The Harm I Didn't Mean

Yom Kippur is nearly here, and as I wait, I find myself reflecting. Not just on the things I’ve done, but the things I never meant to do—the harm I’ve caused without intention, and perhaps haven’t even yet realised. One thing I do know: despite my best efforts, there are those I have inflicted pain upon.

There’s something especially heavy about that kind of harm. The harm you didn’t mean to cause. The harm you do even when you are actively trying not to. The harm that takes place when you thought you were doing okay. It’s harder to name, and even harder to fix. That kind of harm is dangerous; it lives in the gap between who you are and how you’re perceived. And that dissonance can feel impossible to bridge.

I’ve come to realise that good intentions don’t always protect people. That sincerity doesn’t always translate. That even when I’m trying to be kind, to be safe, to be thoughtful, I can still cause pain. And that breaks my heart.

To those I’ve harmed, please know that I am sorry. Not just for the pain itself, but for the delay in naming it. For the moments I rushed past your hurt, or failed to see it at all. You have deserved better, and I am trying to be better.

I think I’ve apologised quickly this year. But not in the way I want to. I’m not saying I’ve been quick to own my mistakes. Rather, the apology itself has often been rushed. Sincerely felt, yes, but done without the care it deserves. Why? Because sitting with discomfort is hard. Because acknowledging harm feels unbearable when you didn’t mean it. But I want to do better. I want to slow down. To show people I care—not just in words, but in presence and actions.

I’ve also stayed silent when I wish I hadn’t. I’ve tried to speak up, to share my truth, but I haven’t always said: this is how your silence hurts me. This is how your erasure wounds me. This is how your assumptions make me feel invisible. Not until now. Not until Shtetl Scribe.

I carry grief into this day. Grief for the world we could have. Grief for the misunderstandings I couldn’t prevent. Grief for the relationships I couldn’t repair. And grief for the parts of myself I’ve hidden, reshaped, or masked just to feel safe. But I also carry hope. Hope that reflection can lead to repair. That naming harm can lead to healing. That even if I’ve been misunderstood, even if I’ve caused pain, I can still choose to show up with truth and become the version of myself that chooses repair over pride, presence over perfection, and truth over comfort.

Teshuvah isn’t just about repentance. It’s about return. And I’m trying to return to myself, to the version of me that is honest, imperfect, and still learning. I want to be forgiven. But I also want to forgive myself… for the harm I didn’t mean, for the words I couldn’t find, for the silence I thought would protect me. And maybe that’s the work: not to be perfect, but to be present. And not to erase the harm, but to meet it with humility.

So here it is, my promise to keep trying, and my prayer for a better year.