Eight months ago, I began saying Kaddish for my father, HaRav Shmuel Chayim ben HaRav Yaakov Meir, z”l. I’ve always davened three times a day, but I had never acted as chazan before, which is not as uncommon as you might think. I wasn’t a regular minyan attendee either. So when I stepped into the role of an avel, mourner, it was a huge adjustment.

Let me be clear: This is just my perspective. But what I’ve discovered is that many of the things I thought were unique to me are actually quite common. So if you’re in the middle of this experience or supporting someone who is, you’re not alone.

A friend who davens at my shul told me that when his father passed away, the rabbi told him that saying Kaddish was sufficient; he didn’t need to lead the davening. That gave me an “out” if I needed it, but I wanted to try. I’m not sure if it was about honoring my father or pushing myself, but it felt right.

Another friend told me he was informed that he only needed to say Kaddish once per day. So by attending a Mincha/Maariv minyan (technically two different halachic days), he got a “twofer.” I haven’t taken advantage of that loophole, but you can ask your local halachic authority. Like everything else in this piece, I’m just sharing what I’ve experienced. Different people follow different approaches, and I’m not passing judgment on any of them.

One thing I’ve come to appreciate deeply is finding a good, consistent Mincha/Maariv minyan. For me, Noah’s Ark has been a game changer. It’s a unique minyan—they daven Mincha before plag and Maariv right after, which means you can daven early (though you’ll still need to say Shema and count the Omer later). But this setup is a lifesaver. And it’s quick. If you want to know how quick, you’ll have to check it out yourself. It’s a great bunch of people, and I find myself looking forward to it every day. Again, ask your halachic authority, but if you like what you’re hearing, trust me, this minyan is a gift.

Becoming a chazan isn’t just about projecting your voice or having a good nusach. There’s a lot to know: Is there Tachanun today? Do we say Uva Letzion? What changes during Aseret Yemei Teshuva? Are we adding anything for a yahrzeit or Rosh Chodesh? Secret: Not everyone knows these things. So if you’re a gabbai or just a well-informed minyan-goer, do everyone a favor and help the chazan out, but do it nicely. A gentle heads-up goes a long way, especially when someone is still learning.

Minyanim vary widely. In some places, davening moves very slowly. In others, it goes very fast. One friend told me he had to learn to be a “skimmer” just to keep up. I was once advised to “add five seconds per paragraph” when I lead, and even parts of davening I thought I knew suddenly feel foreign when I’m up at the amud. Words that I have apparently been saying wrong my entire life have now been corrected. The crowd can help when they answer “Amen” out loud or pace with you. Other times, you’re on your own. Some shuls say Tehillim and Korbanot, others don’t. Some say Tachanun, others skip it. Some gabbaim give you a clear nod when it’s time to start; others like to keep it a mystery.

I’ve said Kaddish at airport gates, in business lounges, tourist buses, living rooms, airplanes, restaurants, parking lots, and even at state fairs. I’ve davened in every nusach, Ashkenaz, Sefard, Ari, Nusach Sefard, and a few I couldn’t quite identify. I’ve done my best to keep up with the variations, but being the only mourner saying Kaddish in an old-time Sephardic shul, or at the Churva Synagogue in the Old City, was more than a little intimidating.

There’s also the social side of mourning, something no one prepares you for. I’ve made it my goal not to get into fights over Kaddish. I certainly daven for the amud when I can, but I won’t push anyone out of the way. Most of the time, people are generous, splitting Shacharit or alternating Mincha and Maariv. But there are some who always seem to take the amud, as if they’re the only mourner in the room. Maybe they have a reason, or maybe they’re just oblivious. The same goes for how people say Kaddish: Ideally, we say it together. But there are always a few who belt it out at full volume, on their own tempo, as if no one else exists. I do my best to conform to the group. And I’ve come to appreciate shuls where all the mourners gather around the bimah and say Kaddish in unison. Even if your shul doesn’t do that, it’s an ideal to keep in mind. Just saying…

When travel is involved, everything becomes a factor: traffic, construction, road closures, flight delays, weather and parking. Even for local minyanim, a small delay can throw everything off. Seconds matter when you’re saying Kaddish. Going out to dinner? Do you daven Mincha before the meal or hope to squeeze it in after? Every part of your life becomes a scheduling exercise.

