Am Yisrael Chai

This past weekend we spent time with family. We are so lucky to continue to have the privilege and safety to do so. On Friday night I asked my father-in-law how the world feels for him in the absence of social media (he’s old-school like that)—does he experience this sense of being hated and targeted in the same visceral and fearful way that I have over the last five weeks? He knows that hatred is out there, that Jewish people are being attacked outside their homes, that synagogues are being vandalized, and that Jewish cemeteries are being defaced with swastikas. But while he knows this on an intellectual level (he reads a lot (newspapers, not Twitter; again, old-school like that)) he explained that he does not feel the personalization of the hatred or a sense that the anger is directed towards him as an individual, not in the way I have felt since the morning of October 8th, the morning after the worst Pogrom against Jewish people since the Holocaust.

This isn’t to say he did not experience the attack on Israel and to the Jewish people as personal. That is impossible; the Jewish nation is too small to not experience it as personal. Every Jewish person I know has a brother, cousin, friend, or friend of a friend who was murdered, raped, or kidnapped into Gaza on October 7th. The babies being held captive are our nation's babies, my babies. My father-in-law feels that personalization deeply and as horrifically as we all do.

Engagement with social media adds but another layer to the horror. My social feeds have become deafening and the feeling of hatred and attack has become overwhelming. I see the person I sat next to in graduate school calling me a supporter of occupation, naming my Zionism—my love for and commitment to my Homeland and my People—as apartheid. I feel the hatred directed at me, when someone I traveled abroad with claims I do not have empathy for Palestinians and that I believe one people more deserving of human dignity and humanity over another. Yet, I have not removed myself and I continue to engage with social media both through consumption and through sharing. And why is that? Social media is a hot bed for anonymity and for the ability to be angry behind a screen. But the experience of the pain and the war is not anonymous. It is profoundly personal. It is my brother-in-law volunteering to don a uniform he last wore over 10 years ago, carrying an M16 protecting his city. It is my ex-boyfriend's cousin who I used to push on the swings stationed up north near the border with Lebanon. It is my friend from elementary school singing songs to her children in a bomb shelter while rockets go off above her head. It is very deeply personal to me and so I need to find a way to make it personal to everyone.

The presence of hatred and anger feels too anonymous and yet too familiar. What is happening is division and dehumanization of the Jewish people and the Jewish nation. Israel is our first and only Homeland. To proclaim that Israel as a sovereign country should not exist is to sign the death warrant of half the Jewish population and likely to the Jewish people altogether. The awareness that in every generation there has been an attempt at our annihilation is part of our collective memory and trauma. Without Israel, where do Jews go? Where are we safe?

But as history has shown time and again, we are trauma SURVIVORS—not victims. We are a people of strength with the capacity and fortitude to hold close our values and our traditions. Our strength has too been villainized. Our rising into positions of leadership in society is made out as an example of our evil, cunning, while we are at the same time condemned for separation and commitment to tradition. We cannot win, so we often stop trying. I don’t want to stop trying, I want to invite you to see my humanity and the beauty of the tradition and people I hold as my own. We are a people of song and a people of love.

I have not shared with my lovely and sensitive (almost) three-year-old boy the grief I have been feeling since October 7th. He is too little and does not need to be exposed to this pain yet. But I am teaching him about song and love. We sing Am Israel Chai most mornings during breakfast and every Friday night we light shabbat candles together and think of what we want for the people we love. We ask Hashem for special blessings together – we meditate on our hopes and dreams, and we pray for Auntie Rachie in Israel and wish her a peaceful and safe shabbat. We hold each other and we sing. He does not notice the extra attention given to Rachel, and Ari, and Talya, and Yoav and Asaf, but singing together is how we hold our traditions, how we honor who we are.

I have always felt fearful of voicing my opinion about Israel. I have felt fearful that I did not have enough knowledge or clout to share my voice. I did not study political science and I don't read the newspaper cover to cover. But I have read books about Israel and Palestine and learned the history of the land since before I could speak. I have spent countless nights in Israel and my sister and her family live there. Interestingly, my love of Israel and my personal connection often made me feel like I could not speak because I am biased. I am not an expert and I have skin in the game and so I should be quiet. But what this month has taught me is you most certainly do not need to be expert to voice your opinion – it doesn’t stop the social media warriors who could not even identify Israel on a map – and having skin in the game and feeling connection and love for a country opens your heart and gives you space and understanding to speak with credibility about your opinion. Additionally, I know a fucking lot. I have been learning about how the children of Abraham (Jewish and Muslim alike) have a connection to the land from the time I could listen to stories. While I may not have been introduced to the full complexities of the situation as a child, I am a very smart woman and I can hold nuance and pain now and still remain unapologetically steadfast in my knowledge that the Jewish people need and deserve a homeland, and that Israel (and the people living there) have both a right to exist and a right to live in safety.

