I’m going to say something that is going to upset a lot of you: I have no trouble falling asleep.

For as long as I can remember, the time between my head hitting the pillow and the snoring beginning has been remarkably short, and I consider myself very lucky. Recently, however, I found myself experiencing a bit of insomnia. Rather than getting a cup of warm (decaf) tea or reading a book, I chose the classic millennial remedy: doom scrolling.

I have to be honest with you—it didn’t work.

Rather than being lulled back to sleep, I found myself increasingly amped up as Facebook, TikTok, X (the artist formerly known as Twitter), and Instagram fed me a seemingly coordinated algorithm of sadness, destruction, poverty, anger, and influencers.

According to my phone, the entire world was either collateral damage in a war, the victim of a natural disaster, flying in an Emirates first-class suite, or fighting a terminal illness.

It was overwhelming.

And it was not true.

Not because those things aren’t happening. They are. There is real suffering in our world, and Judaism certainly does not give us permission to look away from it. But neither does Judaism ask us to carry the weight of every tragedy, every outrage, every argument, and every crisis every waking moment of every day.

In fact, our tradition gives us something remarkably different.

Thousands of years before anyone had heard of an algorithm, Judaism gave us Shabbat: one day each week when we are commanded to stop. To put down our work. To step away from the noise. To remember that the world will continue turning even when we are not watching it.

That may be one of Judaism’s most ancient practices—and one of its most modern prescriptions.

And perhaps that is part of what the High Holidays ask of us as well. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur do not ask us to pretend that everything is fine. Quite the opposite. They ask us to look honestly at ourselves and at our world—to acknowledge what is broken, where we have fallen short, and what needs to change.

But then they ask us to believe something remarkably hopeful:

That change is possible.

So this year, I have a few wishes for all of us as we enter 5787.

This year, may we remember that a community worth living in is a community worth building.

This year, may we remember that while partisan politics may be everywhere, partisan politics are not everything.

This year, may we remember that Judaism teaches us that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim—in the image of God. Yes, even that person.

This year, may we remember that the world we inherited is worth protecting and preserving for those who will inherit it from us.

This year, may we remember that our obligation is not to solve world hunger, but to feed the hungry.

This year, may we remember that we do not have to fix everything that is broken to fix something that is broken.

This year, may we remember that when the world feels overwhelming, Shabbat is still coming.

This year, may we comfort those who need comforting—and allow ourselves to receive comfort when we need it.

This year, may we remember that there is more goodness in the world than our screens would have us believe.

And this year, may we be among the people creating more of it.

The algorithm is designed to keep us looking, but Judaism teaches us what is worth looking for.

L’Shana Tova, Shabbat Shalom, and best wishes for a 5787 filled with joy and peace.