I’ve never graduated.
Never cared for the cap, the gown, the pomp, or the ceremony.

I left school two years before graduation. I’m not even in the yearbook.
At sixteen, I home* (read: hospital) schooled, passed my tests, left, and never looked back.

And I never felt like I missed out.

Until last week—when I attended my first graduation.

We sat in a circle, on the floor in front of the fireplace, in the same room where we had breathed and learned together all week.
The same room where, back in May, we started this cohort.

No speeches.
No valedictorians.
No caps, no gowns.

But there were tears.
And laughter.
And so many inside jokes.
There was grief.
And homesickness.
And diplomas from Hogwarts (because the magic is real).

 And rocks.

One by one, each member of our tribe was called to the front of the room, presented with a handmade piece of my heart—because diplomas are just paper, and these students, this cohort—they’re not just a page in my story.

They're a piece of me. They'll always live in me.
So I spent weeks (thank you, flu!) making something special for each person in the room.

As I handed out each rock and shared what inspired me about them, I realized—this wasn’t just their graduation.
It was mine too.

Honoring the ways each student had transformed over the year meant acknowledging my own growth as well.

Because this wasn’t just a skills-based training.
It was a year of evolution.

We didn’t come out the way we went in.

The words I heard most last week?
Holy. Sacred. Kadosh. Kind.

We started this cohort on the 26th day of the Omer. Our first meditation together was a Yichud of Hashem’s name—YHVH = 26.

We ended on Tu B’Shvat, with a final breath of gratitude, prayers for the seeds we planted, and an intention to meet again in exactly one year to celebrate each other's growth.

During this time, there were siyums made, simchas shared, prayers exchanged, friendships built, and families rediscovered (turns out quite a few of us are on the same family tree!). A world of meaning unfolded.

We left this training committed to learning more, doing more, being more.

It didn’t feel like a graduation.
But maybe it was everything a graduation should be.

It wasn’t an ending.
We don’t feel finished or complete.
We all left wanting more.

And I think that’s exactly how I like it.

I’ve never graduated.
Never saw the point.
And caps and gowns aren’t hoodies.

But I’ve also never attended a graduation ceremony on the floor in front of a fireplace, surrounded by people I never want to say goodbye to—people who have seen me cry, heard me howl at the moon, listened to me stutter, and lovingly triggered my misophonia all year.

It’s time to open applications for our next cohort.
Dates are booked, inquiries are rolling in.

And I need a few more days.

I wondered out loud how I could ever make room in my heart for the next cohort when I already love this one too much.

And my students reassured me—we all feel this way after our first kid.
We all wonder if it’s possible to love a second child the same way.

We don’t.
We love them in a whole new way, for who they are.

We learn that love is infinite, and each child, each student, opens a new channel for it to flow through.

I’ve never graduated.
But מכל מלמדי השכלתי ומתלמידי יותר מכולן
I think this is as close as it gets.

I’m not ready to move into our next cohort.
But life doesn’t wait for us to be ready.

Real graduations aren’t about closure.
They’re about learning to live with your heart open.

So, here’s to the next season of learning.
To the students I already love and the ones I haven’t met yet.
To the infinite ways we grow, stretch, and surprise ourselves.

Applications for our next cohort are about to open.
If you feel called, if you’re ready (or even if you’re not)—I’d love to have you in the circle.

Join the waitlist here.

With an open heart,

Fally

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ps - I got a diploma too!