We have seen Rachel Goldberg-Polin stand at many podiums with so much strength, resolve and hope, so many times since October 7th. And on Monday, we heard her voice at the podium we never wanted to envision, at the burial of her son Hersh, who was finally brought home, in the worst possible way.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

There was one part of Rachel’s eulogy that touched me deeply, and I’ve been thinking about it all day.

It is the moment when she beseeched of all of us to continue to carry her and her family:

And I’m so sorry to ask, because we have given you nothing and you have already given us profoundly and completely, but I beg of you all: please don’t leave us now.

I heard these words and sobbed, at her graciousness, her thankfulness, her humility, and the way that even in her grief, she is modeling for all of us—and indeed for all humanity—what it means to ask for help, to receive, and to surrender when you are crumbling.

If only she knew that the way she asked from her own desperation is exactly the ask—one that I recognize is selfish—that I have of her. How right alongside the grief in losing Hersh and five other Jewish brothers and sisters, was the fear and pain at the possibility of losing Rachel’s voice and hope, her leadership and tears. How if I could visit her shivah I might return those words to her, crouching down, tears falling, and say:

Rachel.

We have given you nothing.

You have given us, profoundly and completely.

Please, don’t leave us now.

I know you need to mourn. I know you need to fall apart in all the ways you couldn’t all this time. I know you need to find a new way of being with and feeling and connecting to Hersh. (My prayers have turned to this.) I know you’ll need to find a new normal, maybe away from the spotlight. But please, when (and if) you can, we beg of you, do not leave us.

It pains me, but also moves me, the way loss forms a rotating circle of desperation, and within that grief, those who are suffering the most need others, but somehow fortify the rest of us — thereby cementing the ways we need them too. So Rachel thanks us, and we thank her. She needs us, and we need her. When we’re truly connected, around and around it goes until it’s not even a circle anymore but just a deepening spiral of one heart, one soul.

Because Rachel, even if you had given us nothing, it would have been an honor to show up for you, to fight and pray for Hersh.

But you didn’t give us nothing, you gave us everything. Everything.

You modeled how a mother fights for her children. Unabashed, relentless, clear, loud, taking up space, saying yes to every opportunity to share Hersh’s smile and spread resolve to bring him home.

You gave us an example of what it means to embody hope, and not from the sidelines. To pursue faith with an active hand, as a sacred weapon, a revolution.

You showed us how you can have the same direct sincere message but say it in a new way, a new tone, with a new Torah insight — Every. Single. Day.

You taught us that it’s possible to be angry and have criticisms and feel let down, but to communicate it from your core, your essence, in a way that unites and builds empathy and invites all kinds of people to action.

You gave us everything by showing us you can stand tall—even in front of 290,000 people at the March for Israel (and every day online to many more)—and look at all of us with a bare face that shows your exhaustion, because you are so beautifully human.

And today, without even trying, you sent the message deep into our collective consciousness that there is a G‑dly plane upon which everything happens, and that we believe in the truth and power of an eternal soul, beyond the body’s lifetime.

Even in your greatest grief, today, honoring and mourning your one and only son, you taught us what unity means. That you can continue to count the days of captivity on your torn shirt, for all the hostages still not home, because you are part of a collective, and even in your own sickening personal closure, there is no true closure until every single one of them is home.

The timeless — but somehow newly alive — lessons that you have channeled and embodied for me, for our nation, can go on and on, like the now endless stream of our combined tears. I thank you, and I will continue to thank you.

You have kept our heads afloat, our hearts connected, and our faith alive during one of the most difficult times to be a Jew. This is what I mean by giving us everything.

And what did you get in return? What you should have received was your beautiful son, healthy and alive, in yours and Jon’s arms.

Alas, there is nothing transactional about life. Not with life or death, and not with you and us.

Which is why even though you’ve given us so much, and while I find ways to honor Hersh and lift your family up, I will still ask of you!

I ask of you not to leave us, from the perspective of a needy child, perhaps with some chutzpah, not willing to consider anything outside of myself. I ask this because despite not asking for it, you have aroused within me, my own raw needy inner child. It’s from this place that I say, don’t leave us.

And of course, if you never speak publicly at a podium again, if you never share yourself with us, if you are forever tired and weary or merely focused inward, on your family nucleus, you will have done enough. More than enough. For Hersh and for your Jewish people. It’s now up to us to honor and channel and remember everything you have given us.

But like you said at the funeral, you were chosen.

I’m so so sorry that you were.

G‑d gave you Hersh.

And G‑d gave us you.

You have given us, profoundly and completely.

We have given you nothing.

And still.

Please.

Don’t leave us.

הַמָּקוֹם יְנַחֵם אֶתְכֶם בְּתוֹךְ שְׁאָר אֲבֵלֵי צִיּוֹן וִירוּשָׁלַיִם