I was born and raised in a suburb of Toronto. Growing up, I didn’t have a conscious sense of Jewish identity. It was just part of my DNA. I had a bar mitzvah, but in high school, I veered off the traditional Jewish path. I didn’t feel deeply connected to being Jewish or to Israel.
In my late twenties, though, I was starting to think bigger picture about my life—what values I want to live by. As you move through life, responsibilities pile up, and you have to make intentional choices about what truly matters. For me, it was reconnecting with my faith and rediscovering Judaism. I used to think of the Ten Commandments as rigid rules. Now I see them as guidelines for living a happier, more meaningful life—love your parents, don’t envy your neighbor, seek peace. They’re ways to live with integrity.
I saw Birthright Israel Onward as a chance to reconnect with my faith and learn more about Israel and our history—the struggles, the resilience, and the pride of our people. I was supposed to go in December 2023, and then October 7 happened. It was devastating, but it also reminded me why I needed to go. Why I needed to learn. Why I needed to see, firsthand, what Israelis are living through. So when the program resumed, I told myself, “I have to do this.”
From the start, I felt something shift. There was this immediate sense of belonging—this feeling that I was more Jewish, and more Israeli, than I’d ever realized. You meet people on the street who feel like brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. Every week we did something deeply meaningful. The first weekend, we went to Jerusalem, walking through the Old City, visiting the different quarters, standing at the Kotel. It was profoundly moving. Later, we went to Sderot and to the site of the Nova Festival. Standing there was surreal, almost otherworldly. The emotions you feel in those places remind you what it means to be human—and what it means to be Jewish.
What made the trip life-changing was the everyday experience of living in Israel. Every Israeli you meet has a story—everyone has served, everyone has lost, everyone loves this country with a fierceness that’s hard to describe. It was overwhelming—grief, hope, unity all at once. At night, we’d sometimes wake to the sound of air raid sirens. It wasn’t easy, but even in those moments, there was a shared sense of purpose. You feel how deeply Israelis love their country and each other. That spirit is contagious.
The visit to Schneider Children’s Medical Center was one of the most meaningful experiences of the trip. It was Hanukkah, and we spent time with the kids—drawing, tossing a little toy around, just keeping them company. It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Being with those children gave me perspective on how fortunate I am and how much strength exists even in suffering. We gave out sufganiyot, sang songs, and lit the menorah. There’s a photo of me lighting candles with a rabbi. I don’t know why I was chosen, but it was an honor. Afterward, I was asked to speak on behalf of the group. I talked about how much the moment meant, about gratitude, and about the privilege of being there.
That same day I met members of the Schneider family, the donors who funded the hospital. I told them about my grandparents. My grandmother was in Auschwitz. My grandfather was a World War II hero. When the Nazis came, he managed to rescue his brothers, friends, and even strangers. He saved lives because he refused to give up. When my grandfather saved one woman, he also saved her future children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I told the Schneider family that their generosity does the same thing—it creates a spiderweb of impact. The Schneider family’s support allows us to come to Israel and create our own spiderwebs of life and meaning. It wouldn’t be possible without them.
Being in Israel shifted everything for me. Experiencing the land, the people, and the history firsthand made it real. It gave meaning to traditions I’d only known in theory. Celebrating Hanukkah there was different—it was alive, communal, full of joy. That sense of belonging came home with me. Now I celebrate holidays with intention. I practice Hebrew. I read about Israel and Jewish history. I feel proud to live my Judaism.
It’s even changed how I think about relationships. It made me realize that being Jewish isn’t just something I am—it’s something I want to build my life around. That’s something I’m now very intentional about. I’m more active in my community, more vocal about Israel, more deliberate with my time and choices.
This experience gave me something I didn’t know I was missing: purpose. It gave me faith, connection, and pride. I came home feeling a responsibility—to stand up for Israel, to educate others, to live Jewishly with confidence and joy. It reminded me that being Jewish is about how you live, how you love, and how you carry the story of your people forward.
Back home in Toronto, I walk past signs attacking Israel or meet people who question its right to exist. I engage with them. I explain why Israel matters—why being Jewish matters. Those conversations can be hard, but they’re important. Had it not been for Birthright Israel, I wouldn’t have that sense of connection or that clarity of purpose. Now, wherever I am—in Tel Aviv, Toronto, or anywhere else—I feel rooted. I know who I am, and I know what I’m part of.