When Attending Synagogue on Yom Kippur Becomes Something to Fear

I was sitting in our synagogue for Rabbi Rose’s final Kol Nidre service when I thought about my dad’s eyes snapping open.

Rabbi Kliel Rose has meant everything to our family and to me, and now he’s moving to a new congregation in a different city. So I was already there holding grief. He has been a spiritual guide who’s been part of really important family events.

Kol Nidre was starting, and we were sitting in a beautiful circle. The confession was about to begin. I was thinking about how this is the last time I’ll be in his congregation.

While I was doing this, at the same time on Sunday night, September 21, while many families were gathering at Sons of Jacob Synagogue in Belleville for Yom Kippur, a 29-year-old man showed up with a shotgun and opened fire on Const. Jeff Smith, who was stationed outside. Smith returned fire. Other officers responded. And in that exchange, 20 or 30 gunshots tore through the sanctuary’s stained glass windows. Twenty bullet holes in one window. Teenagers inside dropped to the floor. The president of the congregation, Norm Weddum, yelled at everyone to hit the ground.

No one died during this specific incident; however, Smith is in critical but stable condition. Ward is in life-threatening condition. But here’s what I can’t unhear: the congregation was in the building when it happened. They were trying to observe the holiest night of the year, and violence found them there anyway.

And this is one of my biggest fears of going to synagogue - being attacked.

Why His Eyes Opened for the Drugs, Not the Prayer

In 2022, my dad was dying. We got “the call” from the hospital and rushed there, and the rabbi came to his bedside. My sister Alana and I held him. The rabbi asked if he could pray, and he sang the Vidui. The confession. The unburdening. The prayer that says all the things we’ve carried wrong, all the ways we’ve failed, all the weight we’re ready to release.

And we cried. It was beautiful.

The nurses tried to wake him before we got there. They did everything. We couldn’t wake him, either. We thought we were saying one final goodbye. We thought this was it.

Then the doctor walked in with more medicine (more drugs), and my dad’s eyes popped wide open.

Not for the prayer. Not for us. Not for the unburdening. For the drugs.

I don’t know what that means exactly. Maybe his body knew something his conscious mind didn’t. Maybe the soul recognizes medicine differently than it recognizes prayer. But I’ve sat with that image for long enough to know that sometimes the thing that keeps you here isn’t spiritual. Sometimes it’s just chemical. And sometimes those two things (the sacred and the survival) don’t align the way you hoped they would.

The Vidui Is About Confession. So Is Yom Kippur.

The Vidui is recited twice during Yom Kippur. You say it at Kol Nidre, which is where I was sitting. And you say it again at the end of the day, when you’re supposed to have done the hard work of atonement. The prayer uses plural forms: we have trespassed, we have been faithless. Because the tradition is that everyone carries shared human responsibility. It’s a communal unburdening.

The Vidui is also a deathbed prayer. It’s the prayer for someone who’s dying, for someone ready to release their grip and move toward whatever comes next.

My father heard the Vidui sung at his bedside. Our family heard it. And now I know the people gathered at Sons of Jacob in Belleville were preparing to say it together, as a community, as a way of releasing the year’s wrongs and starting over.

And someone tried to stop that from happening with a shotgun.

I’m not interested in spiritualizing this. I’m not going to say there’s meaning in the timing or that God needed them to learn something. That’s the kind of thinking that lets us sleep at night by pretending violence is part of a plan. It’s not. It’s just violence. It’s antisemitism. It’s hate.

Trouble Finds Me

People in my life have told me time and time again that trouble finds me. I don’t mean that dramatically. I just mean that I walk into difficult situations. I show up for hard things. I’ve made a practice of facing grief instead of running from it.

But I don’t want to be caught in a mass shooting. I don’t want to be in a room full of people doing sacred work and have the windows explode around me.

And I especially don’t want to lose the ability to go to synagogue without calculating risk. Without wondering if the officer outside is enough. Without checking the exits. Without feeling my nervous system spike when I hear a loud noise.

