I've been thinking about something lately. I know I talk a lot about being trans. And some people who haven't known me very long might be wondering why. The truth is, as it stands today, if I didn't out myself, people most likely wouldn't know. When I meet a stranger, they see a guy. They don't question it. When we think about who we are, we didn't just arrive at the present. Who we are is every moment in our lives stacked up on top of each other to make up what we have become. Sometimes things change all at once. That's kinda what happened with me. Things changed so painfully slowly for so long, so slowly that I felt like nothing was changing at all, I felt like nothing would ever change, and then suddenly everything was different. A year ago I was stuck in two worlds. My family knew I was trans. My synagogue community knew I was trans. My friends knew I was trans. But, outside of that, I was being read as female almost all of the time. It was to the point that if someone else gendered me as male, it would make my whole week. I was learning Hebrew at the university. I had been on testosterone for a year at that point, but had only been on a couple of months when I first started. I remember the first day of class. I tried to look as masculine as I could. I was so anxious about it. It can be so nerve-wracking wondering if someone will gender you wrong, or, maybe to put it in a better way, when they will gender you wrong. Sometimes in English, if people aren't sure they might avoid using gendered pronouns altogether. That is quite impossible in Hebrew. Everything is gendered. And on that first day of class, my professor gendered me female. And I said nothing. I said nothing for a long time. I had a lot of feelings about it. I was embarrassed, I was uncomfortable, and I was scared. Most of all, I was scared. The fear was so great, sometimes it made me feel so small in comparison. At one point, a couple years earlier, I wasn't so afraid. I used to introduce myself with my pronouns, I used to correct people when they used the wrong ones. Nothing terrible happened. No one beat me up, no one threatened me. But there were people who laughed. They laughed at me, they refused to use my pronouns, and they made a point to let me know exactly how stupid they thought transgender identities were. I was never a "sticks and stones may break my bones" kinda guy. Words have always hurt me. I didn't tell my Hebrew class until I legally changed my gender. It's silly, but I felt like if I waited until it was legal, no one could tell me that I wasn't really a guy. They couldn't tell me I'd always be a girl. And if they tried, I could say, "Not according to the state of Minnesota." My professor was so kind and understanding. I had to miss class to go to court, and she told them on that day. I returned the next day, and my professor used different pronouns for me. I know someone who once told me he used to be overweight. Standing in front of me I only saw a thin person, as he said, "It stays with you, you know? I'll always feel like the fat kid, no matter what I look like." I sometimes feel that way about my gender. I got so used to being read as female, that even though it doesn't happen anymore, it's like I'm waiting for it to. It was maybe 10 months ago that I started getting read as male more than incidentally. And maybe 8 months ago that I started getting read as male regularly. When I started at HUC 6 months ago, I was getting read as male all the time. But it was still so new to me, I was still learning how to process it. It's easy to get in your head about the whole thing. I kept thinking, what will I inevitably do that will out me? I also wondered what this newfound privilege might do to me. Would it change me? Would I forget where I came from? Could I ever erase that little girl who made me the man I am today? Would I want to? Not every trans person gets the opportunity to hide that they're trans, or be "stealth" as they say in the trans community. Not everyone gets the privilege of walking down the street knowing strangers are going to read you the way you want them to. Some people need to be stealth, for work, for safety. I decided back before I "passed" as male, that if I ever did, I did not want to be stealth. I want to be open because some people don't get to make that decision. I want to be open because I don't want to forget where I've come from and what I've gone through. And I want to be open because I don't want to be afraid anymore, afraid of what people might say if they knew. I want to look that fear in the face and say, "I'm bigger than you. You will never make me feel small again."