         How we unravel this centuries-old conflict is beyond me, but how we respond to hatred and terrorism feels clear. Do I think Israel and the Israeli government is perfect? Hell no, and I’m far from alone on that (see the millions of Israeli citizens protesting the government right up through the night of October 6th). But I do think an operation to end Hamas and free the 240 hostages, including a week-old baby and a 10-month-old boy, needs to be the priority. God took the people out of Egypt “with a mighty hand” and we stand with a mighty hand now, not to punish or take revenge but to take care of the Jewish nation and ensure we survive.

         My 15-month-old baby does not consistently sleep through the night or go to bed easily. He often needs a bonus nursing session at 4 AM to calm his little body and help him settle or to be held against his mommy’s heart while he falls asleep. He needs me and those babies 60FT underground in tunnels, in Gaza, need their Ima’s and Abba’s too. Evil took them from the arms of their mothers and with a mighty hand we will bring them back!

Am. Yisrael. Chai.

Post Yom Kippur Reflection on Apologies

I have been writing this post in my head for months. My worry is that people will search for themselves in the examples of this post, rather than in the message. My goal when writing is not to name individuals faulty apologies, but to reflect on challenging personal experiences to support my own growth and to make space for others to join me on similar paths of reflection.

A few months ago I received a phone and an apology that sent me into a tailspin. An apology? Isn’t the purpose of someone saying sorry to make you feel better? How could someone reaching out and saying sorry make you feel so bad, even depressed? 

This is where my reflection began too. The goal for this person, I believe, was not to hurt me -- and while I cannot actually name someone else’s intentions -- I believe the call came from a good place. Yet, it was still extremely hurtful. My own hurt made me wonder: why do we say sorry? What is the purpose of an apology?

When I received the call from this person I was surprised. We have a relatively superficial relationship --steeped in pain and baggage (at least on my part) and I was surprised they were communicating with me through the more personal (and brave) medium of a phone call rather than their usual text. 

They said they called to say sorry.

Wow! After years of slights, microaggressions and straight up bitchiness this person was going to acknowledge the way they have hurt me and give credence to my feelings. I was stunned but ready. And truthfully very excited to start a new chapter of our friendship together. 

What followed was not this meaningful conversation of connection and understanding. There was no apology for the times this person had truly hurt me. Left me feeling excluded, less than, or simply unimportant.

I was given an apology for something that I was not upset about, but what is worse, something I couldn’t fathom being upset or angry about.

And that is where the tailspin began: 

Am I the type of person that someone would think is so petty and selfish that I would be angry about THAT?

I felt so hurt and vulnerable following this, but also so confused. 

I spoke with my Eitan and I said “what's wrong with me that someone says sorry and I am furious and sad?” 

He helped me realize that I was disappointed. I want to have a positive relationship with this person and I was excited that they were finally seeing the harm they had inflicted within our relationship. With their ownership, I could have moved forward and we could have had something different and better. However, obviously that is not what happened. 

It's been a couple of months and I have been able to reflect and see this apology in a different light -- and to give this person some credit for their attempt at connection and the risk they took. 

I have gained insight into why people say sorry and what they may be trying to convey, and what I hope is that their intention wasn’t to apologize because they thought I was angry or couldn’t understand but as a way to let me see them better. 

Reasons people say sorry: 

1. They have harmed someone and they recognize that and are taking the first step to make it better 

• There is the simple harm - bumping into someone, physically hurting someone by mistake etc. We are teaching our 2 year old about this. “Ouch, you hurt mommy, can you say sorry and then see what you can do to make it better” Two year old: “sorry mommy, you need blue ice” -- great we are building empathy and he understands that while saying sorry when something is an accident is great, it's only the first step to righting the wrong. 

• Similarly when you accidentally hurt someone’s feelings, exclude them in some way unintentionally trigger someone when you had no way to know your words would hurt, etc. You say sorry, but then how do you make it better? You acknowledge the harm and reflect on ways you will do differently in the future. For example, people will speak about their Dad’s in front of me (totally okay, not mean at all) but then complain about them showing up to something or really wanting to spend time with them and it getting on their nerves, also an okay thing to complain about, sometimes parents of adult children can be overbearing -- but know the room. As a person who lost their father, what I wouldn’t give for my Dad to want to visit “too” often, so complain to a different friend. Insightful people will notice that, apologize and be more careful in the future. 

2. They want to be understood or seen, it's a way to connect to another person 

• With reflection, I think (hope) this was this person’s (albeit ill executed) goal. What I hope is they knew I wouldn’t be upset about something but they were upset with their own behavior and wanted to apologize and be understood.

