When People Who Care for Others Need Community Too

By Hilary Forrest

There are moments when the world asks us to keep going as usual, even when nothing feels usual at all. For people whose work is rooted in care, service, and community, that can mean carrying many roles at once. We show up as professionals, colleagues, caregivers, leaders, and community members, supporting others and moving through the day, even when we are carrying grief, uncertainty, or questions we have not yet found the words to name.

I’m Hilary, a social worker, community builder, and someone who believes meaningful relationships have the power to change lives. Much of my work has centered on helping people feel more connected: to resources, to one another, and to community. For much of my career, I thought about that mostly in relation to the people and communities I served. How do we help people feel supported and less alone? How do we show up for others in moments that feel heavy?

After October 7, those questions became personal in a new way. At the time, I was working in a nonprofit role supporting older adults, caregivers, and synagogue communities across New York City. In the days and weeks that followed, I found myself holding space for people who were grieving and overwhelmed, trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt different.

At the same time, I was carrying my own fear and sadness. Israel has been a deeply meaningful part of my life, with family and personal connections that made the events feel close to home. I was trying to be present for others while also figuring out what I needed in order to stay grounded myself.

Somewhere in that season, I started to realize that the question I had spent years asking on behalf of others also applied to me: Where do I go when I feel alone? I realized that some of the people and spaces I had once turned to for comfort didn’t quite know how to meet me in what I was carrying. I found myself looking for a place where I could bring everything I was feeling, not just as a social worker or community professional, but as a Jewish person trying to stay thoughtful, connected, and whole.

One conversation with my mom stayed with me. During a tearful phone call, I told her how alone I felt, and she reminded me that I had always been someone who brought people together. Then she said something that changed how I saw what I was feeling: maybe other people were looking for community and a sense of belonging too. She encouraged me to lean into what I loved, bringing people together, by hosting Shabbat that Friday. And so, I did, hoping to create a place where Jewish identity, complexity, grief, joy, and belonging could all sit at the same table.

That is what drew me to Blue Compass.

So many Jewish professionals in secular nonprofits and mission-driven spaces spend their days showing up for others, and they deserve spaces where they can feel supported too. If my story is one version of something others may recognize, I hope it offers a simple reminder: needing support does not make us less capable of caring for others. It makes us human.

My hope is to help Blue Compass continue to grow as a community where Jewish professionals feel welcomed, heard, and less alone, where connection helps sustain the work, and where people who spend so much time caring for others can also feel cared for themselves.

Because community is not only something we build for others. It is something we all need.