Hello Everyone,

Last week was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and this week is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I love that the holidays arrive in the fall, connected with the harvest season—when the leaves turn from green to yellow, crimson, or orange, slowly blanketing the yard. To me, it has always felt like a better time to begin again than the secular new year, which arrives in the dead of winter. The energy just feels more vibrant.

Before Barney was born, I spent the holidays reflecting on personal and spiritual development—on the areas I wanted to grow, or deciding who I wanted to forgive, and/or who I needed to ask for forgiveness. I would attend services and recite the prayers, but they never fully felt alive in me. I hadn’t developed any personal prayers beyond wishing better health for someone, or the occasional ‘Please God’ when something bad would come up.

Last year was different. My kidney function was around 13%, and I was on dialysis. I was anxiously waiting to hear if any of the friends who had stepped forward as potential donors might be a match. I was also battling fatigue and didn’t attend services—partly because there was one prayer I couldn’t bear to recite, which is ironic since I rarely feel fully resonant with the words themselves. Still, some of the words found their way to me.

During the High Holidays, the prayer says: “On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: who will live and who will die…” It isn’t meant to be read literally, but as a reminder of life’s fragility and a call to live fully—urging repentance (teshuvah), prayer (tefillah), and charity (tzedakah) as ways to transform God’s judgment. Logically, I knew God wasn’t sitting on a cloud pointing at who would live or die—but the words hit too close to home because of my health history.

Now, a year later, it feels strange. One of my greatest fears—that my kidney transplant would fail—has already happened (that’s a topic for another email). And yet, I’m still here. It’s a miracle that I’m living on my two native kidneys without needing dialysis. My kidney function hovers around 20%. That’s low, but not low enough to require dialysis or a transplant.

I’m suspended between two possibilities. Maybe I’ll stay like this—exhausted but steady—for a few more years, with a slow decline. Or maybe my kidneys might suddenly give out, and I’ll need a transplant sooner.

This year, I’ve found myself praying in a way I never did before. My personal prayer goes something like this, and I find myself repeating it. (For context, when I say “God,” I mean something higher than myself—a presence, force, or love I can call on, even if I don’t fully understand it.)

God, please allow my numbers to stay steady for a while. Please open my heart to connect with you, myself, and others deeply and meaningfully, and to love fully. Please let me take Barney on weekend adventures—to the library, to the farmers market, on short hikes—and then follow it with a solid afternoon nap. Please lift the fog so I can write with clarity in the rare quiet hours of my day. And please let me be of service in whatever ways I can—through writing, listening, advocacy, and love.

I don’t know if I’ll be attending services this year, but it feels good to pause, reflect on the holiday, and take on a new ritual. I like this prayer. It resonates well and feels grounded in my body. It’s simple and it’s real.

Wishing you and your loved ones a reflective New Year for those who celebrate, and a quiet moment to pause and appreciate the season for everyone else.

Love,
Danielle

PS. The picture attached to this post is of Barney riding his bike and attempting to bring all his stuffed animals with him.