•  Sometimes you apologize because jealousy leads you to not celebrate as big with someone, sometimes your own pain or depression lessons your excitement about someone's joy, or sometimes (often recently in my case) your overwhelm or preoccupation with the nitty gritty things going on in your life leads you to forget to check in or support someone the way you would like to.

• This type of apology is really important and really valid. The problem is in execution. Because we have been taught we say sorry because we did something wrong or made someone mad. When you say sorry for something that another person wouldn’t be angry about, it leads them to wonder “what is wrong with me that this person thinks I am mad?”

• Instead say “I am feeling xyz, and I am sorry that my behavior is not how I wish it could be in relation to you, I want you to know me and understand where I am coming from…” 

3. The last is the fix-it, non-apology apology. I got this one recently, and in my opinion it's the worst. This one is selfish and does not serve a purpose. Just please stop doing it! 

• This is when someone does a simple harm and apology number 1 would serve. But instead they don’t acknowledge, or worse, they invalidate your feelings and just come up with a solution. They may use the words sorry (although often don’t even do that) but their goal is not to make you feel better but rather to fix the situation and end their own discomfort and make your feelings go away. Hello Boomers! 

• This is the "sorry, but maybe next time you could..."; sorry, but this is what is really happen, or (my favorite) you shouldn't be so sensitive

As a clinician I sometimes help my client’s write a script when they have something hard or painful to say. It's okay to not always know how to do something or have the words for what you want to say. Communication is hard and saying sorry can be one of the hardest forms of communication. It is a highly vulnerable position to acknowledge you made a mistake and hurt someone, or in case number two that you are hurting and therefore acting in a way that doesn’t align with your values or how you want to view yourself. Speaking to that is really challenging and my hope is that I have helped people find the language to speak with each other with more kindness and generosity. Sometimes “sorry” isn’t enough or isn’t right - sometimes when not done thoughtfully it can do more harm than good.

I recommend you start with your intention and then think of how what you say can improve that communication.

Five Years Without You

This evening marks five years since my father’s passing. The past three years Eitan and I hosted a kiddush in our home the shabbat before his yahrzeit. We brought friends together and shared food and drinks to honor his memory. Each year I would share a story or a memory of my father or reflect on what it has been like to not have him physically here anymore and talk about how we try to bring him into our lives in large and small ways. 

Last year I took on a large and emotionally draining project. I created a memory book of pictures and stories gathered from family and friends. I feel so blessed and grateful for those stories and so honored that a memory book sits in the homes of my siblings, my father’s siblings, my cousins, and my father’s friends. It means that on a shabbat morning one of these individuals may take out their book and say “want to see pictures of your grandpa, my best friend, a man I admired?” It keeps his memory in our hearts and his stories alive in the homes and hearts of many now and in the future.

This year feels particularly emotional when I think of my father not being here. He has two grandchildren arriving this year, both Michelle and I are expecting. Michelle is due on Dad’s Yahrzeit, something both so special and so hard.

It was hard for both of us to imagine starting a family and knowing our kiddos would not get to meet their grandpa in person. However, creating that book last year showed me there are hundreds of people ready and willing to share their memories of our father. Hundreds of people who by loving and being loved by our father will also show that love to our children and try to be some form of grandfather for them -- to honor our Dad. 

Samuel Rosenberg, Z’’L touched so many people’s lives in his short 59 years on Earth and his memory and his goodness is ever present in all our lives. 

Since his passing, three children have been named for him. Three beautiful little people will ask their parents about their namesake and be told about the great man’s legacy they carry. I love seeing my niece Samantha (for a million reasons obviously) but particularly when I say  “Sammy” I picture the warm way my father’s older siblings would say his name. I always loved that his older siblings called him Sammy but that Uncle Michael said “Sam,” with some sweet deference and admiration there for his older brother. Admiration for my father was not felt by his younger brother alone. Everyone who knew my father knew he was a great man. 

When I look over the stories or think about his legacy he was so much. He was a beautiful and kind husband, a fun and forgiving parent, the most loving and creative grandpa, an honest and giving attorney, a loyal and loving brother,  a unique and special friend, and much more. My father loved to repeat something his older brother would say “the best thing you can do for your children is to love their mother”. And boy did he love my mom. He thought she was the cutest person. He loved every little quirk and patiently (for a not very patient man) would walk anywhere with her, at a pace that defied human momentum; seriously, how do you get anywhere walking that slow? My parents really set a high bar when it came to love. They had their things they disagreed about but their love was storybook. My Aunt Lee said to my mom in the hospital (I paraphrase) “you two were the model of what love should be.” That love really guided my choice when I met Eitan and every day I remember to appreciate and honor my marriage. Eitan is different from my father, but in a lot of important ways they are alike, and our love and marriage is modeled after the honest and deep love and commitment I saw between my parents (and continue to see modeled by his parents as well). 