Once, as I was preparing to board a flight to Israel, I noticed a group of men forming near the gate. According to my research and all the minyan apps I checked, we were taking off a few minutes too early to daven Mincha. I planned to daven on the plane. But I asked, “Mincha?” They nodded. One guy had a countdown timer and had calculated the exact earliest time we could begin Kedusha. I don’t know what his source was, but who am I to judge? We prayed. The airline delayed takeoff just long enough for us to finish.

Later on that flight, I kept one eye on the galley for Maariv. When I saw a group of Chasidim start to gather, I jumped in. I’m not sure what they made of me—kippah serugah, clearly not one of the crew, but I had a mission: daven with a minyan and say Kaddish. We landed early, and I was able to catch Shacharit at my mechutan’s shul. All three tefillot covered across three time zones—just another day in the life of an avel.

There’s great comfort in knowing I have a “Kaddish buddy”—a local rabbi who has agreed to say Kaddish on my behalf if I ever get stuck. Thankfully, bli ayin hara, I haven’t needed to rely on it. But just knowing that someone will say Kaddish for my father if, for any reason, I cannot, gives me peace of mind. It’s my Kaddish insurance policy.

At the shiva minyan at my home, two good friends stood next to me at every tefillah. They became my pace cars, guiding me subtly when to say each ending of Kaddish, keeping me steady and in sync when everything still felt new and raw. That kind of help can’t be overstated.

A few weeks later, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize. Apparently, someone I sat next to at a Shabbat meal noticed I was saying Kaddish and passed along my number. The man texting me was on a plane with a colleague in shloshim and wanted someone to say Kaddish for his father. I didn’t know him or his parents, but I understood exactly what he was going through, and I was honored to step in.

Whether I’m in a room of friends or strangers, I often imagine the people we’re saying Kaddish for are somehow gathered together in shamayim, receiving our words like spiritual messages. Maybe they didn’t know each other in life, but through us, they’ve found a shared space above. That’s how I picture it, anyway.

Rav Kook noted that Kaddish, despite being associated with mourning, contains no mention of death. It’s a prayer of praise, a declaration of faith, of continuity, of life. Saying it, again and again, day after day, in countless places, with so many people—it begins to settle into your bones.

But it’s not easy. You don’t just plan your day around Kaddish, you live in constant awareness of it. I’ve had literal nightmares about missing minyan. I’ve been deep into a work project, lost track of time, and nearly missed Mincha. Now I set alarms 30 minutes in advance. I’ve never thought of myself as an anxious person, but Kaddish has taken me to new levels of vigilance.

And Shabbat is no break. How do you set your iPhone alarm to go off and stop on Shabbat? I figured out the trick, but as my wife will attest, I don’t always get it right. Every Shabbat nap requires careful calculation: Are we out to lunch? Will I make early Mincha, or will I need to go later? On short Shabbatot, waking up from a much-needed afternoon nap in time for Maariv can be a challenge in itself. Even rest requires a strategy.

So if you’re in the middle of it, or are just getting started and need advice, tips, or just someone to commiserate with, feel free to reach out. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes, and if you can learn from my experiences and avoid some of the aggravation, that will definitely make it worth it. I’ve learned more about halachic calendars, siddur variations and alarm settings than I ever expected to.

One person I asked recently told me that the nightmares about missing minyan don’t stop right after the year ends. “Not for a while,” he said. I hope he’s wrong. I really just want to take a nap without setting three alarms and a backup. I look forward to the day when I can sleep on Shabbat afternoon without doing mental math like a mission control specialist.

This experience has reshaped my schedule, my tefillah, and my connection to HaShem. It’s been exhausting, moving, overwhelming and meaningful all at once.

And I’m still in it—alarm set, siddur packed, Kaddish waiting.

P.S. A special shout-out to the gabbai at my Shacharit minyan—you are a master at making people feel comfortable while making sure everything is done properly. That’s a rare and very appreciated combination.

Yehuda Kohn is an entrepreneur and is proud to be a lifelong and active Teaneck community member. He is currently navigating the year of mourning for his father and is deeply committed to honoring his memory through learning and prayer. Yehuda can be reached at yehudakohn@gmail.com