That’s what learning about what happened in Belleville did to me. It wasn’t an abstraction. Some tragedy that happened somewhere else. It happened during Yom Kippur. It happened at a place of worship, to people in our community - the Jewish community. It happened while people were trying to unburden themselves, to confess, to make peace, to start over.

It happened while Jewish people around the world gathered for Kol Nidre, and while I was thinking about my dad’s eyes opening for the drugs instead of the prayer and while atoning for my sins. And a man was outside a synagogue with a rifle, deciding that his rage mattered more than anyone’s life.

You Still Have to Go

I’m going back to synagogue. I’m going back because our community deserves a congregation that shows up, and because my family’s grief doesn’t get smaller in my living room. I’m going back because the Vidui isn’t just about confession. It’s also about restoration, about saying the things you need to say out loud, in community, with witnesses.

I don’t go to synagogue often but when I do, I’ll walk in with my head held high.

But I’m also terrified.

I guess I am supposed to have resolution and tell you that faith wins, that community is stronger than violence, that we keep showing up. And maybe that’s true? Maybe that’s necessary. I’m not sure I fully believe it.

In reality, I will be sitting in a sanctuary and part of my attention will be on exits. Part of my nervous system will be calculating danger. Part of me will remember that on September 21, 2026, the people at Sons of Jacob were doing exactly what I was doing at the same time (gathering for Yom Kippur, for confession and atonement and the annual practice of becoming new), and they had to hit the floor instead.

My dad’s eyes opened for the medicine because his body was fighting to stay. Mine will always keep scanning the room because my body will be fighting to survive something that hasn’t happened yet.

That’s where we are. That’s what the shootings at synagogues have done. They’ve made the place where you’re supposed to unburden yourself into a place where you carry hypervigilance instead.

I’m still going. I’m going scared. I’m going angry. I’m going because my dad heard the Vidui at his bedside and because Rabbi Rose deserves to know his community will keep showing up, and because the Vidui says we have trespassed, and the only way to say that and mean it is to be there, in person, in the room, risking the fear.

Why should we have to choose between grief and safety? Why should Yom Kippur (the day we’re supposed to let everything go) be the day we’re holding onto terror instead?

I don’t have an answer. I just have the memory of my dad’s eyes opening, and the image of bullet holes in stained glass, and knowing that this isn’t the time for the Jewish people to hide. We must be loud, proud and love our religion.

If you’re scared to go to your synagogue, to your mosque, to your church, to anywhere sacred: you’re not alone. Trouble finds all of us now. But it doesn’t get the last word on whether we show up or not.

XX Blair

Where’s Blair?

* September 28, 2026, Vancouver, BC

My spiritual awakening and journey began because I came across Gabby Bernstein. When I learned she was going to be live in Vancouver, a friend and I got tickets. I am stoked to finally be in the same room as her and see her live. Will you be there? I’ll be in Vancouver for a few days after.

* November 12 + 13, 2026, Los Angeles, California

Alana and I will be in LA attending Endwell and Grieftastic. If you plan to be at either event, I would love to connect.

* January 3-9, 2027, Marrakech, Morocco

Join me and Happy Grieving for the Morocco Grief Retreat to kick off 2027. Grief can make the world feel small. Morocco does the opposite: it fills the senses without demanding anything from you. The souks, the spices, the calls to prayer, life continuing everywhere, in colour.

And then there’s the stillness to balance it: a traditional hammam to let your body release what it’s been holding, pottery in the medina, a full day in the Agafay Desert where the horizon gives your thoughts somewhere to go. Daily grief workshops thread it together, always optional, always held by facilitators who have walked the path of loss themselves. Learn more and book your spot.

* January 23-24, 2027, The Westin Lake Las Vegas Resort & Spa

Join me at Camp Manifest this January. Rekindle the carefree joy of camp days—bonfires, group games, laughter under the stars—reimagined for adults with an intuitive, soul-nourishing twist. Step away from the noise of everyday life and step into a sacred space designed just for you. At Camp Manifest, you’ll be guided through a powerful journey of self-discovery, healing, and intention-setting alongside an intimate group of like-minded women. Over the days, you’ll reconnect with yourself, deepen your intuition, and leave with renewed energy to manifest the life you truly desire.

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