I don’t go to shul anymore on Tisha B’Av. I used to. Even for years after I stopped believing. It was always so hard. Sitting on the floor. Pretending to be sad over something I truly no longer cared about.

There were always the cool guys in the back. Cracking jokes. Sending pictures of food on WhatsApp. Making plans for after the fast.

That bothered me.

I know you still believe. If you knew what I believed you probably would think yourself way better than me. Yet somehow, you’re sitting in shul on Tisha B’Av night making jokes.

It’s funny because I see a lot of this. People totally not taking this whole religious thing seriously at all. Yet I know, if they ever found out I really don’t believe they’d never make those same jokes in front of me. They’d pretend to take it all seriously. The same jokes we all laugh at now would stop being funny.

Be that as it may, I’m glad my wife and I watched those movies together. It’s something we can both share on this day. In the early years, she wouldn’t. It was almost as if watching these films with me would admit something she wasn’t ready to admit. We’ve both changed a lot over the last few years.

I remind her to boil the eggs before Tisha B’Av. I prepare the ashes for her. She knows I’m not going to fast. I went for a run this morning and showered when I got home. I don’t eat around her or the kids. That’s our compromise.

Watching these movies gives me mixed feelings. On the one hand, they make me so angry. Angry and stubborn. Like, fuck you people for doing this to my people.

Because these are my people.

About a year ago, I was walking in Manhattan when I saw a pro-Palestinian protest ahead of me on the sidewalk. I wasn’t wearing my yarmulke. As soon as I saw the protest, I took it out of my pocket and put it on. Then I walked straight through with my head held high, making eye contact with anyone willing to look back. Don’t fucking push me around. Those days are over.

Menachem Begin represents that feeling for me. The refusal to apologize. The insistence that we do not need anyone’s permission to exist. We are here because we are here, and if that bothers you, that is your problem.

When I watch The Pianist or Schindler’s List, I feel that defiance rising in me.

I see people stripped of their homes and dignity. Herded through the streets. Literally: נחשבנו כצאן לטבח יובל. We were considered like sheep led to slaughter.

Watching people so determined to destroy us makes me want to live that much more.

Yet, on the other hand. Fuck. Haven’t we had enough of this shit? The chosenness. The persecution. The survival. The responsibility to remember every enemy who tried to destroy us and every ancestor who died so that we could continue.

I for one am done.

It is my dream that my children assimilate. I want them to be free of this burden. I want them to live without feeling responsible for the survival of a people. I want their children to inherit family stories, not national obligations. I don’t want them to have to walk through protests with their heads held high. I want them to be ordinary.

Not because I hate being Jewish. I don’t. You don’t watch The Pianist and feel that kind of rage if you have no connection to the people on the screen.

These are my people. And I want my children to be free from having to say that. Yeah, I know assimilation doesn’t always work. The Nazis looked into your parents and grandparents too.

But someone has to be the last generation to carry something. Someone has to be the first generation allowed to put it down.

It’s my third or fourth time watching The Pianist. My wife had never seen it before. Way better than any of the other Tisha B’Av films being marketed this year. I don’t actually know that because I haven’t watched any of them. I’m guessing.

At some point my daughter wakes up, asks me to turn down the volume. We’re watching on my laptop. Somehow, after all these years, we still don’t have a television in the house.

Some things die hard.

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I turn around, take a step and lift a handle. Fresh clean water runs over my hands - for as long as I want. I reach up to pull another lever. A fresh, clean, never used before towel unrolls. I use it to dry the hands I just washed in the clean water. I stick my foot out and gently apply pressure to another small lever that lifts the lid off of a matte finished waste receptacle. Later today someone will remove all the fresh clean never used before towels moistened by hands that were washed with fresh clean water that forever runs out of the wall.

I take another step. Reach out my hand and take hold of a round, polished knob. The handle of this indoor-bathroom door. I twist. Gears inside the door slide a latch out of the way to let the door - fitted perfectly to its frame - open. I pull. The door smoothly swings open on perfectly engineered, well oiled, metal hinges that barely make a sound. The indoor-bathroom door will close itself. I don’t even think about that part.

I step into the hallway. It’s a room that leads to other rooms. I marvel at the faux wood floor. Illuminated by fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Somehow a mixture of mercury vapor trapped in a tube can light up a room when the magical electricity pumped into the building from who knows where comes in contact with it. I step lightly over this magical surface in comfortable shoes that just a century ago kings could only dream of. With laces that have become so cheap they are almost disposable. As I walk down this hallway I let my hand slide against the lightly textured papered wall. I note to myself that this same pattern continues for several floors below me. And a bunch more above me.

