We are living in a time of more words than ever before. Think about how many words we encounter and produce in a single day. Texts, WhatsApps, emails, posts, comments, voice notes, captions, reactions. And now with AI, we can generate paragraphs, articles, responses, even entire conversations almost instantly. We have never had more words available to us, and we have never been able to produce them with less effort. The danger is that when words become so easy to produce, they begin to feel cheap. We type something and hit send without fully thinking. We often react and respond before reflecting. We sometimes write things about people we would never say to their face.

Yom Kippur comes along and reminds us that words aren’t cheap at all. They are enormously consequential and indeed create worlds. Usually, we are encouraged to live by the dictum of Chazal in Pirkei Avos, אמור מעט ועשה הרבה, say little and do much. On Yom Kippur, strangely, we reverse it. We do very little and say an enormous amount. We aren’t out there taking action to demonstrate our transformation. We are in Shul davening and davening and davening, talking about our regret, confessing our mistakes, describing who we have been and who we want to become.

And remarkably, so much of what we confess is about speech itself. In Ashamnu and in Al Cheit, we confess for what we expressed with our lips, for foolish speech, impure speech, lashon hara, mockery, idle conversation and gossip. So much of what went wrong this past year came from our mouths.

And what is fascinating is that we made mistakes with speech and we fix them with speech. The Torah tells us, כי קרוב אליך הדבר מאד בפיך ובלבבך לעשותו, “For this matter is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to perform it.” The Ramban asks, what is the davar that is so close to us? He explains that the Torah is talking about teshuvah. Transformation isn’t somewhere far away. We don’t need to become different people, move somewhere else, or wait for some dramatic moment of inspiration. It is accessible right now, and it begins בפיך, in your mouth. The path back must begin with saying what happened, admit it, and articulate responsibility. Say what you regret and say what you are going to do about it.

That is why teshuvah requires vidui. The Gemara in Yoma asks, how does a person confess? And the answer begins, אומר, he says: אנא ה’ חטאתי עויתי פשעתי. It isn’t enough to know we did something wrong. It isn’t even enough to feel badly about it. We have to say it. Indeed, the Shulchan Aruch tells us that even though we already confessed before Yom Kippur, we confess again on Yom Kippur itself, and then again and again throughout the day. The repetition isn’t because we forgot that we already said it. It is because there is something transformative about articulating who we were and who we want to become.

The Navi Hoshea says, קחו עמכם דברים ושובו אל ה’, take words with you and return to Hashem. Chazal say, במה יתכפר ישראל? בדברים. With what will the Jewish people achieve atonement? With words. But that sounds almost too easy. Isn’t that exactly what we call lip service? You behaved one way and now you say some words and everything changes?

I think the answer is contained in the Hebrew language itself. דברים means things, while דיבור means speech. The same root describes the words we say and the things that exist. That isn’t coincidental. When we speak, we create things. Dibur creates devarim. Words create realities. A few words can end a friendship or begin one. Words can destroy a reputation, damage a marriage, alienate a child or humiliate someone. But words can also restore confidence, repair a relationship, give someone courage, express gratitude, offer forgiveness or make another person feel seen. We tend to think words describe reality. Torah teaches that words create reality.

That is why Yom Kippur begins in such a strange way. The shul is packed, everyone is wearing white, the sifrei Torah are held at the front, the chazzan begins that haunting melody, and what do we say? Kol Nidrei. All vows, prohibitions, oaths and commitments that we have made should be null and void. That’s our great introduction to the holiest day of the year? The answer is yes, because what is a neder? I can take something completely ordinary and permissible and, with nothing more than words, change its halachic reality. A shtender that was perfectly permissible a moment ago can become forbidden to me because I said so. Nothing physically changed. I didn’t touch it or alter it. My dibur created a davar. We begin the day by reminding ourselves: never underestimate what comes out of your mouth.

Benjamin Zander, the longtime conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, tells a story he heard from a woman who survived Auschwitz. She was deported with her little brother. She was fifteen and he was eight. Their parents were gone, they had no idea where they were going, and while they were on the train she looked down and realized that her brother had lost his shoes. Like an older sister frustrated with her little brother, she began yelling at him. Why are you so careless? Why can’t you keep track of your things? Now when we get wherever we are going, I am going to have to find you another pair of shoes.

They arrived at Auschwitz and were separated. She never saw him again. He didn’t survive. Those were the last words she ever said to her eight year old brother. She described that when she was finally liberated and walked out of Auschwitz, she made a pledge to herself: “I will never say anything that couldn’t stand as the last thing I ever say.”

Imagine living that way. Not morbidly, but mindfully. If these were the last words my spouse heard from me today, would I be comfortable with them? If this were my last conversation with a parent, is this how I would want it to end? If this message couldn’t be deleted, unsent, explained away or followed by another message, would I still press send?

We live in a world obsessed with having the last word. We admire the clever comeback, the devastating response, the viral takedown, the line that leaves the other person speechless. Yom Kippur asks us to aspire to something much greater than having the last word. Live so that your words could stand as your last words.

Perhaps that is part of why we say vidui already at Mincha on Erev Yom Kippur, before Yom Kippur has even begun. The Gemara explains that we confess before the seudah hamafsekes because perhaps, God forbid, something could happen during the meal and we would never have another opportunity. When it comes to Yom Kippur, we want to make sure that if these were our last words, vidui would be among them. We would have said what needed to be said.

Words aren’t just sounds, they are acts of creation. With words we confess and with words we forgive. With words we apologize, encourage, thank and inspire. With words we can tell our spouses we love them, our children that we are proud of them, our parents that we appreciate them, our friends that they matter to us, and Hashem that we desperately want a relationship with Him. Change is much closer than we think. בפיך. It is right there in our mouths.

We begin Yom Kippur with Kol Nidrei, confronting words from our past and trying to undo what should never have been said. But perhaps we should leave Yom Kippur with a commitment about the words of our future. Before I criticize, I will ask whether these words will accomplish anything. Before I forward something, I will ask whether it needs to be shared. Before I respond when I am angry, I will give myself the space to choose my words instead of unleashing them. But even more importantly, I won’t wait to say the words that need to be said. I’m sorry. I forgive you. Thank you. I believe in you. I’m proud of you. I love you. How can I help? I was wrong.

We spend so much time regretting words we wish we could take back. Maybe we should spend more time worrying about the words we never got around to saying. The compliment we felt but didn’t give. The gratitude we had but didn’t express. The apology we kept putting off. The encouragement someone desperately needed that we assumed somebody else would provide. The “I love you” we thought was obvious and therefore didn’t need to be said.

We don’t know which conversation will be our last, but we do know which conversation is our next. We don’t know how many more opportunities we will have to say what needs to be said, but we know we have this one. Take your words with you and return to Hashem. Take them seriously and use them carefully. Use them to create, to repair, to heal and to bring people closer.

That survivor walked out of Auschwitz having learned through unimaginable pain, “I will never say anything that couldn’t stand as the last thing I ever say.” We don’t need to learn that lesson through tragedy, we can learn it from Yom Kippur.

This year, let’s stop worrying so much about having the last word. Let’s make sure the words we say are worthy of being our last.