Memories of My Mikvah

A convert's tale

Mar 10, 2025

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.

person reading book — Photo by Eran Menashri on Unsplash

My days are frenetic, filled with movement and noise: I am always rushing from here to there and back again. My students, high school seniors, are captivated by the biology of the human body, but they worry about where they’ll be next fall. I find private moments to quell their fears. Meanwhile, at home, my daughters burst in and out of rooms, loud with delight or irritation, leaving detritus mindlessly behind. After hours of teaching science, I wrestle with the calculus of motherhood: when to embrace, when to cajole, when to clench my jaw and remain silent.

The cacophony of my days elevates my cortisol and quickens my breath. I yearn to escape my worries, to slow my thoughts and still my body. Eyes closed, I curl into the soothing memory of my mikvah.

I was not raised Jewish. As a child, I tried to squeeze into my inherited Catholic faith, like an ill-fitting smock. After years of trying and failing to conform, I tearfully asked my parents if I could leave the church. I then bounced between Protestant services, where voices never rose, to evangelical worship, where collective devotion spun in a susurrance of dissonant tongues.

In college, my closest friends were Jewish. We observed Shabbat, lit candles, and shared challah. I accompanied them to temple on High Holidays, where the lilt of Hebrew, swirling through bodies and space, calmed my soul. My faith had finally found a home; I knew with joy and certainty that I would one day convert to Judaism. I also knew that the right time would reveal itself; I had experienced epiphanies before.

In my junior year of college, I studied abroad in Australia. Immersed in ocean waves, surrounded by the Great Barrier Reef, I was suddenly overcome by the beauty of the world. In breathless awe, I silently declared, “I will be a teacher.” The arc of my life changed. I found a job teaching biology and met David at the copy machine. Our wedding was a few years later.

A life of basherts.

David is Jewish, an integral part of a loving and boisterous clan. Even before he proposed, I knew that it was time. I eagerly joined a conversion class, where I practiced Hebrew, studied Jewish history, and discovered the meaning of Jewish customs. The final observance was the mikvah, the ritual bath.

Clean and unadorned, I crossed the threshold and descended the steps. Light reflected off the water, rippling on the walls. The gauzy air was soddened and warm; it had texture and weight. I was grateful that the steam was gentle on my bare skin.

Rabbi Eric, freshly ordained, stood outside, shifting his weight nervously; mine was his first mikvah.

“This ceremony marks the profundity that welcomes converted souls,” he bellowed. “The immersion signifies our prenatal existence, when we could neither breathe nor sustain life on our own. Your ascension symbolizes the cleansing of your past, the purification of your soul, and the elevation of your spirit.”

Although his voice was disembodied, I could hear the sincerity of his faith. His words hung aloft like winged seeds in the humid air.

“Carisa, it’s time to immerse yourself. You must let every inch be surrounded by the cleansing water. Are you ready?”

I was. Stretching my limbs, lifting my feet, I plunged under the surface. My body floundered; my instinct was to coil. For an instant, I wanted to laugh at how I must have looked. Then everything external dissolved in the warm water that had once descended from the sky.

Ensuring that my anatomical protrusions were completely submerged, I hovered in the just-between, inches from the floor, inches from the surface, every epidermal cell fully enveloped. It was a moment of just me, free of worries or riling thoughts: my soul purling with tikvah, hope. I imagined the decades of my life to come, the love I would share, the students I would hopefully inspire, the confident children I would be blessed to raise.

I burst upward and inhaled deeply. My first breath.

With greater volume, Rabbi Eric recited the blessing for my soul. “Barukh atah Ado-nai Elo-henu melekh ha’olam asher kideshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al ha’tevillah. Blessed are You, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us regarding the immersion.”

I descended twice more and recited the Shehecheyanu, thanking God for this blessed moment. Three women, my future sister- and mothers-in-law, applauded joyously; I beamed hearing their delight. Surrounded by love, I was overcome with hakarat hatov, gratitude, reminding me of the time I’d been mesmerized by the earth’s natural splendor. Three weeks later, in front of family, friends, and students, I married my beloved. We were Rabbi Eric’s first wedding.

Today, I am the proud mother of three daughters who, thanks to my conversion, entered the world as Jewish children. Their footing is firm, their spines straight. Our youngest chanted Torah at her bat mitzvah last spring and proudly wears her Star of David necklace, despite the swastikas repeatedly smeared on school bathroom walls. Our middle daughter volunteers with the Witness Project, interviewing survivors and ensuring that their stories will persist despite denials that the Holocaust happened. Our oldest combats the insidious antisemitism on her college campus, defending her right to exist as a Jew despite continuously being labeled an oppressor.

David and I have raised these fierce young women to embrace their moxie, stand for justice, and practice tikkun olam. Yet there are moments, ever increasing, when sorrow rises in my throat, and my shoulders sag with worry. And so I close my eyes and return to the memory of my mikvah: my mind quiet, enveloped in gratitude. My resolve strengthens, and I am once again filled with hope.

On Being Jewish Now

Memories of My Mikvah

A convert's tale

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