Sunrise, Sunset: On Knowing When to Let go

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For well over a year, we were part of the global movement known as Run For Their Lives— a grassroots effort to support the hostages held by Hamas and other groups. Each week, we gathered, walked one kilometer, and spoke about the situation. We could not change the world, but our work mattered. We know that because the families of hostages consistently mentioned the umbrella organization in their expressions of gratitude.

At its height, nearly 250 groups worldwide participated, with thousands of weekly walkers. There was momentum, community, and deep alignment around purpose.

The Israeli hostage tragedy ended in 2025, with the release of the remaining living hostages and the slow, painful recovery of the bodies of those who had been slain. Our group — like so many others — met a final time in acknowledgment of a mission completed. We thanked one another, embraced, and vowed to keep in touch.

Then came the harder question: what would become of the movement itself?

On a recent call, the movement’s leaders — Israeli-American volunteers from California — shared a wrap-up video and made a quiet, dignified announcement: Run for Their Lives was officially sunsetting. The mission was complete. It was time to close.

I believe they made exactly the right call. And I think it’s worth reflecting on why that kind of decision is so rare — and so admirable.

The Jewish community has faced this question before. The movement to free Soviet Jewry — which mobilized across decades, filled Madison Square Garden and Washington DC with rallies, and kept the cause of refuseniks alive in the conscience of the West — accomplished its mission when the Soviet Union collapsed and the gates opened. By the early 1990s, most of the councils and organizations that had powered the movement quietly wound down. The Student Struggle for Soviet Jewry disbanded. The Union of Councils stepped back. The work was done.

That graceful exit is, in retrospect, as much a part of the movement’s legacy as its advocacy.

Not every organization manages it so well. Instead of acknowledging that the world has changed, or that their original mission is complete, they keep trying to reinvent themselves. They make their case for relevancy. They wait out cultural shifts, hoping to return to an earlier moment. They stay past closing time.

The result is rarely graceful. It’s stagnation dressed up as perseverance.

When is the right time to close? How do you want to be remembered — for the dynamism of your best years, or for the long, slow fade of your last ones? Is there another organization doing similar work, where a merger might multiply impact rather than dilute it? Or is the most honest thing simply to declare victory, thank the people who showed up, and let go?

Run for Their Lives chose legacy over inertia. They looked at what they had built, recognized that the moment had passed, and chose to end with their integrity intact. That takes a particular kind of leadership courage — one that is quieter than launching something, but no less significant.

Sunrise. Sunset. And the wisdom to know the difference.

With my best wishes for a joyous and meaningful holiday week.

Fondly,

Kari Alterman

Kari

Run 4 Their Lives group, Franklin, Michigan, October 2025.

 

No Occasion Necessary

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I think a lot about ritual, and how important it is in my life. Rituals usually take the form of some religious ceremony or tradition — from weekly Shabbat dinners and services, to confirmations, b’nai mitzvot, weddings, and of course funerals and mourning. I embrace them all. I’ve also, of course, talked about my nightly ritual of laying out workout clothes (my other religion, besides Judaism, is… Peloton 😀).But I used to scoff at big parties that were seemingly held for no real reason. I just didn’t get it.
Wow, have I evolved in my thinking about that.

No matter your politics, your religion, your nationality — we know that the world is in a period of serious upheaval. Each day feels like a decade of news has happened. We’re inundated with change, challenge, and a general sense of feeling unmoored.

And one of the best ways for me — and maybe for you — to feel secure and rooted in community is by hosting and attending events. Getting out of the house, or inviting people in. Whether it’s a dinner, a speaker, a lecture, a fundraiser, a party, or a college or professional sports game — it doesn’t matter what it is. It’s the opportunity to move away from the heaviness of the day and to choose togetherness in its many forms.

I still remember that when Covid began, one of my first realizations was that our lives were suddenly circumscribed and smaller. Getting together, being in the community — all of that was suddenly verboten. I loved being home with my family (most of the time!), but I missed being around people I knew and people I didn’t yet know.

