There is something deeply Jewish about struggling to say goodbye. Judaism has never really believed in endings. Even our moments of mourning are filled with rituals that gently push us back toward life. We tear clothing, but then we sew. We sit shiva, but then we stand up. We watch the sun set, and still we pray Maariv, believing morning will come again. To be Jewish is to understand that every ending carries within it the beginning of something else. And maybe that is why this moment feels so emotional for me. Because tonight is not simply the end of a year of leadership. It is the closing of a chapter that shaped me more profoundly than I could ever fully explain.
Somewhere between my first USY event and sitting here tonight, this movement stopped being something I participated in and became part of who I am. And the funny thing is, I did not join USY for some grand or spiritual reason. I joined because I was a freshman trying to impress a boy I was dating. That is unfortunately the truth. I came into this movement accidentally. But somewhere along the way, what started as something casual became sacred to me. I fell in love with the sound of Jewish teens singing when everyone is exhausted and emotional. I fell in love with the way a hotel ballroom could transform into holy ground the second Shabbat began. I fell in love with watching people who walked into a convention terrified leave feeling seen for the first time in their lives. I fell in love with the fact that every community I visited across this movement welcomed me not because they had to, not because it was polite, but because they genuinely wanted to. In a world that can feel increasingly isolating, USY insisted on creating belonging.
And I think belonging is one of the holiest things we can give another person. More than advice. More than perfection. More than charisma or leadership titles. To truly make someone feel wanted is sacred work. There are people on this zoom who know exactly what I mean because USY found you at the exact moment you needed it. Maybe you were lonely. Maybe you were struggling with your Judaism. Maybe you felt misunderstood at school or disconnected from your community or unsure of who you were becoming. And somehow, in the middle of a song session or a late-night conversation, you found people who looked at you and said: you do not have to earn your place here. You already belong.
There is a quote from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks that I have carried with me throughout this year: “Hope is mandatory.” Not optional. Mandatory. I think that is one of the most radical things about being Jewish. Jewish hope has never depended on circumstances being easy. The prophet Micah says, “Though I have fallen, I will rise; though I sit in darkness, the Lord is my light.” That has always been the story of the Jewish people, and honestly, it is also the story of USY. There were years when people looked at declining numbers and shrinking participation and wondered what the future of Jewish youth movements would look like. There were moments where it would have been easy to become cynical, to believe that Jewish teens no longer wanted community in the same way generations before them did. But this movement refused to give up on Jewish teenagers, and Jewish teenagers refused to give up on each other. This year, I watched communities grow and thrive. I watched chapters come back to life. I watched people walk into conventions nervous and disconnected and leave with best friends and a stronger sense of who they are. And maybe the most beautiful part is that this growth is not accidental. It is intentional. It is built by people in this room who continue choosing hope over and over again. Rabbi Sacks also wrote, “To be a Jew is to be an agent of hope in a world serially threatened by despair.” That is what USY is doing right now. We are choosing to believe that Jewish teens still crave meaning, belonging, spirituality, and connection. We are choosing to build anyway. And I truly believe with my whole heart that we are only at the beginning of what this movement can become.
This year, USY created Chidush, the only winter break Israel trip for teens, where we stood in the place where our story began. We touched stones older than memory. We prayed in the land our ancestors dreamed about for generations. We experienced Judaism not as an abstract idea but as something living and breathing around us. We held more than 25 conventions and overnighters, more than 50 day programs, monthly fellowships and learning opportunities, and we are heading into a summer filled with programs that are not simply trips but gateways into identity, leadership, and lifelong connection. But what makes me proudest is not the numbers. It is the fact that we are trying every single day to build a USY where more teens can see themselves reflected. A USY that is more accessible. More innovative. More compassionate. Because somewhere out there is another freshman joining for a ridiculous reason, and they are about to stumble into the community that changes their life forever.
There is a teaching from Exodus Rabbah that says, “The Jewish people are compared to the olive: just as the olive yields its oil only when crushed, so too the Jewish people reveal their greatness through struggle.” I have thought about that teaching often this year. Leadership is beautiful, but it is also heavy. There were moments this year where I felt exhausted. Moments where I questioned whether I was enough. Moments where the responsibility of loving something this much felt almost unbearable. But there were also moments so overwhelmingly beautiful that I know they will stay with me forever. Standing shoulder to shoulder with people I love during Havdalah. Walking to baggage claims in airports in cities I’d never been to and spotting familiar faces. Watching people embrace after months apart like no time had passed at all. Hearing Erev Shel Shoshanim softly begin in a crowded room while everyone instinctively wrapped their arms around each other.
