On Succos, we gather our crops, reflect on our harvest. In life, we gather our experiences, appreciate what we’ve gained

I’ve never been one for roller coasters, especially not twisters. Yet a particularly challenging period two years ago found me hurtling round life’s bends at breakneck speeds that would put even those gaily-colored rides to shame.

I fought to find my equilibrium as winds whistled past; lost it, found it, lost it again, as breath was whipped from my mouth, words wouldn’t come. There were no lines for that ride.

The year drew to a close and I took on something tiny that Elul, determined to create an opening for Hashem despite the hurt. I stood ready to crown my King, with all I’d experienced. The shofar reverberated through me, mascara trails raced down my machzor. I accept, my heart proclaimed. There was shock, grief, pain, but I accept. I felt whole that day; letting go, a fresh start.

The following day, phones rang urgently. My dad. A suspected tumor; confirmations; an actual tumor. A week later, the needle-sized opening from Elul closed with my heart, and that tiny deed disappeared with the falling leaves.

That year was a battle. Thrice daily I davened, determined to keep going, keep growing; learning to pretend life was normal when nothing was. Dad’s operation was a success, the tumor removed, and the earth exhaled as I journeyed toward acceptance.

Elul returned and attempting to thank Hashem, I took on that same step, doggedly plodding through the month. Another Rosh Hashanah, the words of Unesaneh Tokef rattling frighteningly in my ears. I davened my heart out, confident that things could only get easier. Twelve weeks later, the scans showed otherwise — the disease had returned. Oh, and I dropped that mitzvah again.

And now, it is Elul.