This year as I reflect on the relationships my father had, I think about my own as well. It's a hard and scary time in our world and I think about what it would be like if he was here. Thank God Eitan and I have decided we are going to drive to the East Coast and see family. Like my father, we hold no value higher than the value of family. 

Michelle and I are the first of my siblings to conceive a child after my father passed. My father knew sweet Meg was pregnant before he died and the joy of that baby to come and baby Yoav helped him throughout his treatment, giving solace and comfort in his pain. I can’t imagine not being there after Michelle gives birth. We have really been on this journey together and this beautiful baby is another sweet reminder of our father’s legacy.  

The pain of not being with family these past five months has been really overwhelming. I know my father would be proud of our commitment to make it work. I also know he would be proud of the thoughtfulness in how we are going. He would be pleased we are both thinking of our own safety, how to protect ourselves and our precious little one, but also proud of the steps we are taking to not potentially, unknowingly spread Covid or infect others. It will be so hard to social distance from some of the people we will be seeing but it will be worth it to drive 12 hours to even see family and stand 6 feet apart. My father (and my mother) would be happy just to look at us, or just watch their grandchildren play, and I now really understand that sentiment. I am excited to just see my Sammy (and all my niblings) and say her name and think of my Dad. I am also so excited to hold Michelle’s child and eventually my own, and remember that even after my father’s passing his legacy and his name will live on through these precious little people. 

To honor the day, this year Eitan and I will attend an outdoor service - social distancing and wearing masks. I will get to say Kaddish with a Minyan and then we will go to the Kosher BBQ place, get takeout, and eat some delicious meat that my father would have loved. We will continue to be in our bubble of two (or 2 ½) missing our community, but knowing my father would be proud of our commitment to helping end this pandemic and playing our part in keeping others safe. 

Five years is a long time. A lot of life has and will happen since my father’s passing, but Thank God we can hold his memory and take him with us into each special moment in our lives. 

A Reflection on Privilege and a Personal Joyful Announcement amidst Collective Grief

An important reminder came this week when I read my friend Athina’s reflection in her recent Instagram post.  During graduate school, my cohort engaged in a challenging and tear-filled conversation. It was painful and it was important. My fellow classmates—primarily BIPOC (black, indigenous, people of color)—took the time to call us (white people) out and challenge us to do the work to reflect on our inherent privilege, to learn the history of our country, and to question our biases. A moment Athina remembered and reflected, that I had forgotten, was when one of our classmates, Heather told us, (and I paraphrase): “White people- speak up.  Share your opinion. Don’t be silent because you are afraid of saying the wrong thing. And know you’ll probably get checked.”

The checking each other is the space of learning, it is the place where we as people get the opportunity to understand ourselves and others better and engage with the world with more kindness and grace. What a gift it is when someone takes the time to call out our behaviors, especially when our actions may feel to us innocuous– there are often subtle undertones of racism and privilege that we are unaware of.

The last four months have been a trying period in our country and in our world. It is rare that an issue hits and impacts an entire nation. We were instructed to stay indoors, shelter in place, and avoid gatherings. We were all touched by worry and concern for our bodies and the bodies of our family. One of my closest friends had Covid 19, thank God she had a full recovery and was able to heal at home. Many of my friends lost their jobs, or saw their salaries cut, and I have been worried constantly for the health of my mother and in-laws, as they are in the high risk category. I have worried for my friends and family who live alone, who have not touched and felt the warm embrace of another person for months, while I sleep each night cuddled against my favorite person. Yet all of my worries are still the worry of a privileged person. While impacting everyone in some way, the pandemic has not impacted evenly or fairly. On a personal level, I have sheltered in place in my comfortable home, with my favorite person, both of us still employed and able to do our work with only minor modifications. I have access to high speed internet, a smart phone that allows me to FaceTime and see my loved ones every day, and a car to conveniently take us to the grocery store—with the flexibility to go at off peak times to minimize risk and exposure.

The communities and people most impacted have experienced institutional, systemic disinvestment and inequitable treatment for generations, fighting for their lives each and every day. The coronavirus has disproportionately taken the lives of more black and brown people. We know the advice disseminated by the CDC is through a white lens, as research so often is, and does not take into account the inhumane conditions and underlying fears of the Western medical system. https://features.propublica.org/chicago-first-deaths/covid-coronavirus-took-black-lives-first/.

People are dying. People are getting sick. People are experiencing anxiety, depression, and grief at enormous rates during the pandemic and recent demonstrations to call out anti-Blackness.

