I’ve never been a very religious person. This statement might shock people who know me. But, despite my friends saying that I’m the “most Jewish person they know” or my family watching me move from synagogue to youth group to Jewish community organizing events, my Judaism has always been rooted almost entirely in community.

When my family moved from Philly to the Chicago suburbs in 2015, I was the one who pushed my parents to send me back to Hebrew school. Every Thursday and Sunday that I begged not to go, I was reminded, “Em, this one is on you”. Eventually, I grew to love my synagogue. The sanctuary and classrooms grew familiar and comfortable, and by sixth grade, I could walk in and immediately recognize the people around me, whether they were other students, teachers, clergy, or staff.  I found a space where I was seen, appreciated, and given resources to learn and grow instead of being expected to stay the same.

I had my bat mitzvah in seventh grade, but it was nothing as I’d anticipated. Instead of looking out over the bimah at a crowd of my family and friends, I found myself leading the Saturday morning service in my grandma’s living room over Zoom, the computer tilted away from me so I wouldn’t get distracted. After my bat mitzvah was over, I found myself thinking the same thing over and over again: I had never felt less Jewish.

Once COVID restrictions eased, I found myself in Jewish spaces all the time, almost as if to make up for this formative experience that I had missed out on. I threw myself into my youth group, found different Jewish social justice activities, and became a madrecha (Hebrew school teaching assistant) for the most wonderful kids. Over the past six years, I’ve established a place for myself nestled in between religion and community and activism, right in my own city.

The feeling of comfort when I’m at my synagogue or around people I’ve grown to know and love as part of my community is wonderful, and, having grown up with female clergy frequenting my religious spaces and communities, I forgot that a whole world exists beyond the norms and acceptance of the Reform movement.

Earlier this year, I was exploring Cozumel with my dad, and we saw a sign for a synagogue. Neither of us had been expecting to encounter other Jewish people in Mexico, let alone a synagogue, so we decided to go find it. If you walk to the balcony on the upper floor, climb a set of rainbow steps, turn two corners, and continue down an open-air hallway, you can see it tucked away so only those looking can find it: the Chabad of San Miguel de Cozumel, MX. 

We didn’t expect to find a Chabad, but curiosity got the better of us, and we made our way inside. My dad has experience with Chabad, but it was my first time being around Orthodox Jews, and I had no idea what to anticipate. We walked in, and a young man at the front door immediately greeted my dad, shook his hand, and asked if he would like to wrap tefillin. We followed the man to the other room, where a few men were praying. He showed my dad how to wrap tefillin as I watched, fascinated by the symbolism and the explanations he offered. 

Before we left, I slowly approached the only two girls in the building and asked, in Spanish, where the bathroom was. After exchanging glances that seemed to say, “she’s wearing jeans,” they pointed me in the right direction. When I got out, they were gone. The only people who dared to interact with me had disappeared into the kitchen, the guy explained to my dad, because it was almost lunchtime, and someone had to cook. I’ve always loved cooking, thrown myself into family recipes, and seen the kitchen as a safe space. But having cooking presented as an expectation rather than a choice drained the joy out of it almost completely. My gender had never been a barrier for me before, not like this. It’s always been my choice to cook, to learn, to stand in shul and pray alongside my congregation, people of all genders standing together. I’ve always been fascinated by other sects of Judaism, looked in books and in archives, and found personal stories from women who grew up in synagogues different from mine. I’ve made friends who are Reconstructionist, Conservative, and Orthodox, and who thankfully are not bothered by my random questions about their synagogues or Jewish lives and experiences, and how they differ from my own. But this was my first time experiencing that difference.

I left the building feeling completely transparent, like all the people in the building had looked right through me to my dad, who is, of course, a man. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been completely disregarded in a Jewish space, and I did not care for it. After years of being the most Jewish person in my family by miles, and being proud of that part of my identity, stepping into that building felt like a complete erasure of any of the qualities that make me who I am, and instead, focusing solely on my gender and external presentation. 

I’ve always been able to make or find a space for myself in Judaism, but in that moment, it felt like there was no place for me other than as a vehicle for home-cooked meals and babies, and how dare I ask. It was the first time I have ever minded being seen as a woman, because it felt like my womanhood automatically translated to a lack of autonomy over myself and my surroundings. I left Cozumel with a newfound appreciation for my synagogue, our female clergy, our intentional encouragement of free speech on the bimah, the flexible nature of our services, and the people who have so graciously accepted my family as part of the community.