Judaism, Psychoanalysis and Resilience

Trauma isn't the only thing that can be passed down

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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Photo by Liane Metzler on Unsplash

A small shadow box hangs on our wall, holding a swatch of fur—a quiet but powerful artifact of survival.

My husband inherited it from his grandparents, M.O. and Pauline. They lived in the small town of Victoria, Texas, and in the midst of the Holocaust, they received a desperate letter from a Jewish family in Poland, where Pauline’s family had immigrated from in the late 1800s. These strangers somehow found their names in a directory and asked for help escaping. Without hesitation, M.O. and Pauline sent money.

According to family lore, M.O. and Pauline didn’t know what had become of the family until a letter arrived, years after the war. The family had made it out of Poland and resettled in South Africa, where they had started a successful fur business. As a token of their gratitude, they sent a fur coat.

Years later, Pauline and M.O. cut it up and distributed the swatches among their children and grandchildren—a symbol of resilience. My husband kept his fragment tucked in a drawer for years, bringing it out during difficult times as a reminder of the endurance woven into his lineage. After October 7, we decided it deserved more than a drawer. We framed it and placed it among our family pictures, where we could see it every day.

This swatch of fur is a reminder of a larger truth: resilience, like trauma, can be passed down through generations. As a psychoanalyst, I often support patients struggling with inherited trauma. I have learned all about how a parent or grandparent can pass on their trauma through unconscious behaviors, unspoken emotional responses or unresolved conflicts. A parent who experienced abuse, for example, may become hyper-vigilant with their own children. But not all “transgenerational transmission,” as we call it, is negative. Strength and resilience can also be passed down.

In those dark days after October 7, Jews around the world were horrified not only by the barbaric atrocities, but also by the world’s response. Instead of compassion for Jews and the people of Israel, we have endured collective victim-blaming—cruel claims that we brought this on ourselves.

Even now, it feels like much of the world is—once again—silently standing by. Symbols like our swatch of fur matter. They remind us of who we are and what we have overcome. Healing from trauma—not only for our own sake, but for the sake of preventing its transmission—requires intention and reflection.

As someone who came to Judaism by choice, I am always struck by Judaism’s focus on action. My favorite prayer in our siddur reads, “Pray as if everything depends on God. Act as if everything depends on you.” It’s what you do on this earth that counts.

My journey to conversion took over 15 years. After marrying my Jewish husband in 1991, I explored different faiths, searching for a spiritual home. I attended church and even taught Sunday school, but it never felt right. At the same time, I began studying Torah with my mother-in-law’s “God Girls” group, and took classes on Jewish ethics. I loved the intellectual openness of Judaism, and how it values questioning over definitive answers. It reminded me of psychoanalysis, which embraces uncertainty and mystery.

But even more than teachings or beliefs, it was people who shaped my path. A concentration camp survivor hosted us for memorable Sunday breakfast discussions. My college roommate embraced my questions, and a psychoanalytic colleague shared insights that inspired me. And these were just a few.

For years, I wavered. My husband was not religious and had no strong opinion about my faith, so the decision to convert—or not—was mine alone. I needed to be sure that it was something I wanted for myself.

Then, one Sunday in 2002, my husband joined me at church. During the service, the minister declared that accepting Christ was the only path to God. Sitting beside my husband, I had a sudden, undeniable realization: I don’t believe this. So why was I here?

That moment was my tipping point. In 2003, I began my two-year conversion process. We also become more committed to raising our children Jewish. It’s been almost 20 years since I converted, and I have never regretted it. If anything, I wish I’d done it sooner.

Not long after October 7, a relative on the Christian side of my family snidely remarked, “You picked a bad time to convert to Judaism.” I was stunned. But at that moment, I also recognized a hard truth: before October 7, we had been lulled into feeling safe and accepted. But now we must sober up to reality. And we must continue improving our reality through our voices, our stories, and our good deeds.

Our three kids, now adults, are proud of their Jewish heritage. One day, they will pass down the swatch of fur, and our story of survival.

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Dr. Stacey Rubin is a practicing psychoanalyst with over 20 years of experience in healthcare business and start-up environments. Her academic research focused on the ambivalence of high-achieving women who decided to stay home to raise their children. She continues to write about ambivalence—the conflicting thoughts and emotions that profoundly shape human lives—on her Substack, What’s On Your Mind? Stacey lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband of 32 years. They have three grown kids, one granddaughter, and three dogs.

Instagram: @dr.stace

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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.