Tag Archives: writing

Remembering and Healing: Lessons from a New Year Reflection

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I am struggling a little with the juxtaposition of today.

I am finding it difficult to be wishing people Shanah Tovah, a good and sweet new year, while at the same time remembering that 25 years ago today, our world changed in the most horrific way.

I remember the fear, the heartbreak, the disbelief, and the tremendous loss. But I also remember what happened in the days afterward. People showed up for one another. We checked on each other. We grieved for people we didn’t know. For a moment, there was a sense that whatever our differences, we belonged to one another.

Twenty-five years later, it is hard not to look around and wonder how we have gotten so far away from that.

We are angry. We are divided. We are quick to judge and slow to listen. We decide whose pain deserves our compassion. We sometimes see someone’s politics, religion, beliefs, or identity before we see the person.

And I say “we” intentionally, because I am part of the we.

Yesterday at work, we were asked to share a hope for ourselves as we enter the new year. I talked about wanting to find the balance between jumping in to get things done, which is very much who I am, and giving myself the space to listen, learn, be present, and appreciate the people and moments around me. To be more intentional about where I put my time, energy, and attention.

I’ve had more time to sit with that question, and I realize there is something else I want for myself this year: teshuvah.

It is easy to look at the world and see everything I wish other people would do differently. Teshuvah asks me to look at myself instead.

Am I listening enough? Am I too quick to judge? Can I disagree strongly and still see the person in front of me? Can I hold onto compassion even when it is difficult?

Teshuvah asks us to return. This year, I want to return to the person I hope to be. Not perfectly, but intentionally.

And today, before anything else, I remember.

May the memories of those we lost that day, and in the days and years since, be for a blessing. May we never forget the lives that were taken, the families forever changed, and all those who carried the physical and emotional consequences of that day long after September 11, 2001.

Perhaps one way I can honor those memories is through my own teshuvah. By remembering what I saw in people during those darkest days and asking more of myself now.

To slow down enough to listen.
To judge less quickly.
To choose kindness.
To see the person before the label.
To appreciate the people and moments in front of me.
To do better.
And to keep returning.

Yesterday, I had one answer for what I hope for myself in the new year. Today, with a little more time to think about it, I would add this:

May I become a little more of the person I hope to be.

Shanah Tovah. May the year ahead be one of remembrance, teshuvah, healing, compassion, and peace.

Purim 5786 (2026)

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I am not shocked anymore.
I am not even angry in the way I once was.
I am tired. Tired of watching harm unfold in slow motion.
Tired of waiting for systems to catch up to truth.
Tired of knowing that exposure does not equal repair.

I have always known better than to think that once the truth was visible, everything would change.
I knew it 29 years ago when I chose not to speak out.
And it has been confirmed by countless similar stories since.

I guess I just hoped this time it would be different. That something would shift.
That post #MeToo, post Larry Nassar, post Matt Lauer… this time, exposure would mean reckoning.
That documentation would mean protection.
That naming harm would mean it would stop.

Instead, it has reaffirmed that the system moves slowly, and sometimes not at all.
That power protects itself.
That victims…survivors age while investigations linger.
That healing is private work, even when harm was public.

After 29 years, my private work of healing continues.
And my prayers for the victims whose stories are still being unraveled in courtrooms, news cycles, and whispered conversations feel heavier than they once did.

Because I know what comes after the headlines.
I know the long quiet.
I know the anniversaries that pass while the world moves on.
I know the way people expect closure once the story has been told.

There is rarely closure.
There is survival.
There is therapy.
There are good days and hard ones.
There is the slow rebuilding of trust in a world that has shown you how fragile it can be.

I do not write this in outrage; I write from exhaustion…
I write it in recognition.

Recognition of the young women and men who were told to wait.
Recognition of the ones who were told it was “complicated.”
Recognition of the ones who are still watching powerful men age comfortably while they are left to carry what was done to them.

I am not shocked anymore.
I am not even angry in the way I once was.
I am tired.
But I am also clear.

Clear that exposure is not the same as repair.
Clear that justice, when it comes, is often partial.
Clear that healing is not delivered because a file is released.

