When the clock stopped. What came after.

January 31, 2026

I woke up this morning, made my coffee, and opened my computer. As a writer, this is my ritual. I never know what will be waiting in my thoughts.

But this morning, I did.

844 days.

Normally, recalling what we thought or felt over such a long stretch of time would be difficult. But these days are different. October 7th was a moment when time stood still. We all knew where we were and what we were doing. We were glued to our screens. Our hearts shattered into pieces that felt impossible to put back together, like broken glass.

I have had the privilege of traveling to Israel multiple times, and I never hesitated to go. If anything, the pull to be there grew stronger. I stood at the site of the Nova festival. I listened, through tears, to a tour guide who survived it. I saw the pain in his eyes and realized something deeply humbling: I thought I understood, but I didn’t.

I spent time in Hostage Square, tracing the faces on the posters with my eyes. Each one a life. Each one is someone’s world.

One moment I will never forget was Kol Nidre in Hostage Square, sitting with my husband, our children, and our new granddaughter. I had been sick and stood up briefly to get a tissue. That small movement gave me a view I will carry forever.

Everyone was dressed in white, as tradition calls for. The crowd looked like snow-capped mountains or waves breaking along the sea. Families held one another. Strangers we had just met felt like lifelong friends. It was a space born from tragedy, yet it was undeniably beautiful.

How could it be both?

Because that is who we are.

We are one, through every dance and through every death. Our faith in one another, and in Israel, is unbreakable. Writing has always been how I cope. Over these months, I have shared stories of our light, our resilience, and a strength passed down through generations. This is my 18th blog. Eighteen..chai..life.

This past week, we watched as the final hostage came home. We cried as if he were our own. The last of the 250 hostages returned. The masking tape worn by so many can be peeled off.

As the clock stopped in Hostage Square, a new one began. One without an end. It does not count days or mark time. It moves forward with memory, with responsibility, with love.

And as we gather the shards of what was broken, we do what Jews have always done:

We choose life.