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.
Converting to Judaism felt like coming home. I didn’t grow up religious; my father was an atheist, my mother nominally Methodist. But at 23 years old, I accompanied a Jewish boyfriend to Rosh Hashanah services. When the congregation sang “Avinu Malkeinu,” something shifted in me. It was as if I knew the prayer, even though I had never heard it before. Not in this lifetime, at least. Suddenly, my huge network of Jewish friends and my string of Jewish partners made sense. When I eventually told my future husband that I wanted to convert, he reacted with incredulity.
“Why would you want to join us? We are the most hated people in the world,” he said. But the call was too strong. Despite his efforts to dissuade me, I went ahead with my conversion, initiating an internal dialogue and practice that has been going strong for 30 years.
My early attempts at keeping kosher and observing Shabbat were a failure. My new husband had already lived—and left— an Orthodox life, and had no interest in returning to strict observance. After some heated arguments, I decided that shalom bayit was more important than a kosher kitchen. But it was hard to feel like a “real” Jew. I attended holiday services alone. I am an introvert, and I navigated these spaces as I usually do—hugging the walls and looking for exits, while simultaneously wishing that someone would see me. I hoped that someone would recognize my earnestness, my faith, my commitment.
After my children were born, things got a little easier. As the mother of two Jewish boys, I finally had a role to play. I took responsibility for their Jewish education—organizing their Hebrew school and Jewish camp, making sure they knew the rituals and had Jewish and Israeli friends. Both had bar mitzvahs. My oldest traveled to Israel his junior year. I am proud of the two beautiful Jewish men I have raised.
In community with other Jewish families, I began to settle into my identity. But my Jewishness wasn’t something I thought about every day—at least, until after October 7. In the aftermath of the massacre in Israel, I found myself finally speaking the truth about my conversion.
I teach multicultural psychology to master’s students, and for several years, I have given an annual lecture about working with Jewish clients. In 2023, I was nervous, and even considered skipping it; I was close with several Arab women in my class, and worried about how they would react. But I wanted to convey the ancient beauty and complexity of Judaism. I wanted to combat the ignorance and misinformation that is promulgated in all cultures, but particularly in the Arab world.
I enlisted my best friend to help me pore over my materials and double-check facts—and in the end, it was the most personal lecture I had ever given. I opened by describing my own experience of coming to Judaism. For the first time, I really found the words.
“It was a calling,” I told the class. I explained that, although converts are often called “Jews by choice,” for me, it was not a choice. If I had not heeded the call, my life would be incomplete. It would be less rich, less connected and less meaningful.
I was heartened by my students’ response. They asked earnest and curious questions. Many of them looked aghast as I described the antisemitism occurring in the U.S. and across the globe. Many thanked me after the class or emailed me later. It was particularly meaningful when my Palestinian student wrote to thank me for sharing my experience. She confided that she had felt nervous when she saw my slide entitled “Zionism,” but she appreciated my informational tone.
From that point on, my desire to live my Jewish identity out loud became central to my daily life. Although I had occasionally worn jewelry that marked me as Jewish, I committed to start doing so every day. I began reading more by Jewish authors and about Jewish history. I started following Jewish influencers; three-quarters of my feed now consists of Jewish content. (The other quarter is still cats in sweaters.)
I also found ways to put my skills as a trauma therapist to use. I have not taken on new clients for several years, but this year, when approached by folks looking for a Jewish therapist, I have chosen to find room. I also started volunteering for a hotline in Israel, Tikva Line, that provides support to olim (immigrants to Israel). This spring, I will present on the experience of Jewish therapists at a conference. Later this year, I am hoping to join a group of therapists traveling to Israel to learn from and support locals in addressing ongoing trauma.
In 2024—a year after October 7—I delivered the same lecture to my master’s students. This time, I noticed that there had been a shift in me. I no longer wondered if I was Jewish enough. I no longer worried if I could accurately represent the Jewish experience. I felt confident that I had been called not only to be Jewish, but to live my Jewishness out loud, and to support the Jewish people.
Dr. Johanna Soet Buzolits is a licensed psychologist who is a faculty member at the Michigan School of Psychology. She teaches master's students clinical skills, research, crisis and trauma response, existential and multicultural perspectives in therapy. Her research focuses on vicarious trauma and the impact of cultural responsibility on mental healthcare providers. Johanna also sees clients and supervises clinicians at her practice Arbor Wellness Center in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She is a life-long animal rights advocate with a particular affinity for wiener dogs.
Instagram: @johannabuzolits
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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