Hanging a Mezuzah Without My Mom

Ritual, grief and a return to tradition

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

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mezuzah with the letter shin on it

Today, my son and I mounted a solid oak mezuzah to the doorpost of my new home. It had been six years since I’d last had a mezuzah on my entryway. We’ve moved around a lot these last few years, and between packing, unpacking, and helping my family settle in, this ritual fell by the wayside.

If my mother were still here, she would tell me I had dropped the ball—not just on mezuzah-hanging, but on my Jewishness. My mother picked and chose which Jewish traditions to observe; she made her own brand of Judaism. Like a hummingbird, she narrowed in on the sweetest nectar, integrating the most mystical Jewish rituals into our everyday lives.

Hanging a mezuzah was one of her favorite customs. Where she had a door, she had a mezuzah. (Unless it was the door to the bathroom.) She used to come over with a mezuzah in her coat pocket, earnestly performing the ritual to bless my many homes. Sometimes, I tell myself I neglected the ritual because I couldn’t bear to do it without her. But the truth is that I’d just gotten lazy.

As I affixed the mezuzah today, turning it inward to face my home, I realized that—until October 7—my Jewish identity had been fading. I wondered if I would have even noticed this erosion were it not for the attacks, and the world’s abandonment of the Jewish people. After seeing the social media posts of people I considered friends, it became clear how members of my faith were seen by others.

I realized that I had mistaken their surface-level tolerance for genuine acceptance. I thought about how non-Jewish friends had often told me I look like Barbra Streisand. (I am flattered by the comparison—but Barbra Streisand is thirty years my senior, and our only physical similarity is our prominent noses.) I thought about how non-Jewish parents have mocked my “overprotective Jewish mothering” and referred to my husband as a “Jewish banker.” I thought about how I used to laugh this off. How I didn’t think it was a big deal when new acquaintances inquired about my nationality. Now, I know better.

Still, I never imagined that this undercurrent of prejudice could boil over into outright violence. I was proven wrong last year, when my son witnessed a brutal attack on a Jewish student on his college campus. This year, on the anniversary of October 7, there were violent calls for an “intifada revolution” on his new campus. And an innocuous article I wrote for a left-leaning online magazine about the increase in antisemitism elicited a barrage of negativity.

None of this, though, has made me want to hide my Judaism, or fall back into the haze of assimilation I lived in before. On the contrary: when I reread the messages of love and support from other Jewish writers defending my article, I’m thankful for their kinship and encouragement. I’m proud to be part of a rich and diverse culture that has flourished despite centuries of persecution. My bond with my Jewish faith grows deeper daily, and is now a guiding force.

Through it all, my Jewish friends from childhood, my Jewish sorority sisters, and the broader Jewish community have all banded together. It is as if a big wave of soft blue with white glitter has drawn us closer, and made us more vital than ever.

Sitting in the synagogue on this Erev Rosh Hashanah, next to one of my dearest friends, I could feel the ancientness of the Jewish blood running through my veins. Together, we sang “Shalom Rav” with heavy hearts. We prayed for peace in the Middle East and for the return of the precious hostages. 

Tears fell from my eyes as I recited the kaddish for my mother and then, for the first time, for my father. My friend gently placed her hand on my shoulder—conveying the warmth and understanding that only a Jewish soul can give during the mourner's kaddish.

When I returned home later, I pressed my index and middle fingers to my lips and touched the mezuzah on my doorpost, just as my grandfather used to. I felt my mother's spirit beside me, like a hummingbird fluttering its wings.

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Cindy Galen-Barry is an intuitive counselor and Spirit Coach® who offers guidance on mental, physical, emotional, and energetic levels. She loves to write, practice yoga, and take long walks with her sweet puppy, Pia. She earned a psychology degree from Ohio State University and a Master of Social Work from Fordham University. Visit her website.

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This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.