It arrives slowly.
In private.
In the quiet work no one sees.

And that work, after 29 years, continues.

Knees up? No – WANDS UP!

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A few weeks ago, I lost my dear friend, colleague, mentor, and true warrior, Cheryl Kravitz.

I met Cheryl in early 2008. We met at an IFCADV (Interfaith Communities Against Domestic Violence) board meeting where she and I served as directors. We were like high school girls sitting in the back of the classroom, about to get in trouble for passing notes and giggling, even while talking about the difficult realities facing victims of domestic abuse in local faith communities.

There we were: me, a 30-something mom of four kids, seven and under… and her, a mom of an adult daughter, a teenage daughter, a doting grandmother of two (who were similar in age to my children), and a loving wife to an incredibly supportive husband… AND
A survivor of a violent and abusive marriage (in her own words).

What did we have in common?

  • Our passion for the mission.
  • Our respect for religious and cultural differences.
  • Our shared Jewish heritage.
  • Our complete inability to sugarcoat anything.
  • Our love of calling out BS.

But most importantly, our belief that we could make a difference, while still finding joy, friendship, and love along the way.

Cheryl moved quickly from colleague… to board member… to volunteer… to confidant… to mentor… and most importantly, dear friend and sister-in-joy.

When she passed, I read and heard so many beautiful tributes, ones I know I can’t hold a candle to…honoring her work in the civil rights movement, the American Red Cross, IPV (Intimate Partner Violence), her deep devotion to her family, her passion for music, her love of yoga, and her affection for her WANDS UP FOR CHERYL band of warriors.

(Just Google Wands up for Cheryl!)

Ring of Comfort – How not to say the wrong thing

And I kept asking myself:
What can I share?
What do I have a right to share about my grief, my loss of Cheryl?

Then Saturday, as I was walking into shul (synagogue), I noticed my boots were a bit dirty, because the last time I wore them was to Cheryl’s funeral, where my heels literally dug into the earth (poor choice of shoes). I thought to myself: this is exactly the kind of thing I would have texted Cheryl about. She would’ve laughed, and I would’ve laughed, and it would’ve been one of those small moments that somehow made everything feel lighter.

It made me smile. Like, a real ear-to-ear grin.

You Can Do Magic

Fast forward a few hours into services: my shoe broke.

I know it sounds nuts, but I’m in a dress with knee-high, four-inch-heel boots. Now you might be thinking, “Lis, heels break all the time.” True. Been there, done that.
Once actually at a program with Cheryl!

This time, the shoe broke in the front, like one of those Sesame Street shoes that flaps like a mouth when it’s talking.

I managed to make it through kiddush and lunch without it becoming a major production. But then I walked outside.

It was pouring.

The break got worse, and as I walked, the flap folded backward so the insole was basically landing right in the puddles. So I started walking in a way that kept the flap going forward, not just to keep it from breaking more, but because I was determined not to have rainwater soak through the bottom of my insole.

I know I looked ridiculous.

Right foot forward.
Left knee up. Carefully down.
Right foot forward.
Left knee up higher.
Flap back, foot in water.
Right foot forward.
Left knee even higher, flap thankfully the right way.

I was annoyed. And embarrassed.

And then, at the exact spot where I had thought of Cheryl on the way into shul, I felt Cheryl.

And all I could do was burst out laughing, with tears streaming down my face. I knew she was with me, laughing at me, and laughing with me at how absurd this whole thing was… and I still had a full block to go.

I love you and miss you, my friend.

Thank you for being a dugmah (an example), for me and for so many, in how to live life to the fullest, not to take ourselves so seriously, not to take anything or anyone for granted…and to always, always… show up for others.  

As I start a new job and a new chapter this week, I’ve picked up my phone to text you about it more times than I can count. You have been so supportive of me during this journey.

I hope I make you proud as we stand up for and support people and communities whose lives have been forever changed.

May your memory forever be a blessing to all who knew you and the countless lives you touched and SAVED through your words, work, and legacy….a legacy that will continue because of you.

Cheryl’s Smile at our Happy Place –
The Parkway Deli