Finding Meaning, Faith, and Identity: My Journey Through Disillusionment and Discovery

Life is never easy. It is a daily battle—not just to survive, but to live with dignity, to follow one’s own path without interfering in another’s. For me, life revolved around providing for my children, ensuring their happiness, working hard, paying my dues, respecting authority, and trying to help others in any way I could. Above all, I believed that if I lived by my principles, happiness would follow—not just for me, but for those around me.

But life does not always reward good intentions. Instead, I faced disappointment, heartbreak, and setbacks that filled my heart with stress and pain. I saw a world that seemed to punish kindness and reward deceit. Slowly, bitterness took hold. I began to resent humanity—the lies, the cowardice, the selfishness. I found solace only in animals, convinced that they, unlike people, were pure. I voiced my disillusionment openly, certain that I had no reason to change.

For years, I told myself that I would never love again, never trust again. Life had no real meaning beyond mere survival. I questioned why I was even here—on this earth filled with injustice, cruelty, and suffering. Was I searching for honesty? Justice? Love? None seemed to exist.

Then, in the most unexpected place—Facebook—I saw a face. His smile radiated happiness, a kind of light I had long stopped believing in. He occupied my thoughts from the very first day. Three months later, we spoke for the first time, and from there, a connection grew. He was Jewish, deeply religious but with a wisdom that transcended rigid orthodoxy.

He did not sugarcoat life. He shared my disillusionment, my questions. Each day, he asked God why he was placed in a world so full of darkness, where love seemed rare, perhaps nonexistent. And yet, he held onto his faith, his traditions, his values. Soon, he made a bold decision—he left the safety and familiarity of Israel and flew to the Netherlands to be with me. He entered a world where kosher food was not a given, where religion played little role in daily life, where indulgence and excess were the norm. Yet, he remained steadfast, holding onto his faith, his prayers, his discipline. And he stood by my side.

I thought I could continue living as I always had—believing that if I loved him, if I made him happy, everything would work out. But I soon realized how difficult that was. For the first time, I was not alone; I was sharing my life with someone whose moral and religious standards were unwavering. It was an earthquake in my world. He taught me something I had never truly understood: Life is not just about making others happy. It is about fixing yourself.

The struggles of life, he showed me, are not between us and other people—they are between us and God, or whatever force we believe governs the universe. My priority, he insisted, should be myself. Only then could I truly be there for my children, for him, for anyone. It was a painful lesson, one that brought tears, anger, and despair. But deep down, I knew he was right. To release stress, hate, and disappointment, I had to make room for peace, for joy, for self-acceptance.

Our relationship did not last. He missed Israel, wanted children, and I already had four. He returned home. But he left me with something invaluable—clarity.

I no longer see the world in black and white. Judaism, to me, is not just a religion but a wellspring of wisdom. Its teachings, like the laws of kashrut, have logic beyond mere tradition—scientific, practical reasons that have stood the test of time. For example, the prohibition against mixing milk and meat is not just a religious custom—it makes biological sense. Meat contains iron, an essential nutrient, but consuming dairy alongside it inhibits the body’s ability to absorb it. Many other dietary laws have similar underlying wisdom, ensuring better health and discipline.

And what I respect most is that Judaism does not seek converts. It embraces those who truly feel called to it, making the commitment all the more meaningful.

The synagogue is the only place where religious services move me to tears. I feel something real there. I once attempted a Reconstructionist conversion to Judaism, believing my ancestry pointed to Jewish roots lost in the devastation of World War II. However, my inability to provide the necessary documentation meant I could not officially prove my Jewish heritage. Without this proof, I cannot make Aliyah, despite feeling deeply connected to Israel as my true home. The tragedy of history has left many like me in a limbo—descendants of Jewish families whose records were lost or destroyed, unable to claim their rightful place.

But I could not reconcile myself with aspects of the Reconstructionist movement. My heart leaned toward Orthodox tradition. I could not accept women wearing kippot or serving as rabbis—not out of a belief in their inferiority, but because I saw meaning in their distinct roles. I could not embrace a perspective that seemed, in my eyes, anti-Zionist. And the more I studied for conversion, the less I believed in a personal God. I felt energy, a force beyond comprehension, but not a deity in human form.

During Passover, I sat at a Seder in Israel, surrounded by a family whose faith and traditions moved me deeply. That was real. That was powerful. But at a Zoom meeting for my conversion course, I felt nothing. That moment sealed my decision—I could not convert for the wrong reasons. I could not claim a faith I did not truly hold. And so, I stepped away.

Yet, my commitment to Judaism remains unshaken. I live in the Netherlands, unable to officially convert because I believe I initially sought conversion for the wrong reasons—to be able to move to Israel. I am also unable to make Aliyah because I cannot prove that my family is Jewish enough; during WWII, all the papers were destroyed. But my soul remains tied to Israel. I will defend Judaism, defend Israel, with all my heart and through my NGO, Time to Stand Up for Israel.

I may not have found all the answers, but I have found purpose. And that, in itself, is a reason to keep living.