And just a couple of weeks ago, when I was in California, a few friends went out of their way to come see me. There was no big event attached to it. No milestone. Just lunch, conversation, a little rearranging of schedules. And it lit up my whole trip. Not the sunshine. Not the scenery. The people.

I once described myself as an adventurous homebody. I love being out and about, but I also love being home.

So I like to combine the two and have people over to our house. Thankfully (or maybe by design?), Eddie enjoys it, too. It almost doesn’t matter for what. It could be book club, or Shabbat dinner, a Neighbors watch party (are you watching? You should be), or really anything. The chance to be in person, to have conversation, to connect, learn, talk, and laugh — all of that makes life better, and the end of Covid marked its welcome return.

Here’s what I’ve learned: We don’t need a reason to gather. The gathering is the reason.

If the world feels unsteady, anchor yourself in people. Invite someone over. Say yes to the lecture. Show up to the fundraiser. Go to the game. Make the dinner reservation. Host the watch party.

Community doesn’t happen accidentally. It happens because someone decides to reach out.

The communities we build in ordinary moments are often the ones that carry us through the extraordinary ones.

And if hosting feels like too much right now, start smaller. Reach out. Suggest a walk. Ask someone for coffee.

Or ask me.

I mean that. If you’re local and you’ve been thinking, “We should get together,” consider this your invitation. Let’s take a walk. Let’s grab coffee. No agenda necessary.
No occasion necessary.

Fondly,

Kari Alterman


Kari

On Community

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If you’ve read these periodic notes from me, you could probably sum up my themes as legacy, the Jewish world, philanthropy, and community. That’s how I tend to think about the world.
Today, I want to linger for a moment on community.
I often write about the different ones to which I belong — Detroit, the Peloton world, the Jewish community. I create my own, too: women gathering to learn about AI, book club, canasta, and more. I seem to be constantly collecting people and places where connection can take root.
But for more than thirteen years now — a baker’s dozen — I’ve also belonged to the celiac community.
Right after my 40th birthday, I was diagnosed with Celiac disease, an autoimmune condition that is thankfully controlled entirely by diet. Still, my entire way of being had to be rewritten. My brain and my kitchen were rewired. Eating out, traveling, hosting — all of it changed.
And I embraced it.
Those of you who’ve eaten at my house or dined out with me know what I mean. I love the gluten-free community. It’s resourceful, generous, and surprisingly joyful.
Recently, flying home from Los Angeles, I mentioned to my husband that I had a “Modern bagel” in my bag to eat on the plane. The woman in front of me turned around and said, “Excuse me — did you mean a bagel from Modern Bread and Bagel?”
And just like that, a conversation began.
The woman was Jill Bommarito, founder of Ethel’s, a Detroit-based, nationally distributed, delicious gluten-free bakery. My friends laughed when I told them — only me, they said, would strike up a conversation, share a bagel, take a selfie, and walk away with a new friend who happens to be a celebrity in my niche world.
But this isn’t really about being gluten-free.
It’s about belonging.
Belonging, for me, is less about formal membership and more about posture. It’s about being open — to conversation, to connection, to the possibility that the person in front of you might speak your language. Sometimes that language is Jewish. Sometimes philanthropic. Sometimes it’s as simple as gluten-free.
Community isn’t only built in boardrooms or sanctuaries or structured gatherings. Sometimes it’s built in airport jetways at 5:30 in the morning.
In that same way, legacy isn’t only shaped through institutions and endowed funds. Sometimes it’s shaped through friendliness. Through curiosity. Through the willingness to look up and say hello.
And maybe that’s the quiet work of community: not just finding your people, but being ready to recognize them — and letting yourself be recognized in return.
And so I ask, where in your life have you unexpectedly found belonging? Are you living with your eyes up — ready for conversation — or mostly down? And, how might openness itself be part of your legacy?
Let me know your thoughts.
Fondly,

Kari Alterman


Kari