Birthright Israel Showed Me That Empathy is the Antidote to Hate

I grew up in Richmond, Virginia. It’s not the smallest Jewish community, but it’s not L.A. either — where I live now. Growing up, I was nearly always the only Jewish kid in my class. One of maybe three or four in my entire grade. We observed the High Holy Days, did some Shabbat dinners, and I had a bar mitzvah at a Reform synagogue. But I didn’t understand what it meant to be a Jew until I went to Israel for the first time. 

I was born with an extremely rare form of dwarfism called Metatropic Dysplasia. There are only 84 documented cases in medical history. Not 84 people alive now — 84 ever recorded. So, I grew up knowing that I stood out in more ways than one. People would point, stare, and laugh. All I wanted was to blend in. By age 11, that feeling reached a boiling point and I nearly ended my life. I believed there was no purpose for me to be here, and that my future held nothing but pain. 

That was the catalyst that got me the help I needed. In therapy I learned I couldn’t change my situation or the world around me, but I could change how I responded. That shift gave me a sense of personal power I’d never felt before. It showed me that my uniqueness could be a gift. 

At 14, I met a woman at an airport while traveling to visit my great-grandmother. She was intrigued by my Segway mobility device — it looked like a cross between a Transformer and a Lamborghini. It drew a lot of attention, and she was very inquisitive. She turned out to be one of the original organizers of TEDx conferences. She asked me whether I ever considered sharing my story publicly. 

That conversation led to my first TEDx talk in Richmond. I had been on stage before, in community theater shows like 13 The Musical, Annie, and The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. But this was the first time I wasn’t playing a character. I was just me. That was both terrifying and exhilarating.  

I was 15 years old, and I spoke to 2,000 people about my journey. Just six minutes — but those six minutes changed the entire trajectory of my life. They gave me a sense of mission and passion. I found purpose in helping others by sharing my story. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since as a motivational speaker, advocate, and author.  

What blew me away most after that first talk was the reaction. People in their 50s, 60s, 70s came up to me with tears in their eyes. They said, “I was bullied, too,” or “My kid is struggling with something, and now I know how to support them.” We connected on a deep, human level. That’s the power of empathy — we don’t have to live the same lives to feel the same emotions. The more I spoke, the more I realized how similar the human experience can be.  

In my childhood, being Jewish felt like yet another layer of difference. I already felt so isolated, and did not want to add more fuel to the fire against me. I felt completely disconnected from my Jewish identity. Needless to say, Birthright Israel changed my life. 

My older sister went on Birthright Israel before me, and it totally transformed her. She went back to Israel multiple times afterward. I saw how much it grounded her, how it gave her a spark and I wanted that, too. So, in summer 2023, I went on my own Birthright Israel trip. 

It was my first time in Israel. Actually, it was the farthest I’d ever traveled from home. I didn’t have many expectations, which ended up being a good thing. It allowed me to experience everything as it came. I was amazed by how quickly our group bonded. We were mostly strangers, but by day two, it felt like we had known each other for years. That’s the magic of having Jewish identity as a common thread. 

As the only person in my group with a physical disability, I noticed things others didn’t — where the ramps and elevators were (or weren’t). Israel still has a ways to go with accessibility. But the warmth of the Israeli people, the openness, the way they embraced us — it was beautiful. 

Seeing Israel with my own eyes dispelled all the stereotypes and media narratives. I saw so many cultures, religions, and perspectives coexisting. I listened to experts explain the historical complexities of the region. It was eye-opening in the best way. 

The moment that moved me most was visiting the Kotel in Jerusalem. That place has so much history, so much spirit — and being there, surrounded by people connecting with their Judaism, many for the first time, was powerful. Some in our group even did a bar or bat mitzvah ceremony right there at the Wall. We stood together as Jews in our homeland, and it was amazing to feel that connection and feel so much pride. 

Just three months after we got home, October 7th happened. I’d brought back a Magen David necklace from Tel Aviv and wore it proudly. I suddenly felt a call to be the loudest Jew I could be — to respond to darkness with light. That is what being Jewish meant to me. That’s what we’ve always done. 

I started speaking out. I posted about the hostages, about what really happened. I wasn’t trying to be political — I was being human. I learned I had a connection: I went to preschool in Richmond with Hersh Goldberg-Polin, who was kidnapped at the Nova festival and held captive for eleven months before he was killed. I love going to music festivals, and I advocate for peace and bridge-building; that could’ve been me. So, I spoke up because I had to. If the roles were reversed, I’d want someone to shout from the rooftops fighting for my life and freedom. 

By speaking about Israel, I’ve lost thousands of followers. I’ve received death threats that were graphic and terrifying. I’ve lost out on major opportunities because my platform was deemed  “too controversial.”  All I did was bring awareness about the hostages, antisemitism, and Jewish pain in a way that was truthful and accurate. And it has made me more intentional than ever to only accept projects that align with my values and mission. 

But I’ve also gained so much. I was invited as part of an influencer delegation to bear witness in the south of Israel. I had dinner with former Prime Minister Naftali Bennett and was appointed to President Herzog’s Voice of the People Council, alongside 150 Jews from around the world. I told him I was amazed by how Israelis keep living, no matter what. He said, “That’s Israel. That’s who we are.” And he’s right. 

I’ve been cyberbullied before. I had to leave school at one point because of it. But my parents taught me to be resilient. They didn’t plow the road ahead of me. They let me figure things out, but they always stood behind me. When I left that toxic environment, we fought to change the system. We got two laws passed in Virginia — one requiring schools to notify parents of bullying, and another mandating empathy and emotional learning in every classroom from kindergarten through high school. Because empathy is the antidote to hate. 

Birthright Israel reconnected me with something I didn’t even realize I’d lost. It gave me the foundation I needed when the world started to shake. It reminded me that resilience is built into our DNA as Jews. Being Jewish is now such a fundamental part of my life that I honestly can’t imagine where I’d be without it. I’m so grateful for the community I’ve built, the friendships I’ve made, and the light that I’ve gained from leaning into my Judaism.