From Dread to Delight: My Journey with Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur

As a child, Rosh Hashana felt like an endless marathon of prayers.

I’d sit on an uncomfortable folding chair in the overflow section of the social hall, which they’d open up to accommodate the extra crowd for the Yamim Noraim.

Fidgeting in my seat, I’d flip through the machzor, counting the pages left, then cutting that number in half for the English side—yet somehow, the end still seemed impossibly far away.

The words were foreign, the melodies a mystery. Yom Kippur was even worse. Not only were the prayers longer, but my favorite part of any Shabbat or Yom Tov—coming home to a delicious meal—was replaced with an empty table lit only by candles.

After the longest Maariv of my life, we’d return home, stomachs growling, to a meal that wasn’t coming.