finding my place in judaism.

For most of my life, I felt out of place from the communities around me. Because of that, I did not participate in shared traditions the way others did. But identity does not disappear simply because it is not practiced. Even during the years when I kept distance, a part of me still carried my Jewish background, even when that connection felt unclear or unresolved.

I was born to a Christian mother and a Jewish father. Some people dismiss that combination as invalid, arguing that Jewish identity only passes through the mother. Regardless of those opinions, my Jewish identity has always existed in some form. Maybe it is my last name. Maybe it is the fact that I resemble my father more than my mother, while my brothers look more like her. Either way, that part of me was always there, even when I lacked the language or structure to claim it confidently.

Growing up, we celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas. That changed after my parents divorced in 2008. From then on, my younger brother and I only celebrated Christmas. Holidays with my dad became rare, and over time that side of my identity grew quieter, less visible, and easier to ignore.

For a long time, I was struggling to understand my identity in general. When so much felt unsettled, it was easiest to set aside the part of my life that had the least guidance and reinforcement. Letting it fade was not rejection. It was survival.

For most of my childhood, I was not part of a Jewish community. Services, youth groups, and bar mitzvahs were not part of my life. I sometimes had Jewish classmates, but they were just classmates. What was missing was continuity and shared context. Looking back, it is clear how much community shapes confidence. Watching others build those bonds early on made it feel like legitimacy was something I was always observing rather than inhabiting.

The closest connection I had was a best friend in elementary school in Massachusetts who was also Jewish. When my family moved to Arizona, we lost touch. Years later, we briefly reconnected online, but we had grown into different people. That did not feel like a loss so much as a reminder of how much environment matters. I still wonder whether staying might have changed how rooted I felt later on.

By late 2021 and early 2022, I reached one of the lowest points of my life. I felt isolated, disconnected, and unsure of where I belonged. Religion was not something I could fully accept, and certainty felt out of reach. At the same time, I knew Judaism is deeply rooted in community. That contrast stayed with me. It made me question whether distance from community had shaped more of my life than I realized.

That question eventually led me to apply for Birthright Israel at 25, just before I aged out of eligibility. I did not go looking for ideology. I went because I wanted connection, and because I wanted to see the place tied to an identity I had carried quietly for most of my life. I also wanted to understand the land and the conflict beyond headlines and abstraction.

The experience gave me something I did not expect. I met people my age who shared pieces of my background, even if our lives looked different. For the first time, being in a Jewish space did not feel like something I had to justify. It did not resolve everything, but it grounded me in a way I had not experienced before.

The trip also clarified something important. Claiming my Jewish identity did not require guilt or ideological alignment. The experience helped me understand that identity and politics are not interchangeable. I do not need perfect knowledge of every perspective to know where I stand. Community does not require moral rigidity, and identity is not something I am willing to abandon simply because the world is in conflict.

After returning home, that sense of grounding stayed with me. I wore a Jewish necklace. I became more comfortable with my last name. For a short time, I felt steadier, like I had finally stopped circling something that had been part of me all along.

Then October 7, 2023 happened, and that stability did not hold.

The violence that day stopped feeling abstract. Someone I met on Birthright lost a family member at the Nova Music Festival. Knowing someone directly affected made it impossible to treat what happened as distant.

What followed online was revealing. Some people dismissed the attacks, justified them, or treated them as unreal. Others responded by collapsing entire populations into symbols, as if suffering only mattered when it aligned with a side. Neither response was acceptable.

That dynamic has not disappeared. In 2025, when Jewish people speak openly about fear or loss, it is often framed as an attempt to gain sympathy rather than a response to real hostility. Antisemitism continues to circulate openly online, treated as justified or excusable. Naming that does not require comparison or ranking. Hatred toward one group does not address harm done to another. Dehumanization does not become principled simply because it is aimed elsewhere.

I shared my solidarity with Israel while also holding space for Palestinian suffering. Innocent people on both sides did not deserve what was happening. That position cost me friendships. People I cared about disappeared without explanation. Support for one group of victims was treated as hostility toward another.

That stance does not extend to support for the Israeli government’s actions. Palestinians in Gaza have endured extreme loss, displacement, and destruction. Thousands of civilians have died. Hospitals, schools, and entire neighborhoods have been wiped out. None of this should be happening. Tragedy is not a competition, and clarity does not come from denying someone else’s pain.

When I returned to school at ASU, I decided to attend a meeting of the Jewish student organization, Hillel. Security was present at the entrance. That alone was sobering. It forced me to confront how much hostility Jewish students are navigating in spaces that are supposed to be neutral.

After that, I stopped wearing my necklace. I also stopped using my last name publicly unless required. This was not about shame. It was about refusing to be reduced to assumptions or treated as a proxy for something I do not control. I still celebrate Hanukkah at home, quietly, without sharing it beyond my own space.

Concealment likely affects others more than it affects me. Feeling invisible was already familiar, so retreating inward did not feel new. That familiarity did not make it painless. I had only just started to feel comfortable claiming this part of myself before it slipped away again. Two years after October 7, the necklace still stays at home. Maybe nothing would happen if I wore it. But in a country where violence feels close, caution is not irrational. For now, this is how I protect myself while continuing forward.

I do not see myself as a victim, especially as others have suffered far more. But what I know is that identity becomes harder to hold when it is turned into a political symbol. I hope there will be a time when being open about my Jewish roots does not feel unsafe. Until then, I carry it quietly. Not with confusion, but with intention.