There are moments when I feel completely at home in my Jewish life — lighting candles on Friday night, wrapping my daughter’s challah dough with a towel to rise, studying Torah late into the evening. And then there are moments when I feel like I’m standing in the quiet space between two worlds.
I converted to Judaism with my youngest daughter through an Orthodox Beit Din after years of study, soul-searching, and transformation. It was one of the most sacred experiences of my life — one that changed not just what I believed, but how I moved through the world. And yet, even now, I sometimes find myself in what I can only describe as a liminal space — not quite “new,” not “born into,” but deeply, undeniably home.
That feeling came into focus recently when I signed my daughter up for a Bat Mitzvah Club led by a Chabad rabbi. I won’t share names or locations, but I will say this: it was a deeply painful experience. While I had imagined it would be one of the most beautiful experiences of her young Jewish life — the girls sitting in a circle, learning, laughing, and building community while I watched her belong — I instead received an email from the rabbi explaining that my conversion, performed by a rabbi they did not recognize, was not accepted, and that we were not welcome to return.
To them, I was not Jewish.
I sat with that message for a long time. At first in anger, but eventually in sorrow — sorrow for others who have felt their soul called home to Judaism, dedicated their entire selves to the process, and then felt erased or delegitimized. I also felt sorrow for the message this sends to children like my daughter, who are growing up with such love for their Jewish identity.
There are so many moments like this—some filled with gratitude, and others with quiet ache. Gratitude for the richness of Jewish life and the kindness of those who open their doors. Ache for the subtle divisions that still exist, the unspoken boundaries that make some Jews feel like they must constantly prove their authenticity.
I don’t believe any conversion done with sincere kavanah—with heart, intention, and love for Torah—should ever be questioned. Every person who chooses Judaism thoughtfully and wholeheartedly deserves full belonging in the Jewish story.
And in these times especially—when our people face uncertainty, fear, and rising hatred—we cannot afford to be divided. We need every light, every heart, every voice. We need to stand shoulder to shoulder, honoring the many paths that lead to this shared identity. Because what unites us is so much greater than what separates us.
When I light Shabbat candles, I think of all the homes doing the same—across every denomination, every language, every level of observance. I imagine those flames rising together, small pinpoints of light forming something vast and bright enough to hold us all.
I may live in the space between Jew-ish and Jewish, but it is here that I’ve found the truest belonging—not through labels or validation, but through love, practice, and the sacred rhythm of Jewish life itself.
Because in the end, belonging isn’t about where you came from—it’s about where your heart has chosen to dwell.
