The Front Row:

Courage Looks Like Stepping Forward Anyway

In my twenties, I got really into Zumba. Not just the lighthearted kind where you bounce around and call it cardio—though that has its charm. This was a serious class led by a teacher who was also a professional dancer. Once a week, she ran a choreography training session where we’d learn five or six routines back to back, packed with turns, isolations, and combinations that made both my body and brain work overtime.

At the end of each series, there was a “finale.” No stopping, no re-teaching. Just music and memory. Full-body recall. Spirit and sweat.

I was not great at it.

Enthusiastic, yes. Committed, absolutely. Still, often a beat behind, often unsure. I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, flailing like one of those inflatable tube guys outside a car dealership, and just try to keep going.

Something kept me coming back. Maybe it was the music pulsing through my chest or the way movement quieted the noise in my mind. Or maybe it was something deeper—some small awakening that told me my body, which had so often been a place of struggle, could also be a source of joy.

For the first time in my life, physical effort wasn’t about shrinking or sculpting or striving toward some unreachable goal. It was just fun. It was mine. There was holiness in that, though I didn’t have the words for it at the time.

Each week, I danced beside the same women. We nodded to each other, stumbled through the same sections, laughed at ourselves in the mirror. Community started to form—not through shared words, but through presence. Through movement. Through returning. It echoed what I was just beginning to understand about spiritual life: that sometimes, showing up imperfectly, consistently, is how we build belonging.

For the final session, I practiced like it mattered. Not to win. Not to impress. Simply to feel ready. I didn’t want to be the best—I just didn’t want to hide anymore.

When I walked into the studio that night, I went straight to the front row.

I wasn’t suddenly a star dancer. I still missed steps. I still got turned around. I was there. Fully there. Willing to be seen.

At the end of class, our teacher clapped for everyone, then looked at me and said, “You came to the front row. That’s most of it. Just getting to the front.”

Something shifted inside me. Not from being right or being best—but from stepping forward anyway. From claiming a space I had always assumed was meant for someone else.

Years later, I found myself thinking about that front row again.

It was the morning of my rabbinic ordination exam—the culmination of years of study, halachic reasoning, whispered tefillot, and the kind of soul-searching that leaves a permanent imprint. This wasn’t just a test of knowledge. It was a test of integration—whether I had learned to live what I’d studied, to lead not only with answers, but with heart.

I arrived early to the synagogue that day. The building was hushed, the air still. I could hear the soft hum of the lights, the gentle creak of the old wooden floorboards under my shoes. A custodian wheeled a mop bucket down the hall, nodding at me without a word. I nodded back, clutching my notes in one hand, though I knew I wouldn’t open them again.

My feet led me, almost instinctively, into the main sanctuary. No one else was there yet. The ark stood silent and steady, the eternal light flickering above it. The tall windows filtered in morning light, soft and golden. Rows of empty pews stretched back like a sea of waiting.

I walked slowly down the aisle and sat in the very front row.

For a moment, I just breathed. Deep and slow. My pulse still quick, but something settling. My hands rested on my knees, palms down. Grounded.

And suddenly I was back in that Zumba studio. Awkward and brave. Not the best. Not the worst. Just present.

I remembered what it felt like to take my place before I felt completely ready. To move even when unsure. To claim space—not because I knew I belonged, but because I wanted to believe I might.

In that quiet sanctuary, I realized that this too was part of becoming. Not just learning halacha or passing exams. Not just knowing what to do in the room—but choosing to step into it. Fully.

I whispered a prayer I hadn’t planned. Not for perfect answers. Not even to pass. Just to stay rooted in the reason I had walked this path in the first place: to serve with presence, not perfection. To help open doors for others by no longer shrinking myself.

It’s easy to think we need to earn our place. That we have to be the best, the most prepared, the most confident, before we take up space. Especially in childhood. Especially when we’re still forming who we are.

In my work, I wait for the moments where kids are met with this invitation. Kids who hesitate before raising their hand, wait to be picked, even when they know the answer. Kids who stand at the edges of playgrounds, the back of classrooms, or on the side of conversations, not because they don’t want to belong, but because they aren’t sure they are welcome.

They’re watching us too, watching how we show up. They’re watching what it looks like to try something imperfectly. They’re watching whether the adults around them step into spaces with humility, or only when they feel fully equipped. They’re watching whether we wait for permission—or give it to ourselves.

When we step forward, even awkwardly, even messily, we give them language. We give them permission. We model a kind of quiet courage that says: You don’t have to wait until you’re the best to begin. You don’t have to wait until you’re certain to try. You just have to begin.

Helping kids take their place in the “front row”—whatever that means for them—means making space for failure, for laughter, for not-quite-there-yet. It means telling them: You’re allowed to show up as you are. We’ll figure it out together.

In my own work with children, there are plenty of moments when I don’t know the answer. A situation comes up that’s complex, layered, or just unfamiliar. I’ve learned to say, “I’m not sure yet. Let’s think about it together.”

Sometimes I turn to colleagues. Sometimes to parents. Sometimes, beautifully, to the kids themselves. I’ll ask, “What do you think would help here?” or “What feels hard about this?” More often than not, their answers are exactly what’s needed.

It’s not about pretending to have all the answers—it’s about showing that we’re allowed to be learners too. That even from the front of the room, we’re still figuring things out.

When we make that visible, we’re not stepping down from leadership. We’re leading in a different way: from within, alongside, with humility and trust. And that’s where real connection grows.

Each of us has a “front row” we’re being called toward. This doesn’t necessarily mean the spotlight, or the stage - it can just be the brave, visible place where we stop shrinking and start showing up. It’s the place where we say yes, even if we're not sure we’re ready. Sometimes, it’s the decision to speak honestly, when silence has felt safer, or to enter a space where we’ve been afraid we didn’t belong. It’s the decision to try again after disappointment, and to allow ourselves to be visible in the ways that matter most.

It might look like raising a hand. Or reaching out for help. Or letting someone see us in process, rather than only when we’re polished. It might look like saying, “I don’t know,” and still stepping forward anyway.

Maybe it’s speaking up in a room where we’ve stayed silent. Maybe it’s returning to something that once brought joy. Maybe it’s letting a child see us try, fail, and keep going. Maybe it’s simply claiming the space we already occupy with more presence, more breath, more heart.

When we do that, when we lead from within, we’re not just stepping into our place - we’re clearing a path. We’re inviting others to find their own front row, however it’s shaped, however long it takes.

So maybe the invitation is this:
Where in your life are you being called forward?
What would it look like to take one quiet step towards your front row?

We don’t need to arrive perfectly choreographed. We just need to take the step.
To walk forward.
To take our place.
To trust that the act of showing up is holy enough.