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Cliquez ici pour la version française sous la photo Three months into this move, summer is already behind us. Halloween is approaching, and soon my phone will be filled with pictures of ghosts, spiders, pumpkins, and all the crazy decorations. This is one of my favorite events. It's so American, and it's a shame there's only one official day to celebrate it! I'm making progress on the practical front. I now know where to find proper croissants and French bakery treats, which

Cliquez ici pour la version française sous la photo As I empty box after box, I find myself thinking that we have way too much stuff. Especially when I unwrap Tupperware lids with no containers—the containers were given away before we left—or find that fan that only works on European voltage. I wonder how on earth they made it here. I must have gotten tired supervising the movers emptying drawers and cupboards! It was actually rather nice to live in a nearly empty home these

Cliquez ici pour la version française sous les photos They say food is the way to the heart… or isn't there an expression like that? Over my many relocations, I have met plenty of expats for whom cooking was the ultimate link to their home country. They recreate family recipes, sharing their roots through food. I am not one of them. For me, food is mostly fuel, and every time I start a new life in a new country and a new kitchen, I have a hard time remembering what to cook be

American flag flying beside a building against the sky.

A selfie among Michelangelo’s angels. 🇫🇷 La version française suit la version anglaise. I took this photo at an immersive art exhibit. How often do I get to find myself surrounded by angels? Michelangelo’s, on top of that! So I took a selfie. Somehow, it felt fitting for this post about being new and immersed among New Yorkers. A few weeks ago, as I was entering a busy store in Manhattan, I held the door open for someone. Two other people quickly pushed their way through as

A distant, slightly blurry zoom shot of the Statue of Liberty against the horizon, capturing a humorous and imperfect view from the new neighborhood. Une vue lointaine et légèrement floue de la Statue de la Liberté à l'horizon, capturant un aperçu humoristique et imparfait depuis le nouveau quartier.

Cliquez ici pour la version française sous les photos A few nights ago, a sudden, sharp explosion jolted me—and, I suspect, everyone else—awake. When the relative Manhattan silence returned, I drifted back to sleep. Somewhere between asleep and awake, my brain slipped into a kind of lucid dream and answered a question I had been asking myself for days: What would my first post from the United States be about? The answer was surprisingly simple. I am in the United States, and

From childhood pen pals to cross-cultural marriage, a deeply personal reflection on travel, living abroad, and the emotional difference between finding a place to stay and truly belonging. The seeds of “elsewhere” were planted by my father—or perhaps by the fairies above my crib. ^_^ He spent his life in the navy and came home every few months with stories from far-off ports with magical names...

👉 Read Part 1 here: Part 1 The Rabbi Who Changed My Israeli Life After my in-laws finished explaining the situation, the rabbi turned to me with a discreet and gentle smile. “Is it true?” he asked. “Everything they’ve just said — is it correct? Do you truly want to convert?” I nodded yes. He did not ask why. Instead, he moved on to more casual questions. He asked where I was from, whether this was my first time in Israel, where I was studying the language, and how I had met

Every so often, life brings us someone who changes the direction of our lives. For me, in 1991, it was someone I had never imagined needing ever: a well-known, beloved North Tel Aviv rabbi. Though he has since passed away (z”l — may his memory be a blessing), I remember him with deep affection. I landed in Tel Aviv in November 1990, completely clueless about Judaism or the local attitude toward non-Jews. My husband, a very secular Israeli, was certain we would be fine as we w

Can you be Jewish and believe in Jesus? Discover Julia’s powerful three-year journey through identity, biblical prophecy, and finding unexpected peace.

So, it turns out I’m a liar. To you, dear reader—but mostly to myself. Not an earth-shattering lie, nothing scandalous… just the realization that I’m not quite who I thought I was. After a great exchange with friends (and if you haven’t read it yet, see Zero Gods, Four Voices: Exploring Jewish Atheist and Secular Identity), a little red flag emerged.

The most beautiful concept I discovered while converting and living in Israel was the power of Shabbat, specifically Friday night. Depending on the family and the moment, it could feel like anything from a simple weekly gathering to a solemn kind of communion. In my in-laws’ home, it often shifted between the two, shaped by the mood and the week behind us. But to get to Friday night dinner, we had to go through the week.

I sat at my laptop and hit “Send,” feeling like a total intruder. Yes, they had agreed—but still. Here I was, a convert nudnikit (AKA totally annoying), emailing questions about God to people who had been Jewish their whole lives and hadn’t thought about Him in years—or ever. Why bother these kind-hearted people? I wanted to clear up a common question many non-Jews have: How can someone be Jewish and an atheist? It sounds like a contradiction—but it isn’t.

For me, being Jewish is, above all, about being part of a community—specifically, the secular community. It took me a while to feel comfortable with my new Jewish identity. I often felt judged—or at least imagined I was being judged. On the topic of religion, I probably knew more than many Israelis who had grown up secular Jews. But knowledge wasn’t the point. I still felt a nagging need to prove myself—even if I wasn't quite sure who I was trying to convince, or if any

During my conversion in Israel in 1991, my teachers explained that Pesach (Passover) is a festival of freedom centered on one key command: In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt. Of course, it isn’t meant to be taken literally—it’s really about embracing faith and trust. But me? I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to faith in the traditional sense. Broadly speaking, though, I do have faith—plenty of it, in fact.

Three journeys, three memoirs, and one shared destination. Discover why you don't need a 'revelation' to join the tribe

When I first started typing my story like I was possessed, I had no idea what kind of adventure I was stepping into. Had I known, that familiar negative voice inside me would have shut the whole thing down after the first couple of sentences. Writing wasn’t “for me.” I’d never mastered punctuation or grammar in any language. But stuck in a small flat in a new country during endless lockdowns, I wrote anyway. It was that or lose my mind.

Purim is almost here, but videos shared on social media of dancing and partying in Tel Aviv are already everywhere. People are celebrating in sheltered basements and underground parking garages because of the missile threat from Iran. And I’m not surprised. And it makes me smile. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in Israel, it’s this: Israelis don’t wait for perfect conditions to live. They live anyway. There’s a quiet strength in that.

Purim, Fate, and a Roll of the Dice On March 2, 2026, it will be Purim — a holiday of costumes and joy commemorating how the Jewish people were saved long ago from an evil Persian vizier. This year, the holiday feels oddly tied to Iran and the threat of war. That connection pulls me back to my very first Purim. My First Purim in Israel In 1991, Israel had just come through the Gulf War. On the evening news, journalists showed young people celebrating in the stre