What Birthright Israel Made Impossible to Ignore

For many Jewish young adults, Judaism doesn’t disappear. It just gets deprioritized. Not out of rejection, but out of momentum. Careers accelerate. Cities change. Communities become harder to hold onto. You don’t stop being Jewish; you just stop structuring your life around it. That’s what happened to me.

I live in the San Francisco Bay area now, where I am an entrepreneur focused on building innovative solutions in the hospitality industry. I grew up in a New York Reform/Conservative household where Judaism was steady and present. We celebrated holidays together and had Shabbat dinners every Friday night. I went to Hebrew school through high school and spent eight summers at Jewish sleepaway camp, including one summer in Israel.

In college, Jewish life was part of my routine through Hillel and close friendships, and it didn’t take much effort to stay connected. When COVID hit, that structure disappeared. Campuses closed, people moved, and community became harder to maintain. During that time, a close friend and I started hosting Shabbat dinners in our apartment as a way to continue Jewish traditions and bring people together. We opened our home to Jewish and non-Jewish friends alike, lit candles, shared challah, and sat down for long dinners that gave people a reason to slow down and connect. It was a simple reminder that Jewish life isn’t only sustained through institutions, but through people choosing to show up for one another.

After college, I got busy. I moved cities, focused on work, and without a built-in Jewish community around me, my Judaism became less central in my life. It wasn’t intentional, but I felt the distance. In 2025, visiting my sister in Israel after she made aliyah made that gap impossible to ignore. She had encouraged me to do Birthright for years, but work always came first. Being there made it clear that I needed to come back, re-educate myself about the land and its history, and rebuild a sense of Jewish community I had let slip.

Birthright gave me a clear way to do that. Arriving in Israel this time put things into context. From the start, there was a shared understanding of why certain places and traditions mattered. Judaism wasn’t something you had to explain or justify. It was simply part of everyday life.

That clarity mattered even more given the moment Israel is living through. Over the past several years, antisemitism has become louder and more normalized, even in places that once felt unquestionably safe. I grew up surrounded by Jewish life, and watching that shift has been unsettling. Being Jewish increasingly feels like something you have to justify.

Being in Israel after October 7th was jarring, especially in contrast to what I was seeing and feeling elsewhere in the world. Outside of Israel, the rise in antisemitism felt loud and overwhelming. In Israel, what I observed was something very different. People didn’t seem united because they agreed on politics or shared the same views. They seemed united because they were grieving, trying to heal together, and standing firm against terrorism as a community. What stood out to me was the sense that people were facing something collectively, rather than fragmenting in response to it.

What stayed with me most was how intentionally people continued to remember the hostages. Their names and faces were everywhere, not as slogans, but as reminders meant to keep them from disappearing into statistics. I saw how people followed the families and hostage accounts, not just in Israel but around the world, as a way of keeping their stories visible. From my perspective, none of it felt performative or political. It felt rooted in care. Watching that kind of collective attention and responsibility made the idea of community feel very real to me in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

One part of the trip that stayed with me was our visit connected to Israel’s Greek Orthodox community. It offered an important reminder that Israel is not one story or one identity, but a place shaped by many histories and traditions living alongside one another. Being in Jerusalem, you’re constantly aware of that layering, different faiths and communities sharing the same physical space. Seeing that coexistence up close added depth to my understanding of the country beyond what headlines or narratives can capture. It reinforced the idea that Israel is a real, functioning society, complex and human, rather than a symbol to be simplified. That perspective stayed with me because it made caring about Israel feel more grounded and more honest.

The people on the trip mattered as much as the geography. I formed real friendships with people I never would have met otherwise, but what stayed with me most were the ten Israeli soldiers who traveled with us. Spending ten days alongside them, eating together, sitting next to each other on long bus rides, and talking late into the night changed how I understood both Israel and myself. They spoke openly about their lives, their families, and what it means to be Jewish in Israel, especially at a time when it might be easier to stay quiet or blend in. Their sense of responsibility felt natural rather than performative, and their commitment to the country felt lived rather than theoretical. Watching how they carried that responsibility made me think about the values I care most about in my own life. On one of the final days of the trip, we were asked in a group discussion whether our personal values aligned with those of Israelis, and I said yes without hesitation. As an entrepreneur, I value perseverance, determination, and pride in what you’re building, even when it’s uncomfortable or misunderstood. After ten days in Israel, those values felt unmistakably familiar.

Hearing the soldiers talk, and listening to other participants reflect, made me notice how much I had adjusted my own behavior back home without fully realizing it. I thought about the times I let comments go, avoided certain conversations, or chose not to be openly Jewish because it felt easier in the moment. I had always told myself that was just being realistic. Being around people who don’t hide or soften that part of who they are made me see those choices more clearly. It reminded me that standing by your values doesn’t have to be loud, but it does have to be honest.

Looking back, Birthright didn’t give me answers so much as it gave me context, reminding me that Jewish identity only stays strong when it’s actively lived and shared.

If I could speak directly to the donor who made my trip possible, I would say thank you for giving me context, not ideology, not talking points, but understanding. This trip didn’t tell me what to believe; it showed me why Israel matters to the Jewish people, historically and in the present. It made clear that Israel isn’t just a symbol or a headline. It’s a real country, built in a remarkably short period of time, with real citizens, a real economy, and a society constantly negotiating its past and future. Being Jewish in the world is one experience. Being Jewish in the Jewish homeland is another entirely. Birthright made that distinction tangible for me, not through argument, but through lived experience. That understanding reshaped how I see my identity, my community, and my responsibility to carry this story forward.