I really do not know where to start. I guess I will start with the fact that I was not born Jewish, and I never believed I would be Jewish because I had always thought my curiosity, connection, and desire to learn were simply that: curiosity.
I grew up with Jewish friends who I am still close to this day. I was always unsure what it was that made me seek to learn from them, their families, and more. I was the one friend invited to celebrate Hanukkah, the one who sought to understand theological debates and read commentaries from rabbis and rebbes of different sects. I never knew what it was until I fell in love with a Jewish man and could no longer stand to question whether my interest was simply intellectual.
I remember arguing with myself and Googling article upon article debating conversion. The consensus was that in Judaism one does not proselytize or seek converts. But I found myself both in love with a Jewish man, accepted by a loving family, and still wrestling with something deeper. I had always told myself I was a cradle Catholic, but the reality is that the struggles I faced were not without reason. I did not yet understand that choosing Judaism would also mean learning how casually hatred toward Jews is excused.
Every time I saw Jewish people attacked, my heart broke, especially after October 7, 2023. Eventually, I found myself having conversations with Jewish friends from different points in my life, asking their opinions about me becoming Jewish.
There are many jokes about how debating is one of the oldest traditions in Judaism. But for once, it felt like all of these people, strangers to one another, agreed on the same thing and said the same words: you have always had this pull toward Judaism.
And then it clicked. What I had long labeled curiosity was really my soul struggling to accept that my path to Judaism was not a matrilineal one, but a return that needed to be earned through learning, dialogue, and community. I remember crying to my fiancé, falling into his arms, finally feeling free to accept that the places where I felt most welcome were Jewish spaces.
And so, my conversion process began.
I identify as Jewish because it is generally understood that, unlike how conversions are traditionally thought of, a convert in Judaism was always someone with a Jewish soul. Since then, I have taken great pride in finding any chance I can to deepen my understanding and practice. From observing Shabbat, learning prayers, attending shul, and even challenging myself with bits of Yiddish, it all felt like home.
I remember telling Grandma Barbara about my decision. My fiancé and I were sitting across from his grandparents at a Jewish deli in Brooklyn. Upon hearing the news, she cried. I will forever remember what she said to me: “You are going to be like me, but it is not easy being one of us.”
I carry these words with me. Every time I see antisemitism surface openly or quietly, they ring louder in my ears, not only as a challenge to be more deeply Jewish, but as a warning of what that choice carries with it. I think about what it will be like to explain such an unnecessary evil to future children, and I watch how parents are forced to explain tragedies like Bondi Beach to their Jewish children, some of them even younger than Matilda, the ten-year-old who was killed.
The passivity surrounding this hatred is loud. Seeing people, I once considered friends liking antisemitic posts has resulted in blocks, a necessary layer of protection. They are kind to my face while privately endorsing beliefs and behaviors that place people like me, and the people I love, at risk.
Suddenly, what once felt like a joyous step in my life stripped away any remaining illusions I had. I began to notice how easily antisemitism is disguised, how casually it is excused, and how often it is minimized. I learned to read between the lines when people spoke, joked, or stayed silent.
One moment that still chills me was stumbling upon a distant cousin’s social media thread where he parroted rhetoric reminiscent of Nazi Germany, even going so far as to suggest that “Uncle Ado” [Hitler] was perhaps onto something.
When I read that, I felt it viscerally. Was it not less than a week earlier that multiple people, including a ten-year-old, were slain in Bondi simply for being Jewish and practicing their beliefs? Was it not just days after a gunman opened fire in a Jewish professor’s classroom?
When did antisemitism become so normalized?
Antisemitism is no longer whispered. It is framed as commentary, disguised as humor, and excused with words like “allegedly.” It is repackaged into memes, podcasts, and viral clips, and people convince themselves that passive consumption is harmless.
It is not. Jewish people see it. We register it. And it tells us exactly who others are willing to dehumanize for the sake of being entertained, informed, or accepted.
What is most jarring is not that antisemitism exists, but how comfortable people have become with it. Hatred toward Jewish people is treated as a debate, a trend, or a thought experiment rather than a warning sign. Fear is no longer something Jews quietly carry. It is something we are expected to tolerate as the cost of visibility.
Jewish people are not abstractions or historical footnotes. We are your neighbors, your coworkers, the people you pass on the street and wave to while walking your dog. Jewish people are everywhere, living ordinary lives while being reminded that our safety is conditional. When hatred becomes trendy and fear becomes normalized, the question is no longer whether antisemitism exists. The question is why so many people are willing to pretend they do not see it.
Conversion did not make me Jewish. It made me aware – aware of how easily antisemitism is minimized, how quickly it is excused, and how rarely it is confronted. What some dismiss as commentary, Jews recognize as a familiar pattern. Jewish people notice who stays silent, who laughs, and who looks away. And we remember, not because we want to live in fear, but because history has taught us what happens when hatred is allowed to masquerade as entertainment.
This is how hatred survives. Not loudly, but comfortably.
