Confessions
Sep 03, 2026
I have a confession to make.
I’ve never actually attended Selichot.
You know how it is. I had little kids at home. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t find the right place. It wasn’t really my thing. I was tired. I’d go next year.
Yeah, yeah.
Truth is... I think some part of me has always resisted the whole thing.
The repetition of it.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Again and again and again.
And somewhere inside me, there has always been this question:
What exactly am I apologizing for?
Am I sorry because I genuinely did something wrong?
Am I taking responsibility for something that is actually mine?
Am I feeling real sorrow and wanting to repair?
Or am I doing something I’ve done in so many other areas of my life and calling it accountability?
Taking responsibility for things that were never entirely mine because responsibility gives me the illusion of control.
Because if it’s my fault, then maybe I can fix it.
If I caused it, maybe I can undo it.
If I can find the exact thing I did wrong, maybe I can apologize better, explain better, behave better, become better, and somehow wrestle the whole situation back into my hands.
That has been a very real pattern in my life.
When something fractures, my mind immediately starts searching.
What did I do?
What could I have done differently?
How do I make this right?
And sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes there really is something to own.
But sometimes what looks like accountability is really fear trying to regain control.
Because it can feel safer to blame yourself than to admit:
I can’t make another person understand.
I can’t make another person change.
I can’t control what happens next.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about Selichot a little differently.
What if the point isn’t simply to stand there saying “I’m sorry” until I’ve sufficiently convinced Hashem that I know how flawed I am?
Maybe there’s another movement happening underneath all of it.
The movement of, Hashem, Hashem.
Again and again.
Hashem.
You are Hashem.
I am not.
I can take responsibility for what belongs to me without pretending that everything belongs to me.
I can repair what is mine without taking ownership of another person’s choices.
I can apologize without using apology as a way to regain control.
I can look honestly at myself and still surrender the parts of the story that were never mine to control.
Maybe this is the honesty Elul is asking of me: not to take responsibility for everything, but to become fiercely honest about what actually belongs to me.
To repair what I can.
To change what I must.
And then to stop gripping the rest so tightly and say:
“Hashem, I need You here. This is bigger than me. I’ve done what I can, and I can’t pretend I control the ending.”
This is exactly the kind of work we do inside Vessel.
Vessel gives you a way to see the patterns underneath your reactions, relationships, fears and choices, and eventually, enough clarity to tell the difference between responsibility and control.
Between intuition and fear.
Between surrender and helplessness.
Between loving someone and abandoning yourself.
Vivian, who has been through Vessel, said it better:
“Vessel gave me language for my inner world. Permission to listen to my intuition. A way to look at stories and patterns and even wounds with curiosity.”
That’s Vessel.
Not a course to finish.
A path to walk, a way to see, and muscles you keep building as your life keeps changing.
And if you already know you want to be part of this cohort, register early so we can get your Heartwork book into your hands before Module One begins.
And when that package lands on your doorstep, maybe it can be a tiny physical reminder,
It’s safe to let go.
It’s safe to stand before Hashem with open hands instead of clenched fists.
To own what’s mine.
To let Him hold the rest.
And to trust that I can be held through all of it.
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