Personal Stories

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.

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.

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 was five, my mother invited a nun into our home for “the talk.” I don’t know where she got the idea from. I was an active child and all I wanted was to be climbing our one tree or bouncing on the sofa. Alas, my mother made me sit and listen to this woman she introduced as Nun Something. I wasn’t thrilled. Her long gray dress, strange white cape, and the way she stood with her hands clasped over her stomach didn’t help. My mother stood by the doorway, watching nervousl

I was born in a small village on France’s Atlantic coast. My father insisted that my name be short, simple, and easy to pronounce worldwide — and, most importantly, shaped by his own life experience, free of any ties, religious or otherwise. He chose Claire, from clarus in Latin, meaning bright and clear. My mother agreed. “Claire” was classic and neutral. August 1989 — The last picture before I left their home for good, posing with my little cousins. That was the final