This past Sunday — just hours before Chanukah began — our world woke up to devastating news. At least 15 Jews were murdered, and many more injured, at a Chanukah celebration on a beach in Sydney, Australia. Within that same window of time came news of another mass shooting — this one at Brown University, inside the classroom of Professor Rachel Friedberg, a faculty associate of the Judaic Studies Program.

Both tragedies landed painfully close to home — literally. I grew up in Mountain Brook, Alabama, a small, close-knit community outside of Birmingham where everyone seems to know everyone. And suddenly, the violence and pain that so often feels distant wasn’t distant at all.

A friend from high school who now lives in Australia was at the Chanukah celebration. Thankfully he and his husband were not physically harmed, but the murderous attack on the beach will no doubt stay with them for the rest of their lives. And the shooting at Brown took the lives of two students, one of those an undergraduate also from my hometown.  She was a bright student with an even brighter future.

On Sunday night, after we lit our menorah at home, cleared the dinner table, and tucked our son into bed, I sat alone and read more about both tragedies. The tears came easily. I cried for the victims, for their families, and for a world where moments meant to be filled with light are too often shattered by violence.

Monday morning came with swollen eyes and a heavy heart.

My first thought was of our JCC team. How would I lead? What would they need? How would I stand in front of them? Should I try to stay “in character”– steady, composed, holding it all together?

I texted a colleague, Rebecca Schalit-Newman, who works at our Jewish Federation. “How do I stand in front of my team for our Monday morning huddle without crying?” I asked. Her response grounded me: “Focus on getting through the first sentence or two. Once you start talking, it will get easier. And remember — you’re human. It’s okay to cry.”

As I walked into the building, I carried her words with me. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be inside our JCC — a place where I can be fully myself and feel safe as a Jew. This, to me, is the ultimate comfort: belonging as you are, for who you are. It also reminded me of something I shared with our staff — that people walk through our doors every day carrying burdens and internal tears we may never see. Grief, fear, uncertainty, and loneliness. We don’t always know what someone is holding.

That morning, the JCC served and comforted me in the same way we strive to serve our members every day. Our goal is simple yet profound: that everyone who walks through our doors leaves feeling even just a little bit better than when they arrived.

While we are a web of offerings, at our core, we are comforters. Never did that truth feel more real than when I stood in front of our team — colleagues who show up each day to care for this community and for one another. In that space, here at our JCC, I did not need to be composed or certain or strong. I only needed to be honest.

Leadership, I have come to learn, is not about holding it together at all costs. Sometimes it is about letting yourself be seen for who you really are and being vulnerable. It is about trusting the people around you to carry you when the weight is too heavy to carry alone. 

That morning, it was. And so, I cried.

Shabbat Shalom,

Sam Dubrinsky, CEO