Finding My Way Back to the Light

There’s a particular kind of silence that comes with being a secular Jew in the diaspora.

Not the peaceful kind.

The quiet kind that hums underneath everything. The kind that whispers: you’re connected… but you don’t quite know how.

I lived in that space for years.

Not completely disconnected. Not completely observant. Something in between. A childhood that dabbled with tradition. A teenage version of me who actually tried.

I kept Shabbat… for a while.

I kept kosher… until it stopped being a conscious effort because I’d gone vegetarian at 13, so technically I was “default kosher” without even trying.

And I went to a Jewish secondary school. Which, ironically, did a spectacular job of pushing me as far away from Judaism as humanly possible. Funny how that works.

The Long Way Round to Coming Home

Reconnection doesn’t arrive like lightning. It creeps in. A song. A smell. A headline. A war. A random moment where something ancient taps you on the shoulder and says:

“You’ve been gone a while.”

And suddenly, you’re looking inward… and realising how much you’ve forgotten. Not just facts. Not just traditions.

Language. Rhythm. Muscle memory.

The Awkward Dance of “Wait… What Does That Mean Again?”

You walk into a conversation and it feels like everyone else got the glossary except you.

Words fly around: Shabbat. Kiddush. Parsha. Halacha.

And you’re there nodding like you understand… while internally Googling at Olympic speed.

Festivals arrive with emotional weight… but fuzzy detail.

You know Pesach matters.

You feel Yom Kippur is heavy.

You remember something about Sukkot… involving huts and lemons and… shaking things?

But the why? The how? The deeper meaning?

Blurry. Like an old photograph left in the sun too long.

Ivrit: The Language That Knows Me Better Than I Know It

You pick up a siddur.

You can read it. Slowly. Painfully. Like decoding a message written by your younger, more fluent self.

The letters are familiar. The sounds are there.

But the meaning? Gone. Or hiding.

It’s like standing outside your childhood home and hearing voices through the wall. You recognise everything… except what’s actually being said.

And somehow, that makes it hit harder.

Parenting Without a Map

Then comes the real plot twist:

Trying to teach your kids what it means to be Jewish… when you’re still figuring it out yourself.

How do you explain something you’re actively rediscovering?

How do you pass on identity, history, pride… when your own version is still under construction?

You become a student and a teacher at the same time.

Learning Aleph-Bet while trying to build a legacy.

It’s messy. It’s imperfect.

And somehow… exactly right.

The Tefillin Situation (Featuring Grapes… Obviously)

There are moments that feel almost comical.

Standing there with tefillin like you’ve just opened a flat-pack from IKEA with no instructions:

Do I wrap inwards or outwards? Does the box face my heart or… the ceiling? How many times around the arm before it becomes abstract art?

And in my case, there’s an added twist.

These aren’t even traditional leather straps. They’re vegan. Made from recycled grape skins. Yes. Really.

Somewhere between ancient mitzvah and sustainable innovation, I’ve managed to wrap myself in what is essentially… sanctified vineyard couture.

Who knew teshuvah would come with a side of eco-conscious design?

And yet, beneath the confusion and the slightly surreal materials… something deeper is happening.

You’re not just wrapping straps. You’re wrapping yourself back into something ancient. Something unbroken.

Even if your technique is… creatively freestyle.

Pride in the Smallest Things

And then there’s the pride.

Unexpected. Fierce. Borderline irrational.

You spot “Made in Israel” on a label and suddenly you’re standing a little taller in the supermarket aisle.

Avocados. Hummus. Dates. Tech. Anything.

It’s like finding breadcrumbs from home scattered across the world.

Tiny reminders that say:

“You belong somewhere real.”

The Ache of Missing a Home You’re Not In

And here’s the part that’s hardest to explain.

The pull.

That quiet, persistent feeling that you’d drop everything… pack up your life… and go.

Even now. Even during war. Even when logic says “not now.”

Because it’s not about comfort. It’s about belonging.

It’s about knowing that somewhere, there’s a place where your identity doesn’t need explaining. Where your story is the default setting.

And trying to explain that to a spouse, to friends…

It’s like describing gravity to someone floating in space.

Faith… or Something Like It

Then comes the big question. The one that refuses to sit still:

Do I believe in G-d? Hashem?

Or am I just… reaching? It’s not a yes or no. It’s a conversation. An argument. A curiosity.

Some days it feels close. Some days it feels like trying to tune into a station just out of range.

But even asking the question feels like progress.

The Guilt… and the Fraud Feeling

There’s guilt too. For the years away. For what you didn’t learn. For what you didn’t pass on.

And when you step into Jewish spaces again… there’s that voice:

“You don’t belong here. You’ve missed too much. You’re behind.”

Imposter syndrome, but make it ancient. And yet… No one hands out certificates for being Jewish.

You don’t age out. You don’t lose your place in the story.

A Man at 72… and a Reminder for All of Us

I read about a man in his 70s. Jewish by birth.No connection. No upbringing. No practice.

Just a fact on paper.

Until one day, walking through London, he heard something. A vile antisemitic comment overheard, not even directed at him, that cut through decades of distance.

And something inside him… woke up. At 72. He didn’t dip a toe in. He dove.

Learning. Connecting. Living it. Even going as far as having a brit at that age.

Seventy-two years in… and still saying:

“I’m coming home.”

If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.

A Small Piece of Heaven

And then, something shifted in our own home. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But deliberately.

We light Shabbat candles now. As a family.

My son lights them wearing a kippah. My daughter says the bracha. My wife and I share a small glass of Palwin’s No.10. Sweet, simple, unmistakably Shabbat.

We sit down together. No screens. No distractions.

We eat. We talk. We play simple games. We laugh. For a little while… everything slows.

And in that small pocket of time, it feels like we’ve stepped out of the noise of the world and into something older. Softer. Truer.

A little piece of heaven.

And then, just as gently, life returns to “normal.”

The emails. The chaos. The noise. The everything.

But something lingers.

A warmth. A thread. A reminder. We’re trying. Little by little.

And Then… Pride

Because after all the confusion, the awkwardness, the slow reading, the Googling, the grape-skin tefillin, the half-remembered prayers and the full-hearted effort…

There’s this: Pride. Not the loud, performative kind. The quiet, steady kind.

The kind that says: I found my way back. Not perfectly. Not completely. But honestly. And maybe that’s what teshuvah really is.

Not a dramatic return. Not a flawless transformation. But a series of small, stubborn steps – back toward who you were always meant to be.

And maybe, just maybe – that’s where the real story begins. ✨