I hate the term "brave space." I understand that no space can completely be a safe space, and most spaces in the world are not safe spaces, but I think that is exactly what the term is speaking to -- an understanding that most communities do not go out of their way to create an environment that is actively supportive. The term "safe space" is an acknowledgement that the world is not a safe place. Brave space puts the onus on the vulnerable person. It asks them to be brave and put themselves out there without knowing whether or not their courage will be accepted. It's asking vulnerable people to make themselves more vulnerable, without providing any support or encouragement for them to do so. It does this by shaming the concept that someone wouldn't feel safe in a certain space, and ignoring the validity of how silencing unsafe spaces can be. This does not help vulnerable people share their vulnerabilities. All this does is encourage those who already take up too much space to take up more space, and then allows them to pat themselves on the back for being "brave." Safe space puts the onus on the community. It acknowledges and understands that in most aspects of our lives, the vulnerable have no support. By creating an intentionally supportive environment, it encourages those who don't feel brave to still feel safe enough to come forward. I want to illustrate this point with a story. I have been in so many classes where professors have used cissexist language that has hurt me. This is language that indicates vagina=woman and penis=man. There have been times when I have tried to voice these concerns to professors, and was shot down. Because of that, I stopped voicing my concerns, and let myself feel hurt. I am currently in a class where the professor has voiced repeatedly that she wants us to come to her if we have any concerns at all, and she wants to be sensitive to our needs. We cover difficult topics in this class, and today we were talking about miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant death. Throughout the class, when referring to the person who gives birth, she regularly used the word "mother." Because she had established a culture of support and sensitivity, I felt like she might be able to hear me. I went to her after class and said, essentially, it hurts me to hear repeatedly that someone who gives birth is a mother, since I would like to give birth, and I will not be a mother. I then asked if she would be willing to try to use the term 'gestational parent' instead. She heard me and responded positively. She thanked me for coming to her, made a promise to try and change her language, and gave me permission to interrupt her if she makes a mistake. And then we had a wonderful conversation about the evolution of Jewish law as societies and cultures evolve, and how that tension between tradition and inclusion can actually be a very beautiful space to lean into and exercise Jewish values. I did feel nervous coming to her, and it was brave of me to do so, but I didn't go to her because I was brave. I went to her because she had created a safe space for me to do so. I had an expectation that I would be heard, and that she would be sensitive to my needs and concerns. She had created that supportive environment that signaled to me that my courage would not be in vain. It was such a positive and validating experience for me, and it reminded me of how important it is to put in the effort to create spaces that are safe for the vulnerable members of our communities. Yes, most of the "real world" is not a safe space -- and that is exactly why we need them.

The government's attempt to roll back trans healthcare protections is personal to me. Between 2014-2015, I spent an entire year trying to get access to hormones so I could begin medical transition. I was living in Orange County, California. I had health insurance. My health insurance included specialists, such as endocrinologists, which were the only doctors writing prescriptions for hormones at the time. However, neither my insurance nor I could find a single doctor in Orange County willing to discuss hormone treatment with me. Office after office I called, people either responded with laughter or disgust. So I tried in LA. Los Angeles was considered one of the largest, most liberal cities in America, and yet I could not find a single doctor that would take my insurance and write a prescription for hormones. I called Planned Parenthood. The receptionist literally laughed at me when I asked if they had someone who could write me a script. When I asked why they advertised trans healthcare if they don't provide hormone treatments, they responded, "because we will not turn you away from regular medical treatment just because you're trans." It was a sobering reminder that other places could legally let me bleed out and die. "Providing trans healthcare," to PP, meant an assurance that I would at least be seen as a human being. I would not be given the specific care I needed, but I would not be murdered, and this was radical enough for them to advertise. Think about that for a second. It used to be so commonplace for doctors to refuse ANY medical treatment to trans people, even life-saving treatment, that simply being willing to treat a trans person was worthy of advertisement. I ended up finding one place that would write me a