Yom Kippur
Let me tell you something about Jewish time: it doesn’t move in a straight line. It spirals. Circles back. Offers second chances. We begin our year not with fireworks or champagne, but with a shofar blast and a question: Who have I become—and who do I want to be?
Ten days after that blast, we arrive at Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It is the holiest, heaviest day on our calendar. And if you’re not Jewish, you may wonder what it’s all about—and why so many Jews are quietly (or not-so-quietly) grumpy, tired, and hungry from sundown to sundown.
So here it is, in plain English and a little poetry:
Yom Kippur is the day we face ourselves.
And we fast to show that we mean it.
Fasting sharpens the senses. It strips away distractions. It forces you to notice how much of your day is built around physical comfort, around pleasure and coping. That alone is a powerful practice.
But in Judaism, fasting isn’t just about mindfulness. It’s about transformation. It’s about cleansing. It’s about setting aside indulgence so you can confront what really matters.
For me, food is one of my comforts. It’s part of how I regulate, how I self-soothe, how I feel safe. To give that up for a full day? That’s not casual. That’s not easy. That is serious business. It’s me saying: This day matters more than my usual rituals of comfort. I am willing to sit in discomfort, to let my hunger rise up, to feel raw and vulnerable—because this work is holy.
Yom Kippur is about repentance (teshuvah, which means “return”), forgiveness, and realignment. Fasting is how we enter that liminal space—not because suffering is sacred, but because commitment is.
We say with our bodies what we can’t always say with words:
I am ready to change. I am willing to be transformed.
That said—Judaism does not glorify suffering. In fact, we are commanded to break the fast if it would endanger our health. You don’t get spiritual points for harming yourself.
I’m not Orthodox, and I don’t know a single non-Orthodox Jew who fully abstains from both food and drink. For most of us, especially those of us with chronic health conditions, not drinking water is not an option.
I take daily medications, including one with a black box warning for dehydration. I have to stay hydrated. And I do. Without guilt. Because this tradition is not about proving how tough I am—it’s about returning to truth.
I also self-medicate my ADHD with caffeine, since my psych prescriber won't prescribe stimulants. So while I fast from food, I don’t fast from coffee. My brain doesn’t function without it, and I want to be present during this sacred day—not lying in bed with a withdrawal migraine and zero executive function. That’s not spiritual clarity; that’s a medical crisis.
So yes: I fast. But I also hydrate. I take my meds. I drink my coffee. I live. And in Judaism, life always takes precedence.
Ten days after that blast, we arrive at Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. It is the holiest, heaviest day on our calendar. And if you’re not Jewish, you may wonder what it’s all about—and why so many Jews are quietly (or not-so-quietly) grumpy, tired, and hungry from sundown to sundown.
So here it is, in plain English and a little poetry:
Yom Kippur is the day we face ourselves.
And we fast to show that we mean it.
Fasting sharpens the senses. It strips away distractions. It forces you to notice how much of your day is built around physical comfort, around pleasure and coping. That alone is a powerful practice.
But in Judaism, fasting isn’t just about mindfulness. It’s about transformation. It’s about cleansing. It’s about setting aside indulgence so you can confront what really matters.
For me, food is one of my comforts. It’s part of how I regulate, how I self-soothe, how I feel safe. To give that up for a full day? That’s not casual. That’s not easy. That is serious business. It’s me saying: This day matters more than my usual rituals of comfort. I am willing to sit in discomfort, to let my hunger rise up, to feel raw and vulnerable—because this work is holy.
Yom Kippur is about repentance (teshuvah, which means “return”), forgiveness, and realignment. Fasting is how we enter that liminal space—not because suffering is sacred, but because commitment is.
We say with our bodies what we can’t always say with words:
I am ready to change. I am willing to be transformed.
That said—Judaism does not glorify suffering. In fact, we are commanded to break the fast if it would endanger our health. You don’t get spiritual points for harming yourself.
I’m not Orthodox, and I don’t know a single non-Orthodox Jew who fully abstains from both food and drink. For most of us, especially those of us with chronic health conditions, not drinking water is not an option.
I take daily medications, including one with a black box warning for dehydration. I have to stay hydrated. And I do. Without guilt. Because this tradition is not about proving how tough I am—it’s about returning to truth.
I also self-medicate my ADHD with caffeine, since my psych prescriber won't prescribe stimulants. So while I fast from food, I don’t fast from coffee. My brain doesn’t function without it, and I want to be present during this sacred day—not lying in bed with a withdrawal migraine and zero executive function. That’s not spiritual clarity; that’s a medical crisis.
So yes: I fast. But I also hydrate. I take my meds. I drink my coffee. I live. And in Judaism, life always takes precedence.
If you’re not Jewish and want to support your Jewish friends during Yom Kippur, a few quick tips:
- Don’t say “Happy Yom Kippur.” We know you mean well, but it’s... not that kind of holiday.
- Say “G’mar tov” (guh-MAHR tohv), which means “a good sealing,” as in “may your fate be sealed for good.”
- Or say “Have an easy fast,” if you know they’re fasting.
- Or even just: “I’m thinking of you today.” That matters, too.
This day isn’t about cheer. It’s about clarity. It’s about becoming better than we were. And for many of us, it’s also about grief, regret, and loss. So tread gently. Offer love, not levity.
Yom Kippur is hard. That’s the point.
It’s 25 hours of facing what we often run from. We beat our chests (literally, during confessions), say “I was wrong” in public, and try to believe that repair is possible—even after everything we’ve broken.
We do it hungry, hollow, and humble.
But we also do it with hope.
Because the gates are still open. Because we believe in mercy. Because we believe in the human capacity to choose again, and again, and again.
May we all return to what matters.
May we release what needs to be released.
May we be sealed for life, for healing, for sweetness.
גְּמַר חֲתִימָה טוֹבָה
G’mar chatimah tovah — May you be sealed for good.
