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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

Choosing a title for my Jewish conversion memoir is like picking a tattoo: intensely personal. But unlike a tattoo, it’s on display for everyone to judge in an instant. Or maybe it’s more like naming a golem you’ve created—one you’ve spent ages with, puzzled over, and corrected It’s a strange challenge: how do you name a story about "becoming Jewish" for every reason except religion? I needed a title that summed up a year of identity experiments and "pretending"

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

If you’ve followed the story of this blog from the beginning, you may notice a paradox: how can a story of conversion not be about religion? Believe me—it is not. It’s about identity, belonging, and the sacrifices we make to feel accepted. In my case, to win the approval of my in-laws. Before moving from France to Tel Aviv at twenty-two, I had met them only twice, briefly. My impression was that they were kind, warm, and generous. I didn’t sense any particular religiosity.

It is that time of the year when everyone wishes everyone a happy new year. I had always done so myself, until 1990, assuming it was — let’s say — universal. But did you know that Judaism once recognized four different New Years — not just one?

I know my website is only a few days old, but with Hanukkah just around the corner (December 14 at sunset until 22 at sunset), I had to mention it! Israel usually celebrates Hanukkah in December, though it can fall in November because Jewish holidays follow the Hebrew calendar, while everyday life uses the Gregorian one. In the Hebrew calendar, the twelve lunar months—Nissan, Iyar, Sivan, Tammuz, Av, Elul, Tishrei, Cheshvan, Kislev, Tevet, Shevat, and Adar

There were a few reasons I began writing this memoir. When the 2020 pandemic hit, I found myself rethinking how I was spending my days—cooped up in a small apartment in a new city and country we had just moved to. I needed a project to keep both my hands and my mind busy. Cooking didn’t interest me, cleaning and decluttering only got me so far, social networks felt too passive, and honestly: how many movies or series can one watch in a day? Writing seemed like the easiest o