prescription. It was in LA and I had to take off work for my appointment. The doctor showed up an hour and a half late. He misgendered me the whole time. He didn't take insurance, and the visit cost $150, and the hormones cost $150. If I wanted a regular prescription, I would have to repeat that process every other month -- taking a full day off work and spending $300. I couldn't afford that. I ended up moving to Minneapolis, partly because they offered trans healthcare there. I needed to live in a place where I had access to trans medical care, where I could use insurance for my medical care, and where I could trust the doctors to respect my identity. California is better now than it was when I left in 2015. They now offer trans healthcare, and I'm not experiencing the difficulty I did before. But I remember what it's like. To the gay people who think this is about you: when was the last time you were refused medical care? When was the last time you had to move states to get access to healthcare? I have a trans friend who has likened trans people to the canary in the coal mine -- which I think is a good metaphor. Once they start taking away protections for trans people, the most hated of the LGBTQ community, the LGBQ people are certainly next. But not yet. This does not remove protections for sexual orientation. It only removes protections for gender identity. This is specifically targeting trans people. I keep seeing headlines and posts saying, "Trump removes medical protections for LGBTQ people." This is not about the entire LGBTQ community, not yet. This is about the trans community. Trump is removing protections for trans people. Please don't erase us in this. Please call this what it is -- Trump trying to take protections away from trans people. Trans people have been refused medical care because they're trans. This would make it legal for a doctor to allow me to die in their care because their religion disagrees with my existence. This is going to result in real people dying. Most likely those people will be black trans women, the most vulnerable and attacked within the trans community. I remember what it feels like to have doctors laugh at you, tell you they won't treat you. I remember what it feels like to be told I should be grateful to receive any healthcare at all, because that is not a given for trans people. I remember what it feels like to pack up everything I own and leave, because healthcare is not seen as a right for trans people. Trans people are scared we're going to lose access to our medical care. We're scared we're not going to get hormones or surgeries or other trans-specific care. But we're also worried that we're going to get in a car accident, an EMT is going to find out we're trans, and they're going to make fun of us as we die in front of them. We're worried medical professionals will kill us through neglect, and it will be their legal right to do so. As a white transmasculine person, I'm among the more privileged members of the trans community. But I've already had to uproot my life because of healthcare. I know what it's like to not have access to healthcare, to have doctors refuse to treat you. This is serious. And it is specifically trans-antagonistic. This is attempted murder of trans people. Please, help us.

Anyone who has been in love knows how otherworldly the feeling is: the out-of-body feeling of weightlessness, the in-the-body feeling of groundedness. For so many, love is the most natural thing in the world. But for others, to experience love feels like a direct contradiction of nature. You might have seen people say that queer love is revolutionary. In a society constructed to set up cisgender men with cisgender women, to deviate from expected pairings is to create new pathways of love. For many queer people, creating these new pathways is new and takes more effort than their heterosexual counterparts. But the air is ripe with possibility. When I saw myself as a cisgender queer person, I too felt like the possibility to pave my own love path was within my grasp. It was not inconceivable that someone would love me. While I knew that it would not be easy, that it would take time to find someone and it would take compromises within the relationship, I didn't doubt that it was a possibility. Things changed when I came out as trans. It seemed like even in my small queer pool, all of my prospects for partners vanished. The queer people I had been in community with previously now saw me as a member of a different queer community, one that did not involve them or their love. Their newfound refusal of me was a "preference" that I needed to respect. Even as a bisexual person, my options felt pessimistically low: straight cisgender women wanted straight cisgender men, queer cisgender women felt weird about our relationship appearing heterosexual to strangers, and gay cisgender men did not consider me a viable option because of my anatomy. While I'd heard of straight cis women or gay cis men dating trans people, I had never personally met one. Even the bisexual people I met tended to be afraid or at least apprehensive about dating a trans person. So I mostly dated other trans people. Trans people are somewhere between 1-3% of the population. Not only was my dating pool so small, but within that small sliver of the population, I still had to find someone that liked