George Floyd was another victim of police brutality. He was murdered in front of witnesses who heard him cry out for help and those witnesses asked for the officer to stop. Another black man was murdered.

Our nation gave a collective outcry and many of the bravest organized and took to the streets to protest. Brave folks, despite the grave risk to their bodies, both from exposure to Covid 19 and the violent aggression of armed, militarized, “peace” officers.  Protesting not just the death George Floyd, but of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Atania Jefferson, Jonathan Ferrel, Raisha McBride, Stephon Clark, Jordan Edwards, Jordan Davis, Alton Sterling, Aiyana Jones, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Philander Castile, Eric Garner, and so many more. People flooded the streets to protest generations of police brutality, to call out the systemic racism that lays at the very foundations of our country (and our police force), to challenge how capitalism was built on the backs and labor of black folks and created to horde power and maintain the status quo.

I am aware I am a beneficiary and a contributor to the systems that exists. I, as a white woman, benefit from these systems and often play a part in keeping them alive.

Right now, during this season of increased awareness and public focused unrest, I am trying to figure out the part I can play to combat anti-blackness. Over the past five years I have been working hard to grow and change. To acknowledge my privilege and to grow as an ally. I make mistakes—and desperately ask to be called out and supported in my learning. I also acknowledge how unfair that is—and know that it puts more work on the communities already struggling and fighting. Therefore, I commit to doing independent work first:

Reading. Listening. Questioning.

I am afraid of the protest. I am scared to expose myself to Covid 19 and afraid of rubber bullets and tear gas. I assuage my fear by saying I am not going because I am pregnant, my happy announcement I have included in my title. It is a happy announcement. What a little piece of joy Eitan and I have been able to carry throughout our social distancing and now during this painful time. It is a happy secret, and now announcement, shared amidst pain.

However, my calculus to stay inside to stay protected is a privilege too. I have a job I can do from home, so I don't have to decide between employment, paying my bills, and protecting my little pomegranate from illness.

My calculus to stay away from the protest is also a privilege. I said to Eitan “I am sure a black pregnant woman would stay indoors too.” This is when he called me out. The black mother-to-be has to weigh the risks of their fetus being harmed by exposure to a virus or being hit by a rubber-bullet, or in the case of  Saraneka “Nemo” Martin, an actual bullet shot into a peaceful protest in Austin Texas, (link for her GoFUNDme at end of post), against what happens to their child if the world doesn't change, if systemic oppression continues and their child is arrested and then murdered for being accused of using counterfeit money, or looking strangely at a white woman, or reaching for their wallet, or going for a run.  For being. 

My privilege allows me to stay indoors and watch from my window rather than participate on the ground. I will stand by my decision because I want to protect our precious baby, this little person growing who I have waited 10 months to conceive, and that is okay. It is okay for me to stay protected. But I have to own that it is a privilege, that I am more afraid for my child now than I will be after they are born because they will be white—and therefore protected.

And I still want to do something.

Thank God, my job grants me the privilege to provide therapy and support. In my role as a therapist I have been given the gift to speak with and provide support and healing to some of the brave souls on the front lines. I am grateful for this privilege but also so tired, so sad, so drained. I also know that to do my job, I have to take care of myself. I have to watch stupid TV, or take a walk, or do yoga, so that I can go into session able to be present with my clients, able to make them the center, and acknowledge their experience and pain, not my own. I know that I can feel both of these feelings in parallel-- that my work is important, than I can be a support to my clients, and that I need to prioritize self-care during my downtime. And it feels selfish. 

Right now, my role as therapist is sometimes to remind clients to stay hydrated, to not forget to eat. Many of my clients are experiencing grief and when we are grieving we often forget to take care of our basic needs. It has been extremely hard, as a social worker, knowing that trauma processing and personal reflection – often the work of therapy, cannot happen if basic needs are not met. And yet, for my Black clients, bodily safety is never guaranteed and particularly threatened right now.

The job of a therapist is sometimes to simply bear witness. Much of my time, both as a result of Covid 19 and during our collective grief about recent murders, has been to bear witness. Sometimes I speak, but often I just listen and sit with clients in their pain and hold their feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and rage. Sometimes all we can give to people we love, and yes I truly love my clients, is our open hearts and a holding space for pain.

In addition to my job:

I am donating to causes that support black-owned business and help relieve bail fees for protesters. I am sharing articles and causes that have challenged me to use a critical lens. I am taking time to learn which will be a lifelong process.

And I know I am not done learning. I may have said ignorant things in this post so call me out. By calling me out, I believe it will help me to grow and more broadly help us to change. That is how we change. I write this post as much for myself as I do for others who may need to read it, and I acknowledge that. I thank you for reading. I hope by reading this post it can change your perspective in some way or inspire you to look inward and learn about yourself. Join me in this journey of learning!

