As a secular Jewish woman married to a Catholic man, I’ve raised my two sons as Jews, complete with Bar Mitzvahs and all the traditions. I’ve always felt connected to my Jewish identity, but I’m not the type to stay in Israel during a conflict. I’m the kind of Jewish person who will hug you tight, scream on your behalf, and make sure my kids know the Torah—but fighting? That’s just not me!
I adore Israel—not for any political reasons, but because when I first stepped off the plane, it felt like the earth welcomed me home. My feet sank into the ground, and I felt an overwhelming connection to the land that has always held a special place in my heart.
This past year has been a rollercoaster of emotions—dealing with rising self-hatred and confronting anti-Semitism has been tough. It bubbled up inside me, filling me with anger, fear, and sadness. Looking around, I realized I was mostly surrounded by non-Jews, which made my experience feel a bit isolating. Without a temple or a rabbi guiding me, I was at home, watching others cope with the conflict in their own ways. Meanwhile, my family carried on with their lives.
I began to focus my prayers on a small boy named Elon, who was one of the first to be released. It gave me a sense of purpose. Then, I found myself deeply connecting with the spirit of Sinwar, crying for hours as I walked through my neighborhood, feeling his anger and pain.
Soon enough, I discovered that some people I knew—people I worked with—were posting things that felt against me. I became confused, cold, and scared, feeling injustice from those I thought were allies. I realized there was a deep-seated need within me to feel protected.
It was such a profound need that I struggled to untangle myself from it. Safe at home, I silently screamed, “Protect me… from everything!”
Then, I stumbled upon a book mentioned by NPR that spoke to me just from its title. I ordered Bad Jews, and it unraveled my fears, challenging me to confront them head-on.
I felt freer! I wasn’t a victim; I learned that I’m a Jew who has found ways to survive, part of a lineage that chose safety and security over aggression.
My family was in the U.S. during the Holocaust, among those who left earlier, drawn by the call of America—a place where we could believe and live freely.
Anti-Semitism has certainly shown its face, and I’ve navigated a year filled with turmoil, moving from shock to fear to anger to acceptance. It’s been a classic mourning process.
But what was I really mourning?
I’ve come to realize that I was mourning the death of my own self-hatred. It was buried deep within me, rooted in my faith. The pain of being hated, along with centuries of feeling attacked, wasn’t just mine; it was woven into the memories of my people.
As much freedom as I enjoy, I can never be truly free if the core of my memories is based on pain, fear, or hatred. I’ve learned from my experiences as an actor that these emotions can create a wounded warrior at best.
For the past 15 years, I’ve been working to let go of anger and hate. I once asked my aunt why, after all this self-work, I still felt anger. She told me it’s just like my grandmother’s feelings, and I accepted that some things in our memory bank take a lifetime to resolve. But after October 7th, I was given a real chance to release that lineage.
It took me a year, and now I’m realizing that I’ve been hesitant to take action. Much of my character was built on the need to act. But now, I choose love. Love in all its forms! I no longer let anger anchor me down. I feel revealed and stripped bare, embracing the idea of love, which doesn’t demand action unless you want to share it.
