Judaism Felt Outdated Until Birthright Israel 

I grew up in Michigan with a Reform Jewish identity. But if I’m honest, I felt the least Jewish of my siblings. I’m one of six kids, and I was the most secular one. I just didn’t see the relevance. Judaism felt outdated, like the traditions were disconnected from modern life. Then October 7 happened, and it fundamentally changed me. 

I had never felt, seen, or experienced antisemitism like what came after. I truly thought it belonged to the past. But after October 7, it was like a wave hit, like it was suddenly all about hating Jews. That’s what it felt like. Just pure, unadulterated Jew-hatred — grotesque. The primary emotion for me was fear. 

One image on TV terrified me: two girls in a high school hallway, skipping arm in arm, singing “from the river to the sea.” And all I could think was: they’re essentially calling for the killing of Jews, and no one is stopping it. That scared the devil out of me. Then there was a Bay Area high school where students formed a human swastika on the football field, took pictures, and posted them on the school’s Instagram like it was a joke. My family was so shaken that we took our menorah out of the window. 

I started defending Israel online—advocating, debating, pushing back. It became stimulating and satisfying to be a Zionist, because you have to understand the argument on every level: moral, intellectual, legal. People would message me saying, “Thank you for fighting the good fight.” Reclaiming the word “Zionist” mattered to me. In some circles it’s treated like a slur, which is a shame. I reached a place where I could say it clearly: I am a Zionist. And that’s not an insult, it’s a compliment. It’s something to be proud of. 

Living in San Francisco, there’s a lot of advocacy to do. I saw misinformation spread at scale, especially among Gen Z. TikTok was the worst offender. I work in tech, so I understand content moderation, and they were terrible at it. So much crap got spread. 

After October 7, all I wanted was to go to Israel. I’m 40. I asked if I was too old for Birthright Israel, and they said no. I had gone on a ten-day trip at 25, but this time felt different. I felt a stronger love for the land and the people. I felt proud to be Jewish. It was something special to me, something to pass on. 

Much of our volunteer work was agricultural. We picked oranges and raspberries. We met Israelis who were extraordinary—people who had pioneered farming in the desert, who figured out how to make the desert bloom, and taught others to do the same. Again and again, I had these moments of clarity: this is the Jewish people. We come, we build, we adapt. We turn the desert green. 

But the most meaningful day for me was our visit to Schneider Children’s Medical Center. The moment we walked in, I was blown away. The hospital was stunning—modern, bright, state-of-the-art. There was a soaring atrium, a beautiful menorah for the children, a welcoming café. It felt full of life.

What moved me most was who was there. Arab children with their parents. Jewish children with their parents. Everyone together, receiving care in the same place. We learned that the Schneider family envisioned this as the premier children’s hospital in the Middle East—the very best—for all children. Jews. Arabs. Everyone. 

We did art projects with the kids—painting, making dream catchers. I sat with two little boys and a little girl, helping them dip paintbrushes into cups of color, trying to keep things light and joyful. I mentioned K-Pop Demon Hunters, a movie they loved, and their faces lit up. They were so happy. And I thought: yes—this is the Jewish people. This is what it looks like. 

The Schneider family chose to invest in something you can point to and say, Look at what Israel is doing. It’s saving children’s lives. To me, that’s the clearest answer to so much of the noise. You walk into a place like that and you feel the truth. You see sick children who need care, and you see an environment where every child is welcomed and treated with dignity. That felt deeply Jewish to me—paying it forward, healing, giving back, repairing the world. 

In San Francisco, being Jewish isn’t something you always wear on your sleeve. But in Israel, everyone loves being Jewish as much as I do. Everyone is a Zionist. It felt like coming home—like these are my people. 

Since returning, I’ve felt more comfortable saying it out loud: I’m a Zionist. I started wearing a Magen David more openly. And something surprising happened—people would notice and say, “Oh, you’re Jewish? I’m Jewish, too.” Connections I never expected began forming. 

I also started volunteering every Monday night at my local JCC, working with neurodivergent adults to help build social skills. It’s fun, and it feels deeply connected to everything I’ve been experiencing—community, responsibility, showing up. 

I want to go back to Israel soon. I want to establish a stronger presence there. I’ve even thought about working with Israeli companies. And in San Francisco, I’ve found my people—the proud, pro-Israel, pro-Zionist community. We know who we are, and we stand together.

If I could speak directly to the Schneider family, the overwhelming emotion would be gratitude. Immense gratitude. They showed me what it means to be Jewish through example. They built something that embodies Jewish values—not just for Jews, but for everyone. They chose to give in a way that heals the world.

Birthright Israel is uniquely powerful because it connects Jews in the diaspora to Israel, to tradition, and to community—and it makes those connections something people carry forward. I had felt disillusioned with Gen Z after October 7, because of how much hate and misinformation I saw. Then I went on this trip and met young Jews who reject that—who are thoughtful, proud, and deeply connected to their identity. That mattered to me more than I can say.

For me, Birthright Israel meant connection. It meant relief and pride. It meant being surrounded by people who love what I love—the Jewish people, our homeland, and our future.