March 20, 2026

I am listening to soothing music and gazing out my window at a leafless tree branch swaying gently in the breeze. My head is swirling with to-do lists and deadlines, and headlines of war and destruction. It’s less than two weeks until Pesach, and I am doing a poor job of focusing on work.

After seeing images of the synagogue in Michigan that was damaged on March 12 by an antisemitic attacker with murderous intent, the numbness that has protected me a little bit in recent months, really years, has cracked a little bit. And so, I am thinking back to the intense time following the massacre at Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life synagogue in October 2018. Those days moved slowly, with the interminable sirens of October 27 giving way to a strange quiet, and then the ubiquitous presence of news cameras and dignitaries in my neighborhood. It was surreal to turn on the national news and see my neighbors.

Halloween was just a few days after the attack, and in my hypervigilant state I felt my anxiety spike when I saw a young male walking near a busy intersection with a sword in his belt. It was a toy sword for his ninja costume. Later that evening I laughed at myself when I told a coworker about my brief moment of near panic. “It’s not normal to feel this way,” she said, suggesting I speak to one of the social workers in our organization.

The next day, one of the therapists made time in her schedule and welcomed me into her office. I sat in dimmed light and practiced breathing exercises with her. I felt some of the tension melt away, and she recommended walks in nature and gazing at the changing fall leaves to ground myself and calm my nervous system.

And so, here I am today, reminding myself to inhale and exhale, and gazing not at the brilliant foliage of October, but the leafless branches of March that are dotted with tiny buds that will spring to life in a few weeks. The cycle of life continues, and this brings me comfort.

History is also full of cycles. They are less predictable than the seasons, but they have distinct patterns, which are the source of concern, despair, and hope. 

The concern comes from the knowledge that conflict and war are like wildfires that rage beyond containment, taking unpredictable paths, wreaking absolute destruction in some places while others appear unscathed.

The world order has been disrupted, and the future is uncertain. Will my family members and friends in Israel who are sheltering from ballistic missile strikes emerge physically intact? How can they regulate their own nerves amidst the unrelenting attacks? Will public opinion of Jews in the United States, already threatened by greater acceptance of antisemitic rhetoric, sink to new lows? Will more Jewish people and places outside of Israel be attacked? (Sadly, we know the answer.)

I despair for the inevitable loss of innocent life that is part of any war. I think about the three teenage siblings who died from a ballistic missile strike a couple of weeks ago in Israel, as well as the Iranian girls who were killed at the onset of the war when a bomb struck their school. Both were deliberate attacks, though one was a mistake, meant to hit a military compound. Mistakes happen in war, it is true, but children are often the ones who suffer. My heart goes out to the bereaved parents as I shudder to think of their unspeakable loss.

So, in all this, what is the source of hope? I think often of the line in the Pesach Haggadah, which succinctly sums up much of Jewish history: “In each generation, they stand [against] us to destroy us, but the Holy One, blessed be He, rescues us from their hand.”

A few years ago this idea felt removed from my reality, but it is all too clear now that in this generation, as in the past, there are those who aim to destroy the Jews, and along with us, all of western civilization. It is frightening and awful, but we know from our history that these destructive movements, while often devastating in the moment, are ultimately unsuccessful.

Beyond my own religious tradition, I find hope from other struggles for peace and freedom. Oppressive dictatorships may last decades or even centuries but they ultimately end because there is an inherent human desire for freedom and self-determination. This was illustrated earlier this year by the thousands of Iranians who were slaughtered for bravely protesting the regime. 

There is a hope inside each of us that wants to transcend the constraints that lock us in. For months or years or even generations that hope may be a small flicker, but in the right circumstances it explodes. On a national scale, this may become a revolution. I fervently hope the Iranian people will rise up again when the time is right and when there is a viable path to their success without more devastating bloodshed.

In the meantime, I will continue finding solace in the rhythms of nature and history, knowing that bad times pass, however devastating they may be.