It seems that each week during the month of Elul, there has been a terrorist attack, all of them a national tragedy. In the quietest moments of heartbreak, when the world feels shattered into a million tiny pieces, I’ve discovered something unexpectedly beautiful: Our broken hearts are actually doorways. Doorways to connection. Doorways to healing. Doorways to something Divine.

As we enter the sacred period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, these Ten Days of Awe that feel both eternal and fleeting, I find myself thinking about how heartbreak and hope are actually long-lost siblings, not the enemies we imagine them to be.

Many people are fearful or frustrated by the High Holidays, and some approach them with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment. Others show up in synagogue out of a sense of duty, but feel lost and flounder in trying to create any meaningful connection. The whole “inscribed in the Book of Life” concept can feel distant, almost transactional, like some cosmic college application process where a person provides a statement needed to impress the admissions committee of One.

But life happens. Heartbreak happens. And suddenly, Elul isn’t just another month on the calendar.

My husband’s father passed away in the month of Elul many, many years ago. My husband shared some wisdom with me when we commemorated his father’s 10th yahrzeit (our first as a married couple), which still echoes in my mind. Those souls who depart in Elul, the final month of the Jewish year, weren’t denied inscription in the Book of Life. Rather, they received the extraordinary gift of almost an entire year through God’s mercy. When I first heard this perspective, it sent actual shivers down my spine.

There’s something achingly poignant about confronting mortality during Elul, as we collectively prepare to pray for good lives in the coming year. It’s as if the universe is whispering: “Pay attention. This matters. You matter.”

The tradition teaches that during Elul, “the King is in the field.” Our Father in Heaven, usually remote, requires our spiritual climbing, but in Elul, he comes down to meet us where we are. What an extraordinary gift! And yet, how often do we squander it?

The truth is, heartbreak creates space. When something breaks us open, that opening, painful as it may be, allows for new connections. With ourselves. With each other. With the Divine. It’s in our shared vulnerability that we find our shared humanity.

I’ve witnessed this at synagogue, watching strangers become supporters as they comfort someone in mourning. I’ve experienced it in my own life, when friends showed up with casseroles and compassion when words failed. These moments of connection don’t erase the heartbreak, but they weave golden threads through it, creating something stronger and more beautiful than before.

The Ten Days of Repentance aren’t about punishment or perfection; they are about possibility. The Hebrew word for repentance, teshuvah, literally means “return.” We’re not creating something new; we’re coming home to our truest selves, and if we do it right, we also come home to one another.

So here’s my radical proposal for these Days of Awe. Following these recent tragedies—and while we are still recuperating from Oct. 7 and praying for our hostages still held in captivity—let’s use our heartbreak as fuel. Let’s share our pain instead of hiding it. Let’s remember that our King is in the field—accessible, present, listening—and pour out our hearts in both formal prayer and messy, unscripted conversations.

I’m speaking to myself here (though you’re welcome to eavesdrop): Use these precious moments to connect. Pray for everything your heart yearns for—your family, our people, this broken, beautiful world. The decrees aren’t finalized until after Shemini Atzeret; we have time to reach out, to return, to repair.

Heartbreak isn’t the end of the story; it’s the beginning of a deeper one. When we stitch our hearts back together with help, with prayer and with connection, they hold more than they did before. More compassion. More understanding. More hope.

My prayer this year is: May we all find the courage to share our broken places. May we be gentle with ourselves and generous with others. And may all of us, every single one of us, be inscribed and sealed for a full year of healing, joy and abundant blessings.

The post Finding hope in heartbreak: The sacred journey of Elul until Shemini Atzeret appeared first on JNS.org.