My Jewish Identity
I am a sister, a wife, a therapist, an author—but first and foremost, a Jew
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.
“How would you identify yourself?” I ask the postpartum women in the moms’ support groups I facilitate as a therapist. They often say that they used to identify with their profession, but now identify first as mothers. They wonder what that means, and if their self-definition will continue to evolve.
“It’s normal to feel like you’re still figuring out your identity,” I tell my twenty-something female patients. They are navigating the stressors of emerging adulthood, changing family dynamics, new and different relationships.
“How has your identity shifted since experiencing the menopause transition?” I ask my peri- and menopausal clients. They often experience feelings of loss or longing for a previous life phase, alongside a sense of empowerment and confidence.
What makes an identity? What makes my identity?
Throughout my 40 years, I have held many identities, sometimes concurrently: daughter, first-generation American, sister, friend, New Yorker, student, social worker, lawyer, wife, expat, mother, therapist, writer, volunteer, leader, author, suburbanite. And my identity has held many consistencies throughout: a lover of the color pink, of movie theater snacks and early 2000s pop culture; a reader rather than an athlete; a compassionate and spiritual soul. I am—and always have been—a believer in human rights, an advocate for social justice, a fierce feminist.
And a proud Jew. Always, first and foremost, I identify as a Jew. I am who I am because I am Jewish.
Because I am Jewish, family is central to my identity. Traditions, connection, sharing memories, caring for each other (even if you don’t always like each other). We are taught to respect our elders and to celebrate the next generation. I married a Jew who shares my values, and we are passing them on to our two children. L’dor v’dor is in my blood.
Because I am Jewish, community is an important part of my identity. I get chills when I participate in the horah at a simcha, thinking of the millions who have danced the same steps to the same music, for thousands of years and throughout the world. We know we can travel to a foreign country or move to a new town and feel welcomed by other Jews, because we are all connected.
Because I am Jewish, I was taught to value tikkun olam, peace, community, charity, empathy, education, love, life. And now I wonder—Are we as alone as we feel? As I fear?
We recently told our 8-year-old that World War II was about more than countries fighting over land; it was about the hatred of our people—and about our survival. He asked why so many hate us. He asked if that was why his great-grandparents left Poland and went to Cuba. He asked if his grandmother, who came to the U.S. as a Spanish-speaking refugee, would be kicked out now, given what he has heard about immigrants.
His questions bleed into mine. There are no clear answers. When we see posters of rape victims and hostage children ripped down in our neighborhood, are we dramatic to consider removing the mezuzahs from our front doors? When a stranger rings the doorbell and asks if we celebrate Christmas, are we unreasonable for calling the police?
On a recent trip abroad, a stranger commented on my chai necklace. I froze. I’d known it was a risk to wear it, but I was told it would be safe in that city. I didn’t want to hide. That stranger ended up sharing that she was Jewish, too—but is that how the next interaction will unfold? Will I soon feel unsafe in my hometown of New York City? Will my Jewish identity cost me opportunities, friendships, public favor—even though I have always stood up for what’s right, for what’s fair—because I am Jewish?
I know I am fortunate to live where I do, here and now. I feel grateful, and also guilty for that privilege. I feel helpless, devastated, concerned about the planet and my rights, worried for my children’s safety, shattered about the hatred. And scared, of course, because we are Jewish.
But we must never forget to be proud of our identity. We are who we are because we are Jewish. Am Yisrael Chai.
Lauren A. Tetenbaum, LCSW, JD, PMH-C is a writer and social worker specializing in women’s mental health. Lauren provides therapy in NY, NJ, CT, and FL, facilitates groups and workshops to empower postpartum and other women in corporate settings, and contributes to media on topics like maternal mental health, perimenopause, gender equity, and working parenthood. A former lawyer and a forever women’s rights advocate, Lauren feels privileged to counsel women through life transitions when they most need and deserve support. Her first book, Millennial Menopause: Preparing for Perimenopause, Menopause, and Life’s Next Period, is available for pre-order and will be published July 2025.
Instagram: @The CounseLaur
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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You so beautifully put into words what so many of us are feeling.
I can relate to the ever increasing sense of doom. Fear of something we’ve read so much about but never experienced. Removing, or never putting up Mezuzahs. Telling the kids not to wear Magan Davids.
I think a lot of the positive traits you attribute to being Jewish can be attributed to being human. It’s this talk of being better than that encourages hate towards us.
I’m very confused about why you’d call the police if someone knocked on your door and asked if you were Christian. Yes, I think calling the police would be a tad over the top 😅