I think about the words of that song constantly. “Evening of roses, let us go out to the grove.” There is something so gentle about it. So intimate. So deeply human. Every time I heard it this year, I would stop singing for a moment just to listen. To hear the humming around me. To look at the people beside me. And every single time, I had the same thought: how lucky am I to love something this deeply? How lucky are we to have built a movement where Jewish teens can experience this kind of tenderness and belonging? The song continues, “Night falls slowly and a wind of roses blows.” And I think there is something profoundly Jewish about continuing to sing to one another even as night falls. That is what Jewish resilience has always looked like. We sing anyway. We build anyway. We love anyway.
I want to take a moment tonight to thank the people who made this year possible. To our staff, advisors, chapter leaders, regional leaders, and every single teen who poured their heart into this movement: thank you. Thank you for believing that Jewish community is worth building over and over again, even when it is difficult. To Rabbi Ilan Schwartz, thank you for being not only an advisor but someone I could trust completely. Thank you for listening to me during the moments where leadership felt overwhelming and reminding me who I was when I forgot. To Julie Marder, thank you for your leadership, your compassion, and yes, for taking me to the sketchiest hospital in Chicago to get a tick removed during the USCJ board meeting. Somehow that memory has become weirdly symbolic to me. Leadership is not glamorous most of the time. Sometimes it is exhausting and chaotic and deeply unplanned. But the people beside you make all the difference.
And to Jackson, thank you. Thank you for being my person, for grounding me, for making me laugh when I needed it most, and for loving me and this movement with your entire heart. There are very few people who make it easier to let go of something you love. You are one of them. Watching you step into this role fills me not with fear but with peace, because I know the future of this movement is in compassionate and capable hands.
There is another teaching I keep returning to from Rabbi Yisrael Salanter: “As long as the candle is still burning, it is possible to repair.” I think about that quote when I think about Jewish teens today. The world gives young people so many reasons to become cynical. We are constantly told that community is fading, that attention spans are shortening, that people no longer care deeply about one another. But every time I walk into a USY convention, I see proof that those assumptions are wrong. I see teens who still want meaning. I see teens who still want community. I see teens who still care enough to sing with their whole chest, pray with their whole heart, and love each other without irony. The candle is still burning. Maybe not always in the same way it once did, maybe not without struggle, but it is burning brightly nonetheless. And as long as that flame exists, there is still sacred work to do.
So my charge to the next board, and honestly to every single person on this zoom, is this: protect that light. Protect the kid standing alone at their first convention wondering if they will fit in. Protect the traditions that make people feel rooted in something ancient and eternal. Protect the innovation that allows new people to find their way into Jewish life. Protect joy. Protect optimism. Protect hope. Because the future of Judaism will not only be built in synagogues or classrooms. It will also be built in hotel hallways at 2 a.m., in a sicha, in inside jokes, in late-night conversations about identity and God and fear and love. It will be built in moments where someone realizes for the first time that they are not alone.
And maybe that is why I am not ready to say goodbye tonight. Because USY did not simply shape the Jewish leader I became. It shaped the human being I became. It gave me faith when mine felt fragile. It gave me purpose when I felt lost. It gave me people who became family. The Book of Psalms says, “The stone the builders rejected became the cornerstone.” I think one of the holiest things USY does is teach people that they are not invisible. It teaches people that they matter enough to become builders themselves.
One day, years from now, all of us will remember fragments of this movement. Certain songs. Certain hugs. Certain names written on convention badges. Certain moments sitting arms around each other during sloach feeling like time itself had paused. And maybe that is what holiness actually is: moments so full of love and connection that they continue living inside you long after they end.
So thank you. Thank you for every hug, every conversation, every airport reunion, every hush that fell over a crowd, every ounce of trust you placed in me this year. Thank you for letting me love this movement with my whole heart. Thank you for giving me a home inside Judaism. Thank you for giving me hope. And as always, bless up.
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