None of this blows my mind.

That’s the part that blows my mind.

Her mascara is starting to run. She says she’s never felt so alone.
I’m cradling a coffee mug with both hands like it’s keeping me from drowning.

I tell her I understand.

I don’t feel anything.

*

We’re going through a rough time. Again.

It started a few days ago.

I want to go away for a weekend with some friends. I won’t be keeping Shabbos. I won’t be keeping kosher.

She knows this.

That’s the thing that’s breaking us. A weekend where I eat what I want, don’t pretend to daven, and exist as the person I’ve been in my own head for years.

She doesn’t want me to go.

I’m going anyway.

It took me more than a decade to get here. To be able to say this out loud: I need to exist. I need to be me. And if we’re going to have a relationship, she’s going to love me. Not a smaller, safer version designed to keep her calm.

I learned the hard way that erasing myself to make other people comfortable doesn’t work. I’m still paying for those choices. All the times I tried to disappear. To take up less space. To be less frightening.

So this isn’t negotiable anymore.

I need to exist.

My existence terrifies my wife.

*

At the kitchen table, she’s telling me about the loneliness.

She has no one to share this with. Sure, there’s the therapist. A friend once in a while. But they have their own lives. They can’t possibly understand what it’s like to hold this together alone. To carry crushed dreams in silence. To watch her friends living the life she wanted, knowing it will never be hers.

She has to do it all in secret. Out of embarrassment. Out of fear. Fear of being judged, of losing respect, of losing what little she has left.

I sit there watching her cry.

I’m furious.

Not just at the community that made her this afraid.

I’m furious at her.

For choosing to stay. For being scared of them. For being scared of me. For turning me into something monstrous by looking at me through their eyes.

I want to scream: I’m not the one making you miserable. YOU are. You could leave. You could tell your family to fuck off. You could choose me over their opinions, just once. But you won’t, because their approval matters more to you than my existence does.

I don’t say that.

I sit there.

I tell her I understand.

*

We’ve tried so many times to get a wives’ group going.

I have a group of others going through this. Mostly men. It’s been a lifeline. The ability to talk to people who understand, who aren’t shocked, who can hold my anger and fear without flinching.

But the spouses don’t want it.

A few months ago, after a year of trying, my friend’s wife agreed to call mine. They’d never met. They talked for over an hour.

During the call, we congratulated each other. We’d made it happen.

When my wife came back downstairs, her eyes were red, but her shoulders looked like a million pounds had been lifted off.

I know they won’t speak again for a while. Not until we push them into it again. They won’t form a support group.

Forming a group would mean admitting something they’re fighting to deny.

As if joining would signal failure. To the others. Or to herself.

So they choose to be alone.

I watch my wife suffer from that choice.

*

Last night was her parents’ Chanukah party.

Her father lit the menorah and we all sang Maoz Tzur. I watched my wife’s face in the candlelight, peaceful for the first time in days. Her sister leaned into her, their shoulders touching. Her mother kissed the top of her head as she walked past.

She has a big, beautiful family. They vacation together. The boys go out Thursday nights for cholent. Her sister cries to her about her marriage.

But this is beyond the pale.

“This part of our life” must stay secret. If it ever came to light, everything would unravel. The smiles would vanish. The loving, caring, open arms would snap shut.

The people she needs most are unavailable for the thing she needs most.

She’s surrounded by people who love her.

She’s utterly alone.

*

At the kitchen table, I’m holding multiple things at once.

Her pain, which is real.

Her accusation that I don’t value our marriage, which comes from fear, not truth.

My rage. At my parents for raising me in this. At the community for building this cage. At her for choosing to stay in it. At myself for being unable to fix it.

The knowledge that I will always hurt her. That my existence in the world as myself is a source of terror for her.

Underneath all of it, a kind of detachment. Numbness.

Because if I let myself feel this fully, it would destroy me

*

Part of me wants to tell her: Don’t worry. I don’t need my identity. I don’t need to exist. All I want is for you to be happy.

I could do that. I could tell her I won’t do this thing. I could disappear again, make myself smaller, less threatening.

But I know what would happen. I’d become deeply resentful. I’d still be paying the price for that choice ten years from now, twenty years from now.

I’ve done that before. I’m still paying for it.

So I sit at the kitchen table, and I don’t offer to disappear.

I just stay with her. As best I can.

*

I tell myself I’m bearing witness to her pain.

