Today marks three years since October 7th, when the largest number of Jews were murdered in one day since the Holocaust. It is difficult to describe the magnitude of devastation, sadness, and grief that now fills this day. I spent much of today reflecting on how it impacted me and so many other young Jews in America. For many of us, October 7th forced us to confront the fragility of our people. We deepened our Jewish identity in an effort to rebuild ourselves; we returned to tradition to reclaim our agency at a time when everything else was falling apart. Now, it seems that in the wake of one of the darkest days in our history, the decades-long freefall in Jewish identity has begun to turn the corner. I would like to offer my own story. Many of the most meaningful experiences of my life have taken place in the three years since October 7th. Notably, I had the privilege of volunteering in the south of Israel in early 2024, an experience that forever changed my relationship with the country and my identity as a Jew. During this volunteering trip, we spent time with the then-newly drafted Kfir unit, the largest infantry brigade in the IDF, and helped cook them a BBQ dinner. We sat side-by-side with these boys, Jews with roots from all over the world—Iraqi, Ethiopian, Syrian, Russian… I even met a lone soldier from my hometown—and heard their stories. Most were 18 or 19 years old, barely out of high school. I remember how excited they were to sit and eat with us, how positive they were, and how excited they were about the opportunity to serve their country. I remember finding it funny that they were thanking us for cooking them dinner, when they were the ones preparing to defend us on the front lines. I remember feeling both pride and grief at how young they were. Especially as young people, it can often be hard to comprehend how much of our lives are, in fact, up to us. So much of who we are is simply who we decide to be. As for my background, my mom is Israeli, and half my family lives in Israel. I’ve always felt a deep connection to the country and its people. I took my first steps there and, growing up, we visited our cousins as often as we could. But this trip (and the subsequent trips I’ve taken since) served as a dramatic recalibration for me in terms of what it meant for me to be Jewish. I came to more deeply understand my responsibility in maintaining the Jewish future. This understanding and appreciation has changed the way I’ve lived my life. It has had a profound impact on who I have decided to be. Today, we are reminded of the immense suffering facing our people and the world. And yet, it is central to the Jewish experience that sorrow and joy can exist side by side. We praise God’s goodness while reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish; we smash a wine glass into pieces at a Jewish wedding. On that same volunteering trip, I visited the site of the Nova Music Festival. It was springtime, and I remember the fields were covered in red Anemone flowers in what is referred to as Darom Adom (“Red South”). These dramatic flowers were blossoming among the charred remains of trees. Life was returning to a place once covered in blood. In the Torah, when Moses nears the end of his life, he speaks to the Israelites: “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life…” We choose life. Am Yisrael Chai