God Knows the Man I Am

On Yom Kippur, we face the truth: not the lies, not the headlines, but our raw humanity — broken, striving, forgiven, and always reaching for redemption.

Guest article by Michael Cohen. Follow him on Substack for more by clicking here.

Editorial credit: a katz / Shutterstock.com

Today is Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish faith. A day of atonement, of reflection, of trying to make right what has been wrong. And for me, it is also a day of reckoning, because Yom Kippur asks us to stand before God stripped of all the masks, all the pretenses, all the excuses, and to confront the truth of who we are.

Now imagine living a life where so many refuse to see you for who you truly are. Where the noise of public perception drowns out your voice, and the labels, the lies, the headlines become your identity in the eyes of others. That is my reality. It is suffocating. It is painful in a way that cuts deeper than words can ever capture — because nothing could be further from the truth.

Each year, Yom Kippur gives me something the public does not: a clean slate. My faith tells me that God looks at the heart, not the caricature. That God hears the sincerity in confession, the honesty in repentance, the desire to start again. I wish the world was as forgiving as God. But too often, people are not. They cling to the narrative that suits them, even when it’s built on cruelty, distortion, or outright lies.

So every day, I work to show my true character — that I am loyal, that I am honest, that I am sincere. That the person described in soundbites, headlines, and smear campaigns is not the person I see in the mirror, not the person my children know as their father, not the person my wife knows as her husband of 30 years, not the man my faith calls me to be.

Trying to prove yourself to those determined not to believe you is soul-crushing. It hurts in ways that are hard to describe. It feels like walking around with a bag over your head — unable to breathe, unable to be seen, yet forced to keep moving forward. And still, you fight through it. You fight because the cause — the truth of who you are — is worth every ounce of struggle, even if it leaves you gasping for air.

Judgment is hard to escape. People remember your worst mistakes and rarely forgive your attempts to make things right. They weaponize your past to deny your present. They forget that redemption is not a slogan; it’s a process. They forget that cruelty leaves scars. But I don’t forget. I feel it every second of every day.

And yet, I keep going. Because I have you. All of you who still believe in me, who see me not as the caricature but as the flawed but striving human being that I am. You remind me that truth has a voice. That compassion has a place. That belief in one another matters.

So today, on this Yom Kippur, I wish for you what I wish for myself: that you are inscribed in the Book of Life. That the year ahead brings health, happiness, and success. That we all have the strength to face our truths and the courage to keep moving forward, no matter how heavy the burden.

On Yom Kippur, one of the central prayers we recite is the Vidui — the confessional. It is not just about personal sins, but communal ones. We say it together, because no one person carries guilt alone. We stand as one, asking God to forgive us, to cleanse us, to write us anew.

Here is one of the most profound lines of the Yom Kippur prayer, in English:

“Our God and God of our ancestors, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement. For the sin we have committed before You by hardening our hearts, by speaking harshly, by acting with arrogance. For all of these, O God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.”

This prayer matters because it forces us to acknowledge that we all fall short. We all harm others in ways small and large. And yet, forgiveness is possible. Renewal is possible. A second chance is always possible — if not in the eyes of people, then in the eyes of God.

Yom Kippur is not about perfection. It is about striving. About standing bare before the Almighty and saying: I am broken, but I want to be whole. I am flawed, but I want to be better. And isn’t that the very definition of humanity?

So today, let us all reflect. Let us all find within ourselves the strength to forgive, the humility to repent, and the courage to start anew. Because tomorrow is never promised, but today — today, we can choose who we want to be.

I’ll end with the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory: “Yom Kippur reminds us that we are not prisoners of our past. We can change. We can grow. We can begin again.”

I pray this Yom Kippur brings me some much-needed peace. For I am in pain. I don’t want to be a prisoner of my past. I want to change. I want to grow. I want to begin again. And because of you, I have that chance.

And together, let’s all say Amen.

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