Weathering the Storm: Family and Identity in the Shadow of October 7th
It’s October 8th, and as I sit here in Florida, waiting for the impending hurricane, I can’t help but feel it as a physical manifestation of what I’ve been carrying all year, since the world shifted on October 7th. The irony isn’t lost on me: the song “Hurricane,” performed by Eden Golan, was written to capture the wave of pain and devastation from that day, the heartbreak that shook us all. When I heard my children sing it at my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah fundraiser, it struck me—they too have been living under that same looming cloud. It’s not just me—they’re feeling it, learning it, absorbing it, and waiting for it.
In our home, antisemitism and Israel are not abstract lessons but lived realities. Both parents work as direct responders to the Jewish community—whether through educating about Israel, our history, and culture, or providing safety and security. My children have experienced this alongside us throughout the year. Witnessing their parents break down during the first Shabbat after October 7th must have shaken their world. At Ramah Darom on Yom Israel, my kids visited a makeshift memorial, saw the faces of hostages, and cried alongside their Israeli counselors. Each week in synagogue, our family sings as we cry out to the heavens, “Avinu Shebashamayim, Barech et Medinat Yisrael,” pleading for protection over our country and our people. They see the empty seats in the back of the sanctuary, each representing a hostage, serve as a poignant reminder.
In their daily lives, my children remain vigilant and alert when someone posts something hateful or when a teacher is insensitive. The impact hits deeply when something or someone tries to tear down the Zionism and Jewish pride we’ve worked so hard to instill. Just as the faces of our hostages’ posters were torn down, this serves as a literal reflection of what they are experiencing in a world that often challenges their identity and values. Still so young, they are already familiar with the crushing unfairness of being targeted for who they are. As tears fall from their eyes, I cry with them. “Why do they want to kill us, Mommy? What did we do?” my daughter asked, her innocent voice heavy with confusion and sorrow. How do I answer that? I can’t go into education mode. Will my hugs be enough? My soothing words? Even though we are fourth-generation survivors, why does it feel like we’re becoming a new generation of Never Again-ers?
Yesterday, October 7th—a year later—I picked up my son from school. I had been crying on and off all day. He told me his day was “normal.” His Jewish Student Union (JSU) met, but he couldn’t quite explain what he was feeling or what he needed. How could he? How could any of us? I looked at his face—my sweet boy with his kippah on, so proud of who he is—and I cried again. A year ago, boys just like him were murdered, entire families wiped out. My heart aches for those lives, lost simply because they live in a Jewish State. And yet, I am fiercely proud of my son for holding on to his identity. I’m scared too—does he know?
The storm, both literal and metaphorical, has been swirling all year, and still today it feels like it’s closing in. It’s above us, it’s around us.
Just a couple of days ago, my youngest daughter sang Unetaneh Tokef in the synagogue this Rosh Hashanah, her little voice haunting. This year especially, those words—the reckoning, the uncertainty of who will live and who will die—echoed differently, with more weight. We are in the Ten Days of Repentance, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the holiest days of the year. And here we are, waiting for this hurricane, wondering: Where will it hit? How bad will it be? What will we lose? I search for the eye of the storm—for some clarity amidst the chaos.
I know that we will be okay—whatever that new okay looks like. But the fear of what we have to endure to get there is crippling. The weight of it sometimes feels crushing, and the storm threatens to break us. Yet, deep down, I hold on to the belief that we will come out the other side, because we always do. This resilience—both of the Jewish people and for my kids individually—is the ultimate lesson: stay strong, stay together. There is a strength within us, often hidden until we need it most, and we draw on it now. The people of Israel don’t just survive; we live—Am Yisrael Chai. Even when the storm threatens to break us, we rise and endure—not because it’s easy, but because it’s who we are.