Much of life is analogous to a road or journey. As the traveler, we move along, sometimes fast—sometimes slow, as we trek this thing called life.

There was a saying we heard a lot when we first arrived in Atlanta in the late 1990s: I am really sorry I cannot do “x” “y” or “z” because “my plate is full.”

I drive around town in a big black SUV that fits many children, car seats, groceries and gear. I am grateful for this car, large enough for my family, and I’m grateful for the lesson it has taught me . . .

As a mother, I find that there is a lot of pressure, from within and from without, to be the perfect mother, or an excellent mother, when being even just a good mom seems elusive and confounding.

This morning, I was struck by an overwhelming thought: I am a parent of children at almost every possible stage. I have twin toddlers, two children in elementary school, one in middle school, two in high school, and one in rabbinical college.

“Hit the road, Jack . . .” This is the song we heard playing loud and live on a makeshift stage in the middle of a grassy knoll in the neighborhood park. We had come to the park in an attempt to get out of the house on this last day of Yom Tov, Simchat Torah

Sitting in the park on a hot and humid day, I am an observer. I am there to keep an eye on my children, to care for their needs, to observe them at play. But I notice and think about much more.

I feel as though I am swimming. Sometimes I’m going upstream, against the current. Sometimes there is a weight on my body, further slowing me down. The water is cool and refreshing, and it’s supposed to be enjoyable—so why does it feel so oppressive and burdensome?

Prayer, it seems, is getting a bad rap as of late. “Our thoughts and prayers are with Charlottesville, Puerto Rico, Houston, Florida, Las Vegas, rural Texas” — and people don’t want prayers. They understandably want action, steps taken to create lasting change, help given to rebuild.

A guest came to our Chabad House to celebrate the birthday of his friend, a regular Shabbat congregant. The guest approached me during the meal after services, saying he was going to be speaking

I love music. I grew up in a Hasidic home with a lot of music, and not just a narrow selection of Hasidic classics—my parents tolerated and introduced us to so much more.

As I jogged past an apartment complex, I saw in my peripheral vision a mom repeatedly hitting her child’s outstretched hands with a white stick that looked like a pipe. I saw anger and crying and trembling.

I was born in Berkeley, California in 1975. Berkeley’s most prominent feature is UC Berkeley, often considered the top public University in the United States. It is renowned for its brilliant students and professors, and its extreme liberalism.

Much of my father’s wisdom comes in the form of a story, but sometimes he shares a joke. What was considered a joke in our family was nuanced in humor and overt in a life lesson.