me, and would accept me as a religious Reform Jew. I tried for many years to meet someone. I was active on dating sites, I was serious about meeting new people, I read books and articles about how to meet the one. I went on a LOT of first dates. People either had problems with my gender, my politics, or my religion. I couldn't catch a break. Then I found someone who was accepting of my gender, my politics, and my religion. After trying to find someone for 5 years, I decided that this was good enough. Being accepted was enough, since society had told me no one would accept me. Years of seeing first hand how no one wanted to date me made me desperate. I had to have a serious consideration: is it better to be with someone you don't love, or to be alone forever? For a while I thought the former. And I was in an unhappy relationship. I needed to come to the realization that I would rather be alone forever than to be in a relationship with someone I didn't love. I developed the self love necessary to accept that I shouldn't be punished for society not accepting me. I shouldn't have to settle for less because society says I'm undesirable. I shouldn't settle for stability just because society has said happily ever after doesn't include people like me. I broke up with the person I was dating, and I focused on loving myself. When Ze'evi came into my life, ze entered as a friend. I told zem a bit about my struggles as a trans person dating, and although ze wasn't out as trans yet, ze understood me. Ze had tried to come out, but was discouraged from living zer truth by a partner who was scared of what that would mean for them. Trans people everywhere, closeted or out, are being told that our identities are difficult for those closest to us. We get it of course from family, friends, and co-workers, but we also get it from partners. How our identities might affect them, or be difficult for them. About how they never saw themself with a trans person, and are unwilling to adjust. How they never asked for a trans partner, and therefore all the difficulties that come with being trans should be suppressed for the benefit of the partner. How the partner is making a sacrifice just by being with a trans person, and so the trans person should bend over backwards to make it easier for their cis partner. I was done with feeling lesser than, I was done with feeling like I should be grateful for a neutral experience, I was done feeling like otherworldly love doesn't happen for people like me. If I couldn't get that feeling from someone else, I was gonna give it to myself. Ze'evi and I have said to each other that us finding each other and falling in love was nothing short of a miracle. Yes, people find each other and fall in love all the time. But for most of those people, the odds are not against them. Queer people have it harder than straight people, but with dating apps, clubs, and a growing queer community, as a cis queer person, I never felt like it was impossible to meet people. As a trans person, I had to resign myself to the possibility that I would be alone forever. Ze'evi had resigned to the possibility that ze would never come out, because ze wasn't sure ze would ever have a partner who would accept zem. We found that in each other first as friends. To have that COMPLETE acceptance: I see you, I acknowledge you, and I accept you for all that you are; to have that complete acceptance, beyond just your identity but encompassing your whole soul, to have that complete acceptance is that same feeling of weightlessness combined with the most stabilizing groundedness. It is exponentially expansive. It is like a sudden wind filling your soul balloon to capacity, and finally being aware of how large your soul could swell. Never again will you feel tiny or small, with this expansive soul energized and enlargened by acceptance. Queer love may be revolutionary, but trans love is miraculous. In a world that tells us we are lucky to be alive, we have elevated each other to move beyond our gratitude for existing in a hostile world. We can strip away the prejudices and expectations, and sit with each other in our own sincerity, and connect as humans. I don't know that everyone will find this. But I want to say, if any trans person reading this has felt like they had to settle for someone just because that person accepts your trans status: you are so much more than your trans identity. Others may not have even accepted that, but you deserve to be accepted as a whole human. If someone can accept your identity but not accept your soul, and you accept that, what are you telling yourself about your own worth? And to the cis people reading this, who might have preferences of your own, how does it make you feel to see that accomplished, kind, intelligent people feel utterly unlovable because their identity deems them undatable to most people? How can you say people like me deserve to be loved, if you yourself wouldn't be willing to give us a chance? Until society changes, many trans people are going to be alone, and most cis people won't understand the loneliness and self-hatred that often comes with being told you're not what someone is looking for over, and over, and over, and over... But as we push society forward, and more trans people find solace in each other, let it be declared with pride and purpose: trans love is miraculous.

