Bring Me Home It started in the mountains of Guatemala. My sister and I had embarked upon a year of backpacking; our wanderlust and youthful energy sent us to far-flung countries that pulsed with adventure. That day sun streamed into the beaten old truck and dappled the dusty seats. I looked out at the endless green hilltops and thought there’s something bigger than what I know. It looked like I had everything — a loving family an Ivy League school waiting for me in the fall a huge circle of friends good looks. Traveling at 18 was the ultimate cool and I was surrounded with veteran free spirits and adventure seekers. But as we weaved through Central America and then on to the beaches of Tel Aviv I started looking hard trying to ascertain if those indomitable explorers were happy.
I’d see glimmers of a sad reality that would chill my bones even in the most humid summer air; the vacancy in the backpackers’ eyes hinted at deep sadness and their laughter bordered on hysteria. Though I had a sense that there was something greater out there I could not find it on the white sandy beaches or in the emerald jungles across the globe. I started university with a desire to grow. Bored of parties and social drama I focused on learning declaring myself an English major and Jewish studies minor. I joined a Jewish group on campus and started reading books by Rabbi Akiva Tatz and Rabbi Lawrence Keleman. I became active in Hillel and enjoyed weekly Shabbat dinners. Yet at a certain point I couldn’t push myself further. My egalitarian feminist upbringing was engraved upon my psyche my dreams of becoming a high-profile professional consumed much of my headspace and I enjoyed dressing and acting in the manner I’d been socialized to appreciate. Then Yom Kippur came.
