that every person’s Torah —their lived experience, their voice, their wisdom— matters. This piece is one attempt to hold the grief, fear, and hope so many of us are carrying, together.