Shanah tovah umetukah lekulam! A good and sweet new year for everyone. When I was younger, I thought of teshuva in the traditional sense -- atonement, repentance, preferably with some form of self-flagellation. When I started learning more, especially learning Mussar, it became clear to me why we use a word meaning "return" for our concept of "repentance." Each of us has within us a pureness, a brightness, a goodness that cannot be corrupted. Over time, as we experience hardships, as we are faced with difficult decisions and behave in ways that do not align with our values, clouds form over our light. But the light itself is not changed, just hidden and obscured. Behind the clouds our light cannot shine on others, and when it is hidden enough, sometimes we ourselves can't feel its warmth anymore. But every year we are reminded of who we are at our core. We are good, pure people who have made mistakes. We've missed the mark. We've acted in ways that do not represent us. Our behaviors have not matched who we are. We need to spend some time on ourselves to clear out our clouds, to feel the warmth of our own light, and to share its brilliance with others. Teshuva is not about being a bad person. It's the opposite of that. Teshuva is about being a good person who has not always behaved that way. Teshuva requires self-love, it requires the understanding that we are at our core good, pure, valid, and deserving of love and forgiveness. It is an understanding that good people can do bad things, and the best way to prevent transgressions in the future is to return to our goodness, return to the parts of ourselves we ignored when we made bad choices, return to our light to focus our energy to grow our ability to heal and limit our likelihood to cause pain. I hope we all have a moment in these days of awe to experience awe in ourselves, in each other, in our collective goodness, and in the sparks of light we produce amidst the darkness. To a happy, healthy, and bright new year.

It has been a year now since the antisemitic massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news: on the subway train in NYC, sitting next to my partner, first responding with utter shock and showing them my phone, and then the both of us trying not to cry on a train full of strangers. We got off the train and cried in the street, the cold air stinging the tear stains on our cheeks. “Why do they hate us?” we asked each other. “Why do they continue to hate us?” On the one hand, this feels entirely new. On the other, it feels as old as our people. And then my partner asked me, “Do you think we should cover our kippot? Is it safe?” This was the question many of our ancestors had to ask themselves. In our country and the old ones, our people felt like they had to choose: civil rights, or Judaism. Jews were welcomed into civil society, so long as they didn’t look or act Jewish: so we assimilated. While the Reform Movement was at the forefront of assimilation efforts, we had been emerging from centuries of oppression, including forced conversions, ghettoization, mass murder, and barred from citizenship or legal status as humans. When the rest of the world got their citizenship and civil rights, the Jews were excluded, seen as a separate class of people. “How could someone both be French and a Jew?” they would ask. Since Jews are of the nation of Israel, they were not allowed to be members of the nations in which they lived. For some countries, such as Russia, Jews did not gain citizenship until the twentieth century, over one hundred years after the birth of Reform Judaism. We thought that our oppression lay in the fact that we were separate from society – we were in segregated communities, we wore different clothes, we spoke different languages, our religious practices were different, and our cultures were different too. They thought that if the other nations could see us as being like them, then they would cease to hate us. Clearly, this has not been the case. Antisemitism had not even been coined at that time – back then it was just called Jew hatred. Jew hatred would continue to evolve and find new forms, even as we did our best to make ourselves likable. I think the Reform Movement has done many things right – I think the push to modernize Judaism was and remains a good idea – but assimilation has not protected us, and it has removed many people from their Jewish identity markers. Many Jews feel safer living in a world that cannot tell they are Jewish. I wear a kippah because I want to be visibly Jewish. Sometimes this means Uber drivers ask me weird questions like, “How much of Judaism is about Jesus?” and, “Is it true all Jews are rich?” Sometimes it means people pass me on the street and yell, “SHALOM!” and I have no idea if they meant it offensively or not. Sometimes it means a new person I meet immediately asks me about Israel, even though no one brought it up. But sometimes it means when I’m in public and a stranger does something incredibly rude to me, I refrain from acting rashly out of anger or spite, because I know I would be giving the entire Jewish people a bad name to do so as a visible Jew. And sometimes it means a stranger in the elevator on a Friday afternoon says to me, “Shabbat shalom. Where do you go to synagogue?” When my partner asked me, “Do you think we should cover our kippot? Is it safe?” I remember how I responded: “I don’t know if it’s safe. But we shouldn’t cover our kippot. We can’t let them make us hide who we are.