Thank you to Athina, Heather and my entire cohort at SSA for reminding me that I cannot stay silent and by not doing so, I may fumble and may say the wrong thing throughout the learning process. I will try to do better next time.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/20ty421zyo?sharetype=teams&member=4526616&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter&utm_campaign=p_na+share-sheet&pc_code=tw_co_dashboard_a&rcid=5d2c5afbbeaa44cc83d8b642988f3760

Vulnerability and its surprising consequences

The last 9 months have been painful and long.

I have felt sadness that is completely new and different to me. 

I have had a lot of intense and painful experiences in my life, but the fear and anxiety that comes with trying to conceive is brand-new. Feeling out of control and unsure of whether I will one day be a mom hurts in a way that is deep, that holds my heart in this state of heaviness, that slows my breathing and leaves me unsure of whats next. 

I want to share some of the experience - for my own wellness - because I process through writing and also because  if I can offer a modicum of support and a moment of healing for someone else going through it, or how I think it is better described, who is in it, my writing is worth it. 

I have learned a lot about myself, my relationship with my partner, and a lot about different people in my life who I am close with. 

I chose to be open about "trying". One, because I just don't think wanting to start a family and having a hard time conceiving should be a secret, but two, because most of the people I shared with kind of knew anyway. I've been married for 3.5 years, I am 29, my husband and I both have good jobs and we are both obsessed with kids and have always wanted to be parents. 

What I have learned from my openness and vulnerability is that I have some amazing and compassionate and thoughtful people in my life. I have people who have been there for me in various quiet and not so quiet ways. I have friends who notice my sadness when I reach for a glass of wine, disappointed that while I love a rose with dinner, I would rather be abstaining. I have had friends notice and compliment my strength, friends hug me when I cry, or hear me out when I am disappointed and sad. Friends who kindly ask, "how can I help?"

These same friends recognize that my emotions are complicated - that I am completely happy for the life they have and absolutely in love with their babies, but that some days I want to hold and snuggle their children, and other days I want to chat about politics or work and focus on being adults or engaging civically and do anything but hold their adorable, snuggly kid, because I am just not up for it. 

They don't make me feel judged or wrong for my emotions, but embrace me and embrace the feelings and sit in discomfort.

But I have also had people in my life who have seen my vulnerability and rejected it, or judged it. 

I have been surprised by the people in my life who have made me feel that being open about my experiences, my wants, my vulnerability is some how bad. People who have made me feel broken because I am sad. Who have made the choice to cut me out rather than bring me in when I am sad, who have ran from my hard feelings, rather than acknowledge or hold them. Or simply assume that I am one way rather than multifaceted. People who make me feel that by sharing I am sad I am also begrudging or denying their right to be lucky and to feel complete. People who are not patient enough with complicated feelings and so chose to isolate me because they don’t trust me to joyful about their lives while also struggling with the place I am in mine. Perhaps the assumption and isolation is the cruelest and most painful response of all. Yes, I still want to hear about your pregnancy, or your kids, or your anxiety - just be sensitive about when and how. 

And I have also had people just say the wrong fucking thing: 

Sometimes the wrong thing is not their fault and just based on my values or beliefs or simply something I couldn't hear at the time. However, sometimes people say things that are so tone deaf and insensitive I hope and pray that I can let go and forgive because I do not want to be angry.

Below are some examples - read this list to find a way to support other people, not to look for yourself or to confirm you did not say something on the list. Its okay if you have said the wrong thing, try not to next time, or to the next person. Its okay that I was vulnerable and it was hard for you to hold, but take this moment to learn. Read this list to grow and maybe find a way to let me, or your friend, or you sister, or brother know that you are sorry. 

B'sha Tovar (at the right time) a very common Jewish statement and something that brings comfort to my spouse, so I don't reject it as wrong but I reject it as wrong for me. 

Because the right time was when we began trying - 9 months ago (or maybe sooner). We waited until our marriage was strong and stable, our finances settled and we had money in the bank. We are both emotionally mature and kind. My partner is amazing with babies and I am ready, absolutely ready to be a mom. So in the right time, it passed, so "Bsha Tovah" just cannot bring me comfort. 

It will be your turn soon - nice try - but tell me when... 

It hasn’t been that long. 

Its true - 9 months is not considered abnormal, but its still a painfully long time, especially when you don’t know how much longer it will be. 

I know I am privileged that 9 months is a long time to wait for something I want. But it hurts. 

Or the stories about people who stopped trying and then it happened… They didn’t stop trying - they were having sex still and probably hoping each time that they would get pregnant.. they just didn’t expect it anymore. 

