A Hanukkah Reflection: The Light We Don’t Always See, but That Never Goes Out

As the nights grow longer and the world feels a little heavier, I find myself turning toward the familiar rhythm of Hanukkah. The simple act of striking a match, watching the wick catch and letting that first small flame settle into the room reminds me of something I tend to forget in the rush of life: light does not always announce itself. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it hides. But it is always there.

Many of us move through our days unaware of the light we carry. We notice strength in everyone else but overlook our own. We show up, we keep going, we lift others, we give of ourselves and, still, we forget that we, too, are a source of warmth and illumination. Hanukkah invites us to slow down and look again.

There have been times in my own life when I have felt stretched thin with responsibilities piled high, when uncertainty made everything feel a little unsteady. In those seasons, lighting the Hanukkah menorah grounded me. There was something reassuring in the steadiness of the flame, something that reminded me that, even when I felt unsure or overwhelmed , there was still a spark inside me. I did not always recognize it, but it was still there waiting to be tended. That is the quiet beauty of light. It waits for us.

We all know the story of the small jar of oil in the ancient temple that was expected to burn for only one night and instead lasted for eight. This year, I find myself less focused on the oil itself and more on what it represents. The miracle was not that the flame was enormous or dramatic. The miracle was simply that it held on. Even the smallest light can outlast everything working against it.

I see this kind of resilience every day in Hadassah, my volunteer organization. Women who have faced illness, grief, trauma, loneliness or overwhelming responsibility often reach moments when they believe their oil is gone. They doubt that they have anything left to give. Yet they show up anyway, maybe not perfectly and maybe not joyfully, but they show up. That alone is a miracle worth honoring.

I have watched women join a meeting after spending the morning caring for a loved one. I have seen women hold another’s hand during a tough conversation, offer to drive someone to an appointment or quietly slip a meal onto a doorstep because they knew it would help. These gestures rarely make headlines, but they are acts of light. They are the everyday miracles that strengthen our community. Our glow is not loud. It is steady, consistent and deeply compassionate.

We are part of a long line of empowered Jewish women who have kept the flame alive through every kind of darkness. Through participation in Hadassah, we witness modern miracles unfold, not only in our communities, but also in Israel, where healing itself becomes an act of light.

The Hadassah Medical Organization’s Gandel Rehabilitation Center at Hadassah Hospital Mount Scopus embodies light. It is a place where lives are rebuilt after trauma, injury and war; where patients relearn how to walk, speak, reach for healing and return to themselves. In the midst of profound national challenges, the Gandel Center stands as a testament to what hope can create when compassion meets innovation.

Every day, Gandel’s physicians and therapists kindle light for those who feel their own has dimmed. The Gandel Center reminds us that resilience is not theoretical. It is lived, practiced and renewed, one patient, one step, one miracle at a time.

There is a beautiful teaching that a little bit of light pushes away a lot of darkness.  We are busy caring for families, juggling work and volunteering and showing up to support one another, yet we assume the flicker inside us is nothing special. In reality, it might be the very thing keeping the space around us warm.

We do not need floodlights or perfection. We simply need to tend our own flame.

Lighting the Hanukkah candles is not only an act of remembrance of an ancient miracle. It is a decision to bring light into the world, even when the world feels complicated or heavy. Every night that we strike another match, we are saying that hope still has a place here.

Whether we in Hadassah are advocating, educating, fundraising or simply supporting one another, something remarkable happens as we sit together. Our individual flames rise. Our strength grows. We match one another’s warmth. We remind each other who we are when life becomes difficult. Little by little, our individual sparks become something powerful enough to guide an entire community.

Hanukkah always makes me think about the times in my life when I believed my light had dimmed: moments of exhaustion, grief, confusion or fear; when I questioned my worth, direction or ability to continue. But even then, a small spark remained — a trace of warmth that held on until I was ready to reach for it again.

Looking back, I realize I needed only to notice the small ember that refused to go out. That ember carried me through some of the most difficult chapters of my life. It grew slowly, every time I honored it, teaching me that light can return, even after long seasons of shadow.

One of the most significant parts of the Hanukkah menorah is the shamash (the “helper” candle), which lights all the others. It gives its flame again and again. I have come to believe that this is who we are for one another. We are shamashim. We step in when another woman’s flame flickers. We offer warmth when someone’s heart feels cold from worry or exhaustion. We do this because we understand what it feels like to need someone to share her glow with us.

This Hanukkah, when you strike your match, pause for a moment. Let the room quiet. Notice the darkness, just long enough to appreciate what comes next. Watch how one small flame changes the entire atmosphere. Watch how a single candle pushes back the night. Then take a breath and consider the light inside you. Where is it right now? What small spark have you forgotten to honor? In what way are you ready to grow brighter?

I have a wish for all of us this Hanukkah: May we recognize the light within ourselves, tend to that light with love, trust its ability to grow and continue to be shamashim for one another — lifting each other through moments of challenge and joy. And may hope, steady and ancient, keep showing up exactly when we need it most.

Chag Urim Sameach (Happy Festival of Lights)! May your Festival of Lights be bright in all the ways that matter.