Happy #InternationalWomensDay! I love this Miriam's cup I made with Congregation Or Ami 's family education program Menschify! We all made Miriam's cups with images of women from the Bible, from history, and from our own lives. I know when I approached International Women's Day as an educator, I was concerned about two potential problems: playing into the gender binary, or showing only one way to be a woman. In acknowledging the first possibility, I made sure to include a verbal affirmation of anyone who isn't a man or a woman. A line such as, "We as Jews celebrate people of all genders; whether male, female, both, or neither, what's important is your neshama, your soul." Including women doesn't mean all genders are included when there are genders other than male and female. In acknowledgement of the second possibility, I made sure to use images of women of different races, ethnicities, and ages. Making our feminism intersectional means understanding how other identities may or may not be represented, and how to acknowledge and include as many different intersecting identities as possible. My favorite part was the kids' contributions. When asked who was a brave leader who stood up for what was right like Esther, one kid said Rosa Parks, because she stood up for civil rights. When asked who was a strong supportive leader like Miriam, one kid said Joe Biden, since he was leading the country like Miriam led the Israelites. Part of what I love about International Women's Day is how it teaches that women can be inspirational to anyone. Anyone can be like a female hero or leader if they share her traits. Women are not only role models to girls and women, but to everyone. I don't think it's a coincidence that Trans Day of Visibility takes place on the last day of Women's History Month. Feminism is the fight for gender equity, which paved the way for trans activists to fight for our own equity. I'm proud to celebrate an intersectional International Women's Day with the next generation of Jews!

On Yom Kippur, we ask for forgiveness from those we have wronged, and we grant forgiveness to those who have wronged us. We consider this process of forgiveness to be an important component of teshuvah -- loosely translated as "repentance" but literally meaning "return," as we return to the path of righteousness, to the selves that God intended us to be. But what about when we find ourselves unable to forgive? At what point is an inability to forgive representative of our own transgressions, and at what point is the inability to forgive its own form of teshuvah? This past year, I was the victim of transphobic abuse. The worst part was that it came from someone I trusted. The transphobia was soul-crushing, and my first impulse was to flee, to retreat into myself. But since it was from someone I had a relationship with, I immediately put us on the path of teshuvah, a path of returning to the relationship of trust we had prior to the act of transphobia. I opened my heart to the transgressor, letting them know how hurt I was by their actions. However, instead of responding sympathetically to my pain, the transgressor doubled down on their actions and defended their behavior, regardless of the outcome. For months I waited for an apology. I knew nothing could take away the sting of the attack, but any acknowledgement of wrongdoing would be enough to help repair the damage done. I needed to know I didn't deserve to be attacked in a transphobic manner, and I needed to know the transgressor would do everything they could to not repeat the transgression. I did eventually receive an apology -- but not the one I had been waiting for. I found in my email a lackluster letter that said, "I'm sorry that you were hurt by my actions." There are a lot of ways to read this kind of apology. Is the person sorry for their actions, or are they only sorry that someone got hurt? Do they believe they did something wrong, or are they willing to repeat their same behaviors with the hopes that the next time no one is hurt by them? Are they content to continue acting in transphobic ways followed by apologies when necessary, or are they prepared to learn how to act differently to prevent hurt to begin with? I considered the apology for a long time before responding. What was this apology communicating, and how did it make me feel? In Mishkan HaNefesh, Rabbi Ellen Lewis explores the act of forgiveness: when is forgiveness teshuvah, and when it is not teshuvah. After writing about how healing forgiveness can be, Rabbi Lewis writes: "The machzor challenges us to forgive, leading many of us to berate ourselves for why we can't. If we think of 'forgiving' as the right thing to do and 'not forgiving' as wrong, we limit ourselves to the perspective of a struggling young child. Only if we reframe the question -- not "What's the right thing to do?" and "Why can't I just forgive?" -- but rather, "What stops me from forgiving?" -- can we get unstuck from the old narrative and move toward more satisfying possibilities. Ask a question that opens up a sympathetic investigation rather than the one that closes off possible new avenues of inquiry. Imagine what it would look like if we could forgive. And what will it look like if we can't?" When we find ourselves resisting acceptance of an apology, ask yourself why. Is it your