Yali Szulanski is an award-winning educator, trauma-informed emotions specialist, and writer. She founded The “I Am” Project/The Neshima Initiative, transforming classrooms, camps, and community organizations through emotional wellness practices that foster resilience and growth. With a Master’s in Psychology and Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, and a certification in Spirituality-Mind-Body Integration, Yali has spent 15 years teaching her curriculum focused on emotional intelligence, resilience, and community building. Her writing, rooted in personal experience, inspires meaningful change in individuals and communities. Currently, she serves as Social Emotional Learning Specialist and Guidance Counselor at SAR Academy and as Youth Director at The Hebrew Institute of Riverdale. After graduation, Yali will step into an enhanced role as Youth and Family Engagement Rabbi at The Hebrew Institute of Riverdale and continue her work educating and tending to emotional wellness at SAR Academy and beyond. Yali lives in Riverdale with her family.

 

“Open for Me a door the size of a needle’s eye, and I will open for you an entrance as wide as a great hall.” (Shir HaShirim Rabba 5:2)

I’ve always loved that line. It doesn’t raise its voice. It doesn’t demand attention. It just waits, quietly, at the threshold of transformation.

 

It reminds me that change—real change—rarely starts with sweeping declarations or grand gestures. It begins in the smallest spaces. A shift. A moment when someone doesn’t look away. When someone decides to stay.

 

To open a door the size of a needle’s eye is to believe that presence matters. That something holy can happen in the moments we almost miss. That noticing—really noticing—is its own form of faith.

 

Presence is rarely convenient. It happens in the hallway on the way to a meeting. At the edge of a classroom where a student lingers after everyone else has gone. During cleanup at a carnival, when someone says, “Can I ask you something?” And you say yes, even though your hands are full and you're already late.

 

Once, I noticed a student hovering. He wasn’t asking for help. He was pacing, circling—like someone testing the temperature of the water before stepping in. I said, “You don’t have to talk now. I just want you to know I’m here if you ever want to.” He didn’t respond. He kept pacing. But the next week, he sat down before I could even say hello. He didn’t tell me everything. He didn’t need to. He just started with, “Do you think some kids are just born harder to like?” And we went from there. That question cracked something open—not just for him, but for me. Presence did that. Not performance. Not polish. Just presence.

 

To be a rabbi, for me, is to carry Torah not as something I teach at people—but something I offer with people. It’s not only what I say. It’s how I listen. It’s the choice to bring warmth to a space before I bring words. To carry Torah like a coat you hold out for someone who doesn’t know yet that they’re cold.

 

It’s easy to welcome certainty. It’s harder to welcome the kid who talks too much, or the one who says nothing at all. Harder to welcome the parent who seems standoffish, or the teen who rolls their eyes, or the colleague who always needs to feel right. But holiness doesn’t wait for people to get it all together. It meets them where they are.

 

I’ve stood in rooms where someone finally said the thing they hadn’t been able to say—and the room shifted. Not because we fixed it. Because we didn’t flinch.

 

As Pirkei Avot teaches, "In a place where there are no people, strive to be a person." Sometimes, being a person means simply staying. Not filling the silence. Not rushing to fix what feels broken. Just standing with someone at the edge of their becoming, and not looking away.

 

I remember a fifth grader who rarely spoke above a whisper. She was always last to raise her hand, often didn’t speak at all. Then one day, she did. And no one interrupted her. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just quiet. But the kind of quiet that feels like reverence.

 

I’ve seen what happens when a child who usually lashes out manages to say, “I was just scared.” And instead of correcting him, we say, “Thank you for telling us.” And we mean it. And he believes us. And he stays.

 

I’ve sat with parents who feel like they’re failing. Who are holding so much, they’re not even sure where to begin. And I say, “You don’t have to be okay for me to see you.” Sometimes we don’t say much more than that. We just stay. None of these moments are tidy. But every one of them is holy. They are the needle’s eye—the narrow space that becomes a great opening. Not because we pried it open, but because we were gentle enough not to force it.

 

I’ve missed moments, too. I’ve offered solutions when someone needed silence. I’ve rushed past someone’s truth to get to the “teachable” part. I’ve forgotten that Torah isn’t always about what we say—it’s about what we’re willing to witness.

 

Presence is a kind of surrender. It’s choosing to believe that the Shechinah shows up in the unscripted. That a hallway can become holy ground. That a pause can be an offering. That our job is not to fill the space, but to hold it.

 

So may we be the ones who open doors. Not wide, sweeping ones—but small, deliberate ones. The kind you open with a nod, or a quiet, “I’m here.” The kind that make someone feel like they can breathe again.

 

May we carry Torah gently. May we bring warmth before wisdom. May we create space not for performance, but for presence. And may we never underestimate what can begin with a quiet, sacred yes.

 

And before I close, I want to say thank you.

 

To the people who believe in me, are patient with me, and walk this journey beside me—often pointing out doors where I don’t see them, and loving me even when I stumble or hesitate to walk through. To Ben, Zoey, Eliezer, and Leia—my heart’s companions, my deepest joy—thank you for being the reason I want to keep becoming.

 

To my parents, Odeya and Gabriel—thank you for the love, the guidance, and the foundation that helped bring me to this moment.