That’s the language I use. Witness. As if I’m some compassionate observer, present for her suffering without causing it.

But that’s not what’s happening.

I’m not witnessing. I’m complicit. I’m present in a situation I’m partly creating. I’m at the table with fury in my heart while she weeps, telling myself a story about her choices so her tears don’t have to be an indictment of me.

The truth is simpler and worse:

I chose to exist.

My existence terrifies my wife.

I’m staying anyway.

*

Every day I ask myself why I stay.

Part of it is guilt. I can’t leave her with this mess.

Part of it is fear. If I rolled the dice again, would I do better?

I have a wife who loves me. Children. A house. Stability.

It sounds pretty good when I list it like that.

But here’s the thing I don’t say out loud: Does she love me, or does she love who I used to be? Does she love the man I am, or the man she thought she married? When she says “I love you,” is she talking to the person sitting across from her, or to a ghost she’s still hoping will come back?

And if she’s loving a ghost, does that count?

So maybe I’m staying because what I have is good enough. Or maybe I’m staying because leaving feels impossible. Or maybe I’m staying because I don’t know if I’d do better.

I don’t know if this is love or cowardice.

I don’t know if staying is the right thing or the weak thing.

I just know that I’m here. Watching my wife cry. Feeling furious and guilty and scared and numb.

Telling her I understand.

Choosing to exist anyway.

Not knowing if that makes me brave, selfish, or just human.

*

We have a good marital therapist. We’ve learned to communicate. To see each other. To recognize when her accusations are terror, when my silence is rage dressed as patience.

I see her pain. I see how deeply it frightens her that I’m choosing to exist in ways the community can’t accept. I see how alone she is, how the women won’t form the group that could save them, how her beautiful family can never know “this.”

She sees mine. She sees that I’m doing my best. That I’m not trying to hurt her. That I’m just trying to be real.

But seeing each other doesn’t fix this.

We can see each other clearly across the kitchen table and still be trapped in something impossible.

Two people whose lives have become incompatible, bound together by something neither of us can name with certainty as love.

*

I don’t have a conclusion.

I don’t have a neat resolution or a lesson learned or a path forward that makes sense.

I just have this: the kitchen table, mid-morning, my wife crying, telling me how alone she is.

Me sitting there, numb and furious and guilty and scared.

Choosing to exist.

Staying anyway.

Not knowing if it’s love or cowardice.

Not knowing if there’s even a difference.

Just staying.

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Not a metaphor. An actual temple. Built from wood in the Black Rock Desert. Seventy feet tall. Walls covered in messages to dead children, lost parents, broken relationships. Questions that’ll never get answered.

It’s one of the quieter places at Burning Man. Outside, the desert throbs with sound camps and art cars and bodies in costume. In here, people whisper. They cry. They draw on the walls with markers. They hang photographs. A woman in the corner is sobbing into someone else’s shoulder. I don’t know if they knew each other before this moment.

I watch a man trace his finger over someone else’s handwriting. Another person kneels in front of a photograph, lips moving silently.

The dust gets everywhere here. It coats my hands, my face, the pages people have left on makeshift altars. Everything is temporary. At the end of the week, they’ll burn this building to the ground.

And I think: This is a temple. A real one.

Not the roped-off museum version I grew up with. A place where people come to meet something bigger than themselves. To be honest about their pain. To stop performing and just... be.

And then the second thought. The one that makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time:

This is what they were so afraid of.

The first time I drove a car on Shabbos, I sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute before I could turn the key.

I knew what I’d been taught: this wasn’t just prohibited, it was one of the big thirty-nine. Lighting a fire - mav’ir. The punishment? Skila. Death by stoning. The rabbis weren’t fucking around.

But I also knew I didn’t believe anymore. And I needed to drive.

I turned the key.

The engine started. A normal sound. Ordinary vibration through the steering wheel.

I sat there, waiting for something to happen. Divine intervention. Cosmic consequences. The feeling that I’d broken something fundamental in the universe.

Nothing.

Just me in a car with the engine running on a Saturday morning.

When I told someone still religious about it later, they said, “Hashem lets you think you got away with it. You’ll see.”

I’m sitting across from another frum guy - someone I’ve known for years. We’re having coffee. Talking about life, community, the usual safe topics.

And then we drift toward philosophy. He mentions something about faith, about davening, about connection to Hashem. A casual reference. The kind you make when you assume everyone in the room shares your beliefs.

I could nod. Change the subject. Stay the path.

Instead, I say it:
“I don’t believe in God.”