pride? Is it the belief that you were right? Is it anger, is it sadness, is it grief? Is it the inability to accept in others the faults we cannot accept in ourselves? I realized why I couldn't forgive the person who had hurt me. She gave no indication that she believed what she had done was wrong. She apologized for my feelings, not for her behaviors. She admitted no guilt or culpability, and she said nothing of whether or not she would repeat the behavior in the future. Maimonides says that the most basic actions necessary for teshuvah are to declare you are repenting, to admit what you did was wrong, and to promise to the best of your ability to not do it again (Hilchot Teshuvah 1:1). That's the most basic path to atonement. Without 1. apology, 2. admission of guilt, and 3. a promise to avoid the behavior in the future, it is not a complete atonement, and you may not be granted forgiveness as a result. I recognized that this apology only covered #1, and was missing steps 2 and 3. When I realized that this was why I felt I could not accept the apology, I decided it was upon me to let the person know. I wanted to forgive the person, I wanted teshuvah. I responded to say I was unable to accept the apology because it did not communicate that a mistake was made, and that the mistake would be avoided in the future. I told the offender that I am open and willing to accept a new apology that addresses these concerns. Instead of denying the apology outright, I offered the opportunity to try again, detailing exactly what I needed to hear in order to forgive, drawing from Jewish tradition and wisdom. I did not receive another apology. Instead, I received blessings for my marriage. The person let me know that they received my message, but refused to give me the full apology that Maimonides says is necessary for atonement. They refused to admit wrongdoing; they refused to commit to doing their best to avoid the transgression in the future. Rabbi Lewis continues: "Even if we create a different and more satisfying narrative, still we might not find forgiveness as a possibility in this moment. Despite all the benefits that forgiveness promises, it does not make sense in all situations. If we find ourselves caught up in a relentless cycle of being hurt and then forgiving, our haste to forgive might actually be appeasement masquerading as forgiveness. In this case, forgiveness is less an act of generosity than it is a seductive trap that merely allows for prolonged abusive behavior. When hate is the response to an offer of love, forgiveness is not the right path. Better to be kind to oneself than to offer premature forgiveness." (Mishkan HaNefesh, xxvi) Crushed by the refusal to offer an apology beyond the surface-level "sorry," I reassessed my position. I asked myself what was it that I could not forgive. Am I so proud that I cannot forgive the transgression of transphobia? No, for if that were the case I would have never asked for a more complete apology. If it were my pride, I would have refused to accept any apology at all, even if it included all the requisite components. No, it was not my pride that was preventing me from accepting the apology; it was her pride in being unable to admit she made a mistake. Transgressions are not sins. They are mistakes. They are times we missed the mark. And although everyone makes mistakes, although we all transgress, it does not mean that our mistakes can be ignored, and that our responsibility for them can be eschewed. Transgressions are not blemishes on our characters that cannot be erased, but they cannot be healed unless we confront them. As we face this Day of Atonement, as we ask and offer forgiveness, we also confront our own mortality. We recite confessions, which in Judaism are given only during the High Holy Days and on our deathbeds. The first time I ever received a deathbed confession, the person in the hospital bed offering his confession wanted to atone for the transgression of transphobia. Approaching the end of his life, he confronted all the ways he perpetuated the transphobia he had learned from society. With tears in his eyes, he admitted he had been transphobic before meeting me. He thanked me for showing him an alternate path free from transphobia. He assured me he would not return to his transphobic ways of thinking. And lastly, he asked me for forgiveness. With my own eyes brimming with tears, I accepted his apology, opened my heart to him, and fully and completely forgave him for his past transgressions of transphobia. He showed me the power of an honest apology, and the healing strength it provides. I am so grateful for that chance to receive that person's deathbed confession, and to join him on the path of healing. I saw that transphobia can be forgivable, because true repentance is possible. Admitting we have made mistakes and turning away from those mistakes is the real meaning of teshuvah. Forgiveness is only possible when we acknowledge the wrong committed, and when we vow to do better in the future. How can we forgive transgressions that the transgressor feels no remorse over? If I had forgiven the person who apologized without admission of wrongdoing, I would then owe an apology to every single trans person that may be hurt by this person's future actions. I have forgiven people for the transgression of transphobia, and I will continue to forgive people for the transgression of transphobia. My heart grows each time I receive the apology Maimonides says is necessary. When we are able to lower our pride and admit wrongdoing, others are able to lower their pride and help us back onto the path of righteousness. If we cannot accept an apology, sometimes it truly is because our pride is preventing us. If someone follows all the requisite steps to apologize -- they ask forgiveness, they admit wrongdoing, and they promise to do better -- we need to take a hard look at ourselves to ask what it is that is preventing us from accepting the apology. But when apologies are mere lip service, with no admission of guilt or steps to improve, those false words of atonement are stumbling blocks on the path of righteousness. As much as we are commanded to forgive, it is not incumbent upon us to honor meaningless apologies that do not offer a path forward. To do so would not only harm ourselves, but could potentially lead to harming others who may be hurt in the same way by the same people. On this Day of Atonement, I am honoring those who have put in the work to properly atone for their transgressions. I am also honoring all of those who are unable to forgive. For those of us who are victims of discrimination, bigotry, and abuse, we are not obligated to forgive anyone who has not shown us that they are on a different path. This Yom Kippur, as I reflect on the person who was unable to provide a proper apology, I grieve the loss of that relationship. And when I offer forgiveness today, I offer it to myself. I forgive myself for beating myself up for not being able to forgive this person. I forgive myself for thinking it was my own character flaw that brought on the transphobic attack. I forgive myself for losing trust in others, for being fearful of being hurt again, for approaching new relationships with trepidation. If you find yourself in a position where you are unable to forgive someone who has hurt you, I offer you this opportunity to forgive yourself for holding onto that guilt. Only those who do teshuvah deserve our forgiveness, and teshuvah requires one to admit their wrongs and change their ways. God is a God of mercy and forgiveness, and I truly believe that God will forgive us all when the time comes. But until then, I will open my heart to forgive those who return to the path of righteousness. For those who believe they don't need to return, for those who believe they are already on the right path with no change necessary -- I know that it is for God to forgive them, not me.

A couple years ago, one of my professors died from an illness we all hoped she’d recover from. The whole college was in mourning over this great loss. We knew the college would not be the same without her expertise, her scholarship, her gentle style of teaching. The school put together a Zoom meeting to join together in our grief. The meeting was comprised of people from the college along with my professor’s husband and daughter. We each had time to honor the memory of the person we lost. After many people spoke about her accomplishments, the daughter unmuted herself. “I don’t care about her accomplishments,” she said. “I don’t care that she had more to publish. She was my mom. I just want my mom back.” My cheeks flushed in recognition of this truth. Here we were talking about worldly matters, when this person lost a soul connection. Sometimes we can get so caught up in accomplishments. We feel like a person of stature is measured by the great things they’ve done. But to the people who loved them, they didn’t love them because of their greatness. They loved them because of their goodness. I didn’t know Rabbi David Ellenson, z”l. I knew of him, of course; he was a great of our time. But in seeing the memories of him shared in the wake of his death, I am reminded that the outpouring of grief is not based on his greatness; his memory will be for a blessing because of his goodness.

Ruach wind, spirit, the invisible force felt but not seen falling leaves surround me thank you God for the wonder of creation

the weather has turned the sun takes its time to rise slowly slinking into position in the sky not quite reaching the top tenderly twisting and turning back slipping down to slumber night stretches into day the air retaining the cool crisp of dawn and dusk I am tree watching on alert for autumnal colors red orange yellow brown even brown contrasted against the leftover green of summer most trees still lush in late October unbothered by the sleepy sun one red tree stands alone in front of a forest of green most of its siblings still in summer why has only this one turned? the other trees surrounded all sides squished against one another branches overlapping sheltering the red tree stands alone no trees shelter its leaves exposed first to feel the frost on the breeze the red tree in its vulnerability sends a message sheltered trees may still be in summer but those with exposed leaves enter winter alone

God of time and space, teach me the patience of a planet steady in orbit the silent wisdom of stone the resilience of mountains eroding back into the earth the persistence of glacial growth like a slumbering bear in hibernation a cocooned caterpillar in chrysalis teach me the transforming power of stillness.