Just Show Up.

I stood, arms full with an exhausted, jet-lagged baby squirming against my shoulder. Her weight pressed into me, warm and heavy, eyelids fluttering as exhaustion pulled at us both. My body begged me to get to bed after a long day back to routine—the kind that makes your whole being crave stillness and quiet.

Then I heard it: “Can we just read one book?”

My son stood there, eyes wide with hope, holding his current favorite—Man Gave Names to All the Animals, an illustrated version of Bob Dylan’s song. We sing it together, voices weaving through the playful rhymes and vibrant pages. He delights in it. Truthfully, so do I. Yet in that moment, exhaustion clung to me like a heavy fog, tempting me to say not tonight.

Then something inside whispered: Just show up. This wasn’t just about reading a book; it was a sacred invitation to be fully present—to step into a fleeting moment that, once passed, couldn’t be reclaimed. I shifted the baby to my lap, opened the book, and began to sing. His face softened, his voice joined mine, and the exhaustion—though still there—loosened its grip. We melted into the warmth of that shared space.

Presence is like that—quiet, often overlooked, yet profoundly powerful. In my practice—and now in my rabbinic formation—the most important lesson I’ve learned isn’t about having the perfect words or solutions. It’s about being there. To sit with someone in their grief or joy, without rushing to fix or explain, is to honor something sacred. Sometimes, the greatest gift we offer isn’t advice or action—it’s the steady heartbeat of presence, the silent assurance: I am with you.

I thought back to the High Holidays this past year. Services stretched longer than planned; kids wandered between rooms; Kol Nidrei began late. Nothing went perfectly. Yet people came. Youth leaders stepped up. Parents lingered. The community gathered. Perfection wasn’t the goal—presence was. In that shared imperfection, something sacred emerged: people choosing to show up for one another.

These past 16 months have deepened my understanding of showing up—especially amid prolonged communal grief. Living deeply my Jewish identity has meant holding both pride and heartache, sometimes in the same breath. There are days I sit in shul or stand among my community, wondering how we keep coming back when the weight of loss feels relentless. Yet that is precisely when presence matters most. Lighting a candle, reciting ancient words, or standing shoulder to shoulder with someone who feels the world has fallen away—these are acts that tether us to one another. To show up in sorrow is to affirm that no one’s grief rests entirely on their own shoulders. Presence in these moments whispers: You are remembered. You are not alone.

Of course, presence isn’t always easy. Sometimes, it means traveling to a shiva house after a draining day, staying on the phone with a friend when you’d rather retreat, or standing beside someone whose pain leaves you speechless. It’s being there when you’re tired or uncertain, when you wonder if you have anything to offer. And in parenting, showing up goes beyond proximity—it means being the sturdy container your child can push against, knowing you won’t waver. Presence can be as soft as a held hand or as firm as a boundary lovingly kept.

Sometimes—perhaps most importantly—it’s about showing up for yourself. Listening when your body whispers rest. Breathing deeply when the world pulls you in a thousand directions. Creating space to be with your own soul, without rushing to the next demand. Showing up for yourself isn’t indulgence—it’s an act of self-honoring. How can we pour out compassion for others if we have not first offered some to ourselves?

I’ve sat with students tangled in confusing friendships, colleagues navigating heavy burdens, families facing loss so deep that words fall short. In those moments, solutions feel distant. But presence—a gentle, undistracted presence—can soften what feels unmovable. To breathe beside someone in their storm, to hold silence as a sanctuary—that, too, is a form of prayer.

Over the summer, Shabbat playground time is a respite for my family. One Shabbat afternoon, my daughter and I waited for a friend and her mom. They had planned their time together in vivid detail—dreaming of which swings they’d race to first, what secrets they’d share beneath the slide. We arrived early. Her eyes scanned every face. Minutes passed. Her chatter quieted. Hope lingered, then began to dim. “Maybe she forgot,” she murmured, scuffing her shoe against the mulch. I knelt beside her, arms open. Her disappointment settled between us—a quiet ache I knew well.

Later that weekend, I reached out to her friend’s mom. Life had thrown something unexpected her way, as it often does. We spoke honestly, holding the tension between disappointment and understanding. By the next week, we met again. Laughter bloomed where sadness had been. Our daughters dashed toward the swings, the previous week’s weight replaced by renewed joy. Sometimes, the act of coming back—of choosing repair—is what transforms absence into something softer.

We will all miss moments. Life pulls us in too many directions. But the door to reconnection remains open. Showing up isn’t about flawless consistency—it’s about return. About grace.

And sometimes, absence comes not from forgetfulness but from struggle too heavy to name. I know that place. There were seasons when illness wrapped around me so tightly that showing up, no matter how deeply I wanted to, felt impossible. My body and spirit, too worn. The longing to be present didn’t match my capacity, and the guilt that followed was its own burden. Living through that—and witnessing it in others—taught me to hold space for absence, to remember that love doesn’t vanish just because presence does. Sometimes, grace looks like patience. Like remembering the whole of a relationship rather than getting stuck on one missed moment.

Working with children has only deepened this understanding. Some kids keep their walls high, wary of the world’s inconsistencies. Yet, when they see you return—week after week—something shifts. Presence builds trust. Words can soothe, but presence proves. I’ve watched guarded hearts soften beneath the quiet message of showing up: You matter. I see you.

Showing up doesn’t demand perfection or endless energy. It asks for willingness. A steady heartbeat that says, I will be here, even if I’m tired, even if I don’t have the right words. I remember arriving late to a student session, fumbling through apologies. The student grinned, “I’m just glad you’re here.” Isn’t that what most of us crave? Not polished moments—but presence.

Just show up. Fully, if you can. Partially, if that’s all you have. Even silence, when offered with care, can be its own kind of presence. Sometimes, it’s in the quietest spaces that we find the deepest connection.

So I invite you to pause. Breathe. Place your hand on your heart, if it helps. Where are you being called to show up?

Is there a conversation waiting for you?

A loved one who lingers in your thoughts?

A child’s small request that might carry more weight than it seems?

A promise you meant to keep?

Or perhaps—just perhaps—it’s time to show up for yourself.

Sit. Rest. Notice the inhale and exhale that has carried you through this day. Offer yourself the same tenderness you would extend to a friend.

Because when we show up—truly, vulnerably—we offer more than time. We offer belonging.

To others. To ourselves. To something larger that holds us all.

That, I’ve come to believe, is holy work.