I always said I’d never move back to the predominantly Jewish suburb where I grew up. It seemed boring and uncool, and I’d spent my entire adult life so far living in hip neighborhoods in the city like I’d always dreamed of as an angsty teen. The idea of raising my kids in the same suburban community I’d once found so uninspiring wasn’t particularly appealing.
When we finally bought a house in that very neighborhood, it was out of convenience, not conviction — to have my parents nearby and the space we desired but couldn’t afford if we stayed downtown.
But now, four years later, in a post-October 7 world, I couldn’t be more grateful that we live where we do.
Prior to the harrowing events of October 7, I felt ambivalent about many things related to Judaism and my identity as a Jew. In the years before meeting my husband, I mostly dated non-Jews, and despite being pleasantly surprised to learn that his father was Jewish, I hadn’t actively been trying to meet a member of the tribe. The Star of David necklace I wore as a child was gathering dust in my childhood bedroom somewhere, and I was more likely to light scented candles than Shabbat ones.
After having our kids, my husband felt strongly about embracing Judaism, hanging mezuzahs throughout our house, making weekly Shabbat prayers a non-negotiable part of family life, and insisting we attend more than the standard twice-a-year High Holiday services at synagogue. I obliged, often begrudgingly — we were in full agreement that we were raising our kids Jewish, but I was wary of leaning in too hard.
I wasn’t sure if I believed in religion or even in God and thought it was more important to teach my kids the value of inclusion, rather than focusing on the things that might set them apart. I wrestled with figuring out what role Judaism should play in our lives. How much did being Jewish really matter to me?
On October 7, 2023, and in the days and weeks that followed, I learned exactly how much it mattered.
At first, it was the silence that stood out — the absence of acknowledgement from non-Jewish friends and social media influencers. Then it was witnessing the alarming spread of antisemitic rhetoric and tropes, some of which came from people I thought shared my values. Meanwhile, my husband and I debated sending our kids to school amidst threats of global violence against Jews and checked to see if our passports were valid just in case things got really bad.
All this made me see how fragile our security was. The speed at which it all happened was terrifying, as if a floodgate had opened, letting out all the Jew-hatred that had been hiding beneath the surface. It was uncanny to see people who defended marginalized groups and fought against racism and prejudice now sharing infographics and false narratives that could directly harm Jews. It felt like the world had turned upside down as I dodged being gaslit from all corners of the internet, repeatedly questioning my own grip on reality.
The only place I found solace from the mounting sense of isolation and cognitive dissonance was among other Jews — my childhood friends, parents at the playground, strangers online who instantly became trusted confidantes — all of us experiencing the same feelings of abandonment, disbelief, grief and fear. It was comforting in a way I never expected, to lean on the very community I’d often taken for granted, and, at times, even distanced myself from.
I also felt a deep connection to Israel in a way I hadn’t before. I studied the faces of the fallen soldiers, the hostages dragged from their homes, the festival-goers murdered on a dirt road. That boy could be my son, I thought. That woman could be my sister. I could feel it in my bones, how profoundly tethered we all were to each other. It wasn’t just about land or politics. It was about a people, my people, and our eternal struggle for freedom.
I suddenly felt the weight of our shared history and identity and an urgent need to protect it. Until now, I had been going through life thinking antisemitism was mostly a thing of the past, the barbaric acts of October 7 completely outside the realm of my worst fears. Now I could see how precarious Jewish existence was, how quickly the world could turn against us, and how easily we could be erased if we become apathetic about our survival.
This realization ignited something dormant in me, especially around raising my children. The things I’d once felt indifferent about now felt like a lifeline — for me, and for them. Giving them a casual connection to our faith and culture was no longer enough. I want them to cherish it, to be rooted in it, and to feel the responsibility of carrying it forward. I want them to stand tall in their Jewish identity.
Last month, my boys started Hebrew school. The second week, my 7-year-old didn’t want to go — he was adamant about it, unwilling to step inside the classroom. I sat with him in the hallway, trying to think of how to get him through the door after gentle parenting tactics and bribery had failed.
“Did you know I went to Hebrew school when I was a little girl?” I asked. “And one day, when you have kids, they’ll go, too. I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you right now, but it’s really important that you learn about our history and traditions. You’re so lucky to be Jewish and part of this amazing group of people who’ve been through so much and done so many awesome things in the world.”
He nodded, perhaps taking it in, but ultimately still refusing to go that day, my speech not having the inspirational movie effect I’d hoped for. At home, we told him he’d try again next time, making it clear that attending Hebrew school was ultimately a non-negotiable.
The next week, anxious but resolute, he walked through the school entrance without incident. At pickup, he ran over with a grin, a kippah perched on his wildly thick hair, while his little brother followed, singing a song about apples and honey. I fiddled with the Star of David pendant dangling from my neck, watching my boys, and thought: This is how we endure, from generation to generation, passing on the strength and pride of being Jewish.
