A Mindful Yom Kippur

Over the past year, I’ve been practicing mindfulness. I’d meditate for fifteen minutes a day, sitting quietly, watching my thoughts drift by. I was also working on my psychological flexibility, separating my thoughts from my emotions. At first, it felt like exercise for the brain: uncomfortable, sometimes boring, but strangely strengthening. Over time, though, I noticed something deeper.

I really saw the benefits of this on Yom Kippur. I realized how closely these practices mirror the essence of the holiday. In many ways, Yom Kippur is a 25-hour meditation—an invitation to step away from food, distractions, and earthly concerns, and instead focus on prayer, presence, and who we are in relation to God.

Learning to Sit Still

One benefit of daily meditation is learning how to just sit without checking my watch. Fifteen minutes a day doesn’t sound like much, but it trained me to let go of time’s slow crawl. On Yom Kippur, this skill matters. When I’m not waiting for the service to end, but instead sinking into it, the hours seem to pass more naturally.

I started experiencing this more deeply about sixteen years ago, right before my oldest child was born. Back then, with diapers and bedtime battles, meditation was almost impossible. Now that my kids are teenagers, I can return to the practice with more focus—and more appreciation.

Coming As We Are

On Yom Kippur, tradition calls for everyone to come as their purest selves: no jewelry, no fine clothes, ideally all in white. But the point is clear: leave behind the trappings, and bring only yourself.

From a mindfulness lens, this is like asking, “Who is really here right now?” It’s a strange question—like catching your own reflection off guard—but it opens up a transcendent awareness. Yom Kippur becomes less about what we’re wearing or what we own, and more about the essence of who we are.

Wishing Others Well

One of my favorite meditations is silently wishing people well as I walk past them: May you be happy. May you be well. It sounds small, but it shifts my whole mood.

Yom Kippur has its own version: “Gmar Chatima Tovah”—may you be sealed for a good year. For years, I thought of this as a kind of social exchange: I bless you, you bless me back, and we both walk away smiling.

But lately, I’ve found something powerful in offering the blessing silently, without needing to hear it echoed. Looking around the synagogue, I can simply hold the thought: May you have a great year. Even if the other person never knows, I feel more connected, more openhearted.

The Viddui and Acceptance

Then there’s the Viddui, the confessional prayer—our long list of collective sins. For years, I treated it like a moral accounting exercise, tallying up where I had failed and feeling guilty. Last year I thought of it differently, as the Chapter 11 bankruptcy of morality: wipe the slate clean, start fresh.

But mindfulness has shifted my perspective. Now I approach the Viddui with acceptance. Yes, I’ve stumbled in some of these ways. Yes, I could do better. But it isn’t about feeling guilty. It’s about acknowledging what was, accepting that I (mostly) did the best I could, and setting the intention to do better next year.

That, I think, is the essence of both mindfulness and Yom Kippur: presence without judgment, reflection without despair, resolve without shame.

What strikes me most is how these ancient rituals and modern mindfulness practices are reaching for the same truth: that presence is sacred, that acceptance is healing, and that we’re all stumbling forward together. Whether I’m sitting on my meditation cushion at dawn or standing in the synagogue on Yom Kippur, I’m practicing the same essential skill—showing up fully, without pretense, ready to meet whatever comes with an open heart.ngs whispered silently all around.