Rosh Hashana- The Backwards Seven
As Rosh Hashanah comes near, followed soon after by Yom Kippur, we hear so much about forgiveness. Asking God and others for forgiveness.
We hear about repenting, becoming better and working on ourselves. We hear about introspection—looking into that familiar mirror and asking who we are, where we have been, and who we want to become.
But for those of us who have lived through trauma, abuse, or mental illness, I think we may be forgetting to reach out to the most important one of all.
Ourselves.
And so, perhaps more than anyone, I need to ask forgiveness from the child inside of me who was so so badly hurt.
From the body that responded to things it never asked to experience.
From all the hatred I directed toward my body, my mind and my vulnerable and innocent soul.
For the weddings I couldn’t attend, the mornings I couldn’t get out of bed, the things I desperately wanted to do but couldn’t, and the things I did even though I desperately didn’t want to.
For the jobs I couldn’t take because I couldn’t move.
For the opportunities I’ve missed.
Maybe I even need to forgive myself for not being able to ask God for forgiveness—for the times I was too angry, too hurt, too numb, or simply too exhausted. For the times I was being a human being with human emotions.
We talk so much about introspection this time of year, but isn’t that what so many of us already do every week in therapy?
We walk into a room and talk about our darkness, our pain, our secrets, our most horrifying stories.
We go places inside ourselves that are absolutely terrifying.
If you’ve been there, you very well know the feeling of walking out of the office in a daze.
The ground beneath our feet feels weird.
The sun feels too bright.
The car seems too far.
And when we get to our car, we put our head on the steering while, closing our eyes and breathing-in an attempt to come back down.
I ask you, Is that not the absolute truest form of self introspection?
Many people have Rosh Hashanah once a year. Some of us have a version of Rosh Hashanah every single week in that therapy room.
Recently, I was doing homework with my child. He was writing numbers, and one of them came out backwards—a backwards seven. He was so proud of himself. He was trying so hard. And I genuinely didn’t care about the backwards seven.
Because I wasn’t looking at the seven. I was looking at the child holding the pencil.
I saw his intention. I saw his effort. I saw a beautiful child learning how to write.
And I wondered: Why can’t I look at myself that way?
When I look back at my life, I see so many backwards sevens.
Things I didn’t do right.
Places I couldn’t show up.
Days I couldn’t function.
Things I’ve needed to do to keep my head above water.
Years of believing I wasn’t healed enough, strong enough, good enough.
Enough-just simply enough.
I’ve spent so much of my life staring at the backwards seven. Maybe it’s time I looked at the child holding the pencil.
I don’t know God, and I won’t pretend to know what God thinks when He looks at us. But I am a father. And I know that when I looked at my child, I didn’t see failure. I saw effort. I saw innocence. I saw someone trying his best. And I was so so proud of him.
And perhaps that’s what hurts the most. I would never look at my child’s backwards seven and call him a failure. I would never ask him why he wasn’t better, why he couldn’t get it right, why he wasn’t trying harder. Yet somehow, those are the very words so many of us have spent a lifetime saying to ourselves. Maybe the child inside of us deserves the same gentleness we so naturally give to our own children.
So this Rosh Hashanah, let’s take just one moment and stand together in front of one collective mirror. If we can’t do it alone, let’s do it together.
Let’s look past the adults staring back at us and find the wounded children still living somewhere behind those eyes. The frightened child. The angry child. The child who still believes it was their fault. The child still holding that pencil, staring at a backwards seven, terrified that once again they got it wrong.
Let’s look at that child and say: I forgive you.
I forgive you for what you did and for what you couldn’t do.
I forgive you for how you survived.
I forgive you for being angry, afraid, lost, and human.
You were just a child. You were just an innocent child. And you really did try your best.
Maybe this Rosh Hashanah, while the world around us thinks about forgiveness, let’s remember the little child holding the pencil.
Maybe we’ve spent enough years correcting the seven. Maybe it’s finally time to hold the child.
Never surrender 