Like many Canadians, this December took me from snowy boots to sandy flip-flops as I spent time in Florida. However, what made this trip different was not the weather, but the work: over the course of a few days, I had the opportunity to visit several Jewish day schools in person, sometimes more than one in the same day.
What struck me wasn’t simply the warmth or the hospitality. It was the contrast.
In the span of hours, I moved between schools that differed dramatically in size, educational philosophy, religious culture, physical space, and communal norms. Different buildings. Different dress. Different rhythms of tefillah and learning. Different assumptions about what a “good day school” looks like. And yet, each was deeply and unmistakably Jewish – animated by care for children, commitment to Torah, and responsibility for the future.
I found myself thinking: this is a quiet Jewish miracle.
We often talk about “diversity” in Jewish education, but usually in abstract or ideological terms – denominations, movements, labels. What I witnessed instead was diversity as it actually lives and breathes: in hallways and classrooms, in schedules and staffing models, in the daily choreography of institutions serving real families in real communities.
And this was just one small slice of a much broader tapestry.
In my current work, I’m in relationship with schools across continents and across the Jewish spectrum – large and small, legacy institutions and newer ones, schools wrestling with growth and schools wrestling with sustainability. The contexts vary widely. The challenges don’t always rhyme. And the solutions cannot be imported wholesale from one place to another.
Which is precisely the point.
Strong ideas matter. Research matters. Proven practices matter. But they only become transformative when they are translated and interpreted through local culture, capacity, and readiness. Too often, we confuse replication with leadership, assuming that what worked “there” will work “here,” if only we apply it faithfully enough. In reality, systems fail not because ideas are weak, but because context is ignored.
This is where humility becomes a leadership skill.
Not the performative kind, but the disciplined kind: the willingness to listen before prescribing, to ask better questions before offering frameworks, and to assume that wisdom already exists within the institution, even when outside expertise is invited in.
January is a funny month in schools. Some communities are just regaining momentum after Winter Break; others are easing toward Yeshiva Break. It’s a liminal time—part reset, part continuation. It’s tempting to think of this stretch as lost time, or as a holding pattern before the real work begins.
I’m increasingly convinced the opposite is true.
These in-between moments are where the most important noticing happens. What feels heavy right now? Which conversations are being deferred? What successes deserve more attention than they’re getting? The experiences leaders are having now are often the clearest signals of the changes they’ll want to make later – but only if they pause long enough to name them.
I’ve long believed in taking advantage of all the “new years” available to us: the secular new year, Rosh Hashanah, Pesach, Tu BiShvat. Each invites a different kind of stock-taking. Each creates space not just to set goals, but to revisit assumptions.
So, in that spirit, here are a few quiet “resolutions” I’m carrying into the (secular) year ahead shaped by what I’ve seen recently, and by the privilege of walking alongside many very different schools:
- To keep difference visible rather than smoothing it over in the name of efficiency or scale.
- To lead with questions before frameworks, and curiosity before conclusions.
- To resist one-size-fits-all solutions, even when they are elegant or popular.
- To honor the wisdom already present in institutions, not just the expertise brought from outside.
- To remember that meaningful change depends as much on readiness and relationships as it does on strategy.
Jewish day schools do not form a single story. They are a library of stories – distinct, contextual, and deeply rooted. The work ahead is not to unify them into sameness, but to help each one become more fully itself, in service of the children and communities it serves.
Standing in Florida classrooms in December – moving from boots to flip-flops, from one world to another – I was reminded how rare, fragile, and hopeful this ecosystem really is.
That feels like the right place to begin the year.