But the worse has been the (benefit of the doubt: unintentional) judgement: 

Do you think there is an issue with your cycle?

Or if not that, can it be your partners fault? 

- there is no fault...

Are you eating the right food? Are you eating enough? 

Are you exercising enough? Are you exercising too much? 

Try not to be stressed out, its not helping. 

- of course I go there - with the self-loathing and judgement - but really? No one, unless you are my doctor or I asked, should try to come up with a reason someone else isn't conceiving... EVER! 

Are you having enough sex? Thanks Mom - that one actually made me laugh... Yes Mom, we know how babies are made. 

This process sucks, if you are in it be kind to yourself. Its okay that you are sad and angry and confused. You are not alone.

If someone tells you they are having a hard time: be thoughtful, considerate and kind to other people. THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK!! but most importantly, if someone shares with you they are struggling, they are wanting something that they cannot control, be kind, be appreciative of their strength in being vulnerable, and check in with them every once in awhile, let them know they didn't make a mistake when they shared with you, be worthy of their vulnerability. I regret some people I told and if I could do it again, there are people I wouldn’t tell again. But I am also proud I was strong enough to say I AM HAVING A HARD TIME and so grateful for the people who have been there, and so touched by the different ways people made me feel seen.

I know people will read this and see their words in some way. That is okay. I forgive you and I love you, thats why I asked you to be there for me. Please try again. 

Consent in Friendship

Something that comes up frequently for my clients and in my personal life is how friends engage in consent. I do not mean consent regarding sexual advance. Of course, that comes up regularly in my work, but I mean the expectations of friends (or even those friendlies) for emotional labor. People's expectations are often inappropriate, unfair, and straight up non-consensual.

The clients I see are resilient and brave survivors of sexual violence. They have learned to cope with unimaginable pain and hardship. As a consequence of their trauma, many of my clients have become highly attuned to the emotional responses and needs of others.  My clients develop this emotional attunement as a tool to ensure their safety; by remaining conscious of and reactive to the emotional whims of those around them, they are more prepared to identify and preempt aggressive or uncomfortable situations. In addition to being a valuable defensive technique, this attunement leads many survivors to be thoughtful and giving caregivers.

What often happens, though, is that survivors identify so strongly with their caregiver identity that they feel unable to set boundaries or say no. This can lead to compassion-fatigue or emotional drain, loss of free time, and overburdening. On a more nefarious level, this can also result in people taking advantage of my clients, making inappropriate or unsafe demands, and in the worst cases re-traumatizing them through coercive or violent acts.

This struggle occurs for most people who identify as, or simply present as, caregivers. For people who are naturally attuned to the needs of others or are empaths by nature, the instinct and desire to give can be a true gift. But it can also be a burden. People often take advantage of or demand of the people in their life who are natural givers in ways that is both inappropriate and unfair—and non-consensual.

I myself struggle with this. I am a trained therapist. I listen, empathize and support others for a living. This is the greatest honor and privilege of my life. I also enjoy connecting and being there for people on a personal level. It is a wonderful thing that my profession allows me to connect with and support people, but I am also happy to do it for free and love being available to my friends, family, and, most importantly, my partner. However, particularly because I do it for work, I cannot always be “on” in my personal life. And even if I worked in a different field—NO ONE can be “on” all the time. 

Therefore, we need to be asking for consent. We need to be checking in with friends before we ask of them, or consider and think about how and what we are asking. We should consider the context and the person's ability to meet our needs when we ask, and the burden or toll it may have on them to meet our request. This does not mean we should not count on our friends for support—especially the friends who are caregivers by nature. Caregivers like to help, it is part of who they are, and they are good at it. However, they also struggle with saying “no” or setting boundaries.

Consequently, it is often the responsibility of the one seeking support to consider what they are asking for, how they are asking, and what the impact on the supporter may be. Do you need to talk about your struggles at that moment, is the person in a safe place (physically and emotionally) to be there for you, etc. By considering these questions at the outset, you can help ensure a sustainable, productive, and consensual, system of peer support.

Some tips:

1.       Think about your need: is it an emergency?

a.       If it is an emergency and you need support – say that and ask for it.

b.       Consent and the way we engage in emergency situation is different.

2.       Now, if it’s not an emergency:

a.       Ask—is this a good time?

b.       Check in with the person—ask permission to vent. It is as simple as saying to someone: Are you free right now and would it be okay if I called you to vent, or is there another time that would be better?

c.       Think about what is going on for that person; do you know if they are going through something?

                                                               i.      Are they up for it?

                                                             ii.      Is what you are sharing something that could further upset what they are experiencing?

3.       How might they feel if they have to say “no”

a.       Are you ensuring that they won’t feel like they let you down?

b.       If they say no in this instance will it challenge their perception of themselves?