His face doesn’t change immediately. There’s a pause - maybe half a second - where I can see him processing whether I’m joking, being provocative, testing him somehow.

Then it lands. “What?”

“I don’t believe in God” I say again.

The silence is enormous. Like I’ve said something that shouldn’t be sayable. Like I’ve revealed that I can see through walls, or that I’m not actually human.

He looks at me. Deeply. Searching for the person he thought he knew.

And I wait for something to happen. For the universe to correct this. For the words to be impossible. For divine intervention or cosmic consequence or at least the feeling that I’ve broken something fundamental.

Again, nothing.

Just two men sitting in a coffee shop. One of them no longer believes. Both of them still breathing.

Orthodox Judaism doesn’t just avoid the playa. They’re horrified by it. The nudity, the chaos, the paganism, the radical self-expression - everything Orthodox Judaism defines itself against. It’s not just off the path. It’s the anti-path. The place good Jews don’t go.

I went.

And there I was, sitting in the Temple, watching people talk quietly. Crying, holding each other. Drawing on the walls. Hanging pictures of loved ones.

The dust is settling on everything - the walls, the photographs, the messages people have left.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“I miss you so much it hurts to breathe.”

And me, thinking “this is what they were so afraid of”.

In a few days they’ll burn this place to the ground. The wood, the messages, the grief.

There’s a marker on the bench next to me. I pick it up and pull off the cap.

“I don’t want to hide anymore.”

In a few days they’ll burn this place to the ground.

Good.

Let it burn.

Then - her

The world rips open and I’m not in it anymore. My body folds and the sky replaces the sea. Everything that held me disappears. The weight. The noise. The steady pull of the current. Gone.

The air feels wrong. Cold. Holy. My gills flare at nothing. My body thrashes out of instinct, not thought. There’s no up here, no down. Just wind and terror and light too sharp to look at.

Something holds me. Beating. Alive. I twist but the grip doesn’t change. A rush of air slicks along my scales. For a moment it’s unbearable and perfect. The shimmer. The blue. The feeling of falling without falling.

Then awe fractures. Panic slams in. I snap my tail, bend, fight. But the air doesn’t move. The sky doesn’t yield.

So I go still. Hang limp. Pretend death. Maybe she’ll drop me. Maybe I’ll fall home.

Nothing. Just wind. My body cools. The stillness almost feels kind.

I twitch. Kick again. Lose. Go still.
Kick again. Lose again.

No plan. No prayer. Just reflex.

I know what’s coming. I feel the certainty of it sitting quiet inside me. The world has flipped, and there’s no unflipping it. Everything I ever knew is below me now, shrinking fast.

Still, I move. Once more. Because that’s what things like me do. Because I don’t know how not to.

And then -
a jolt.
Like waking from a dream I didn’t realize I was inside.

Because suddenly I’m not the one being carried.
I’m the one in the sky, holding someone else’s whole world in my claws.
And she is the one thrashing, terrified, trying to breathe in a place she never chose.

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But as he moved toward this hidden chamber, he felt a presence watching him. In the back of the ship, in a small lantern-lit alcove, sat a young cabin boy who had been standing guard for decades. He had taken up his post when the ship lost its queen, and the sea swallowed her without returning so much as a ripple. The boy believed it was his duty to protect the treasure from ever being seen, touched, or disturbed. It was the only job he ever had.

When the sailor entered through a different passageway, the boy panicked. He feared he was no longer needed. That without his watch, he would disappear. That he would be thrown overboard like an old rope whose fibers had frayed.

The sailor knelt beside him and told him the truth: the treasure survived because of him. The ship stayed afloat because he stood guard. He was not being cast aside. His watch was complete. He was welcome to stay, not as a guard in the shadows, but as part of the crew on deck beneath open sky.

The boy hesitated, then stepped forward. The treasure unwrapped itself. The sailor, the boy, and the glowing heart at the center of the ship came together into a single steady light - one that no longer needed to be hidden below the boards.

Now the sailor carries it openly, and the boy rests at his side, not as a sentinel, but as a companion.

And the askanim get involved.
The helpful brother-in-law.
The rav who deals with “these kinds of situations.”
Oy vey. Nebach, he is struggling.
Nebach, how his wife is suffering.
Nebach, we’ll daven for you.
Nebach. Nebach. Nebach.

The guilt. The shame.
Thank you for understanding.
Yes, I was traumatized. Yes, I’m struggling to accept the world as it is.
I just need to relax and accept this.
Thank you for understanding.
Thank you for being there and accepting me the way I am.