I am sitting at my desk looking outside on this sunny, blue-sky day. It is September 11, 2026, and it is also Erev Rosh Hashanah, the eve of the Jewish New Year.
There is a lot of energy around me. The streets are busy. The stores are busy. There is construction happening in a neighboring apartment. And in the background, my television is broadcasting the 9/11 memorial service. I am listening as the names of the victims are read, one by one.
And I am taking a pause.
This year, Rosh Hashanah arrives at the same time as we remember September 11th. One is a time of renewal and beginning again; the other is a day of remembering something we can never forget. Somehow, for me, today they have become connected, not because they are the same, but because both invite me to stop and notice what really matters.
Rosh Hashanah is a time to look back at the year that has passed, where I have been, who I have been, and perhaps where I want to go next. Not to judge myself or list everything I need to fix, but simply to notice.
September 11th brings a different kind of reflection. Every year the memories return. The images, the stories, the disbelief. Living in New York, it is impossible not to feel the weight of that day.
And this year, thinking about both remembrance and renewal, I find myself reflecting on something much closer to home: the comfort of family and friends.
Here is where my mind goes, not to escape the enormity of my feelings but to make some sense of them. When I get interested in something, I go all in. Lately, for some reason, that something has been bath towels. Yes, towels! Reading reviews, comparing fabrics, ordering, returning, trying to find the right one. It turns out this is not as simple as it sounds: soft but absorbent, substantial but not so heavy it takes forever to dry, big enough to wrap myself in but not so enormous I disappear inside it.
Is there a metaphor here? Maybe what I am really looking for is the perfect amount of comfort. To be held, but not too tightly. To feel supported, but not smothered. To have enough, but not too much. To feel safe without feeling confined. I wonder if that's what a lot of us are quietly looking for.
As I get older, the things that bring me the greatest sense of security aren't the things I once thought they would be. It isn't having everything figured out. It's knowing who I can call. Sitting around a table with people I love. Laughing about something that isn't particularly funny to anyone else. A familiar voice, a hug, a shared history, people who remember who I was and still make room for who I am becoming.
There is so much uncertainty in life, and September 11th is one of the most powerful reminders of that. So today I'm just trying to notice the people beside me, and the ordinary moments that don't feel extraordinary until you realize how precious they are. No resolutions, just gratitude, for the people who surround us, the memories we carry, and the comfort of knowing we don't have to navigate any of it alone.
And if you're reading this today and feeling any of it, the weight, the reflection, the uncertainty, please know you're not navigating it alone either. I'm here. Whatever this day holds for you, whatever this year asks of you, my door is open. Reach out anytime.