 

To my sister, Danielle—thank you for your steady strength, your deep heart, and the way we’ve grown side by side, supporting and becoming together.

 

To my biggest cheerleaders, who saw me, loved me, and lifted me even when I couldn’t lift myself—my grandparents: Lea (z”l) and Asher (z”l), Susana, and Roberto (z”l). Your faith echoes in every step I take.

 

To those who opened their homes and hearts and welcomed me as their own—my in-laws, Evelyn and Stanley, Miriam and Mark, Mechal and Chaim—and to Bubbie Jean (z”l), whose love and warmth continue to bless our family—thank you for weaving me into your family with such depth and care.

 

To our extended family—in the U.S. and in Israel—thank you for your love, your support, and for being part of the fabric of our lives.

 

To Joy Sanjek, who helped me open the doors within, and who taught me the true meaning of the word compassion.

 

To my teachers across the chapters of my life—thank you for showing me that learning is a doorway to presence. To Rabbi Ruth Berman Harris, who opened the first door to Torah. To Mary Beth Hegeman, who opened the door to the sacred work of the classroom. To Dr. Aurelie Athan, who opened the door to the spiritual depths of parenthood and personhood. To Dr. Lisa Miller, who opened the door to the resonance between spirit and care. To Dr. Ruth Rosenbaum, who opened the door to the transcendent. To Maya Berstein, who opened the door by seeing and teaching the leader in me. To Rabbanit Aliza Sperling, and Rabba Wendy Amselamm, who opened the door to accessing text, and from there, all the unfolding layers. And to all those who have guided me with wisdom and care.

 

To Rav Avi Weiss, who opened the door for all of us to walk-through, without whom none of this would be possible, and who saw this door for me before I even knew it was there.

 

To my teachers at Maharat—who saw me as a Rabbi before I was ready to see it myself: Rabba Sara Hurwitz, Rabbi Avi Weiss, Rabba Wendy Amsellem, Rabbanit Aliza Sperling, Maya Bernstein, Reb Tanya Farber, Dr. Esther Altmann, Rabbanit Liz Shayne, Rabbi Dr. Erin Lieb Smokler, Rabbi Adam Mintz, and Rabbi Jeff Fox. Thank you for holding the vision when I was still learning to trust it.

 

To my chevruta and dear friend, Arielle—you walk this road with me, breaking down doors when needed, holding space when it matters most. You bring light and laughter to the hardest work, and I am better because you are beside me.

 

To my Maharat cohort—my fellow travelers on this path—thank you for your questions, your wisdom, your laughter, and your strength. We held each other through this journey, and I carry your presence with me.

 

To the people who have believed in my growth and continue to believe in my growth and my work as a rabbi and a pastoral presence in our community—Rabbi Steven Exler, Rabbanit Bracha Jaffe, Richard Langer, Rabbi Aaron Frank, Sharon Richter, Beth Pepper, Alana Rifkin Gelnick, Rabbi Bini Krauss—thank you for your trust, your partnership, your encouragement, and your unwavering belief in what this work can become.

 

To the communities and institutions that have helped shape me and hold me—thank you. To Kinneret Day School, SAR Academy and the Hebrew Institute of Riverdale—for the trust, the partnership, and the space to grow into this work with both vision and heart.

 

To The Jewish Education Project—for seeing possibility and honoring the call to nurture the inner lives of children.

 

To the Spirituality Mind Body Institute—for teaching me how to listen to the soul as much as the story, and how to honor what is unseen, but deeply known. You have each played a role in helping me step fully into this calling.

 

To my friends who have walked with me through the harder chapters of this journey—thank you. For the voice notes, the quiet reminders to rest, the laughter at just the right moment, the space to fall apart and begin again. Devora, Elana, Shira, Erica, Jenna—your presence has been a balm and a blessing. You remind me that I don’t have to be “on” to be worthy, that being seen in the mess is sometimes where the truest friendship lives.

 

To my colleagues who became more than collaborators—who became partners in purpose, and friends—thank you. Hanita Hayim, Adina Shrague, Shoshana Dachs, Yael Oshinsky—your clarity, courage, and honesty have shaped my work more than you know. Thank you for dreaming alongside me, for asking the harder questions, and for believing in the kind of leadership that makes space for heart.

 

To my students—past and present—thank you. You have taught me more than I can say. You continue to teach me, long after our time together ends. I hold and remember each and every one of you. Your stories walk with me. You are the Torah I carry. You remind me that teaching is never one-directional— It is a relationship, a holy exchange, a shared breath. Thank you for trusting me with your questions, your truths, your silences. You are the reason I return, again and again, to this work.

 

To my colleagues, who have become friends. To my friends, who have become family. To the ones I name and the ones I carry quietly—thank you.

 

I don’t know where every step will lead, but I know the kind of presence I hope to bring with me. I know that the Torah I carry is shaped by every person who let me in, and I pray to carry it with the same courage, care, and curiosity they offered me. I will keep writing—about the holiness of parenting, about the daily work of presence, about how we grow and return, over and over again. Because these are the questions that matter. These are the doors I still want to open.

 

May we all find doors when we need them. And may we be brave enough to open them for one another.

 

Thank you.