4.       Have multiple resources and spread the support—no one person can be everything for anyone.

a.       Even the most giving friend or partner has their limit.

b.       You know what I will say: some things are simply meant for your THERAPIST.

11 months have passed

Saying Kaddish every day for 11 months was extremely hard. It was hard to go and do it and it was hard when I couldn't and I missed it

I am relieved that this stage of mourning is over, although a year has not passed and in every other way I am still in official mourning according to Jewish tradition--and will be in personal mourning I am sure for some time.

But I am also doing much better. To honor my father's memory and officially conclude 11 months of saying Kaddish I organized a service at my apartment for Friday night. I had 16 friends over and I led the Mincha service in my father's honor. We then had a musical Kabalat Shabbat that my father would have loved and Eitan led Maariv--for the first time since his Bar Mitzvah.

It was really beautiful and a meaningful way to conclude this stage.

Below is the short speech I gave after Mincha.

My siblings and I talk about how eloquent of a storyteller my father was and how he was able to help us to know the family we never got to meet in intimate and beautiful ways.

My father lost his own father when he was just a little older than I am now, and that same year, one of his best friends - my mother’s brother.  Through my father’s stories I felt I knew these two men and learned from them - without ever meeting them.

My father would talk about his childhood and make it come to life for us. My cousins all loved speaking with my father and hearing about their own fathers. He was so adept at connecting with people and helping them connect to their own stories or find their own stories.

I myself am not a storyteller- but what I am is a feeler - I feel very deeply and I hope by sharing my feelings with you I can provide insight into who my father was.

I always felt special and important - because my father made sure to make me feel that way. If I was learning something he didn’t know he would learn it too - so he could understand it and support it. My father did not grow up observant and for his own Bar Mitzvah he just memorized the service - but for my brother’s Bar Mitzvah he learned the trope so he could help him practice and then he read from the Torah for the first time that year as well. When I joined the volleyball team he learned to play volleyball, when I was learning Navi in school - he read the entire Navi that year. He was always learning and engaging in the things that interested us and therefore interested him.

My father was also very competitive but not just at things he was good at- he would learn it and become good at it. My sisters and I are ridiculously good at SET - it's a card game. My father was not that good at it --- at first, but then he spent time playing on his own so he could compete with us - ties still “always go to the father.” but he was good enough to play with us. He also was a good sport - he taught us how to compete but then how to win and lose graciously.

My father did not go to Jewish day school but he was always thirsting to learn more and in his honor I thought I would share some simple words of Torah.

The tradition of saying Kaddish began after the tradition for male mourners to lead a service. The leading of a service was a way to honor one’s parent after their passing and it is encouraged that even for someone who does not know how to lead to learn to lead during the year of mourning. The Kaddish Yatom was began for younger sons and daughters who were not yet Bar Mitzvahed to have an outlet and a way to connect with their parent. I have felt connected to Kaddish this year for this reason but because my father was a lifelong learner I wanted to learn and do something new in his honor. I have a led a service once before but this was my first time leading mincha. I am honored you all came and appreciate your presence.

I am so thankful when I look around and recognize that most of the people here are people I met this year. You all chose to be my friend during the most painful and challenging time in my life. During a time when my social skills have been minimal or non-existent - when my emotions are always at the tipping point. I have seen myself become angry when I had no reason or right or sad when it is uncomfortable or hard and the people here have sat with that and accepted it.

I appreciate and thank those of you here who have been my friend before my father passed of course as well - those of you who knew the connection I had with him and have supported and understood my grief in unique ways.

I thank my Eitan. I have never formally thanked Eitan in public and he completely deserves public recognition. Eitan has endured and supported a lot this year. He has held me while I cried so hard it was hard to breath, he understood and ignored anger from me that was unprovoked and undeserving, he helped me succeed in graduate school by reading my papers when I felt I just could not think anymore, made my lunches when I was extra busy and made most of our shabbat meals this year.

I also never formally thanked my Eitan for how he supported and understood my family. During shiva Eitan must have taken out the garbage at least ten times each day, brought my mother and my siblings and I water every hour - just to make sure we were drinking enough, and was there when he needed and wanted him and away when we needed to just be us. He lifted me up this year and has been patient while I have healed. He reminds me of my father - who my mother said never got to fully mourn the loss of his best friend because he held her while she mourned her brother.

I will always look back and hate this past year and a half -- I will think of it as the year my father got sick without warning and for no reason and as the year I had to learn to be an adult without the support of my father. But I will also look back and love and appreciate this year - I got engaged this year to the love my life and I got a new niece and nephew and  I met all of you and for that I am so thankful.

Shabbat Shalom