The light we have been carrying

In Jewish mysticism, the Shechinah is the Divine Presence that dwells among us, the feminine expression of the sacred that accompanies humanity through suffering and exile. She does not abandon us when the world becomes dark. She goes into exile with us. As a Jewish woman, mother, psychologist, and someone who has spent much of her life helping others navigate suffering, I have found myself confronting a world that feels increasingly hostile and unfamiliar and I have felt like I've been in exile. Since October 7, 2023, being Jewish has carried a different weight. Alongside grief, anger, and exhaustion has come the realization that the safety and belonging I once took for granted were more fragile than I understood. Yet beneath these feelings, something else has been stirring. Not simply resistance, but remembrance and a reawakening.

Kabbalah describes the Shechinah as sleeping in exile, awaiting awakening through human action and spiritual awareness. I wonder whether what I have experienced as a personal unraveling might also be understood as an awakening. My work has long centred on mindfulness, equanimity, and helping people distinguish between what they experience and how they respond. My more recent exploration of plant molecules in therapeutic work has expanded that inquiry into consciousness, connection, and the possibilities for healing that can emerge when we approach difficult experiences with openness. I have spent years teaching others to sit with discomfort without allowing suffering to organize their lives. Yet practising these teachings becomes different when suffering touches the foundations of one's identity. When antisemitism moves from historical memory into everyday experience, equanimity becomes more than a therapeutic concept. It becomes the practice of remaining open without becoming defenceless, allowing anger without letting it harden into hatred, and recognizing that compassion and boundaries can coexist.

Jewish mystical tradition sometimes describes the period preceding redemption as one of upheaval and uncertainty. Some interpret the current Middle East crisis through the language of the birth pangs of the Messiah, when familiar structures appear to break apart before something new emerges. I do not know whether we are living in a Messianic time, nor do I want to assign divine purpose to the suffering of others. Still, I am drawn to the image of the Shechinah rising from the dust. I think about the promise I made at fifteen, standing at Treblinka, that I would never make my Jewishness invisible. I think about raising Jewish children in a small community and what it means to honour that promise when visibility carries greater risk. I think about my work creating spaces where Jewish people can receive psychological care without having to explain, defend, or diminish their identity. What began as a response to pain has become a commitment to something larger. Perhaps this is one way the Shechinah awakens: through our willingness to remember, protect, and make room for what is sacred, even when doing so is difficult.

The feminine imagery of the Shechinah also speaks to my experience as a mother and caregiver. She accompanies her children into exile, remains present through uncertainty, and embodies the grief of separation. I recognize myself in that image. Some days, the demands of motherhood, clinical work, teaching, and advocacy feel heavier than I can comfortably carry. After years of holding space for others, I sometimes forget that I, too, am living through the suffering I help people navigate. The image of Rachel weeping for her children resonates in a world where mothers on all sides of conflict are grieving, even as the circumstances and responsibilities surrounding that suffering differ. But the Shechinah is not defined by grief alone. She also represents endurance and the possibility of restoration. Her awakening does not require her to stop feeling, only that suffering not become the entirety of her existence. I am learning something similar: that I can surrender without submitting, experience anger without being consumed by it, and remain affected by the world without losing my capacity to appreciate its beauty.

What draws me most to the awakening of the Shechinah is the idea that redemption is not something we simply wait for. In Kabbalah, tikkun is the work of repair, gathering what has been scattered and restoring connection where there has been fragmentation. I recognize this work in the communities I am helping to build, in my efforts to bring Jewish identity and psychological care together, and in my exploration of mindfulness and plant molecules as ways of supporting healing and integration. I recognize it equally in ordinary moments: lighting Shabbat candles, sitting in meditation, laughing with my children, or allowing myself to experience joy without feeling that I have betrayed those who are suffering. Perhaps the awakening of the Shechinah is less about predicting when the world will be redeemed and more about how we participate in its repair. I cannot know what this moment means in the unfolding of Jewish history, but I can choose how to meet it. To remain visible and compassionate, to protect what matters without closing my heart, and to remember that the sacred does not disappear when the world becomes dark. Sometimes it is in that darkness that we recognize the light we have been carrying all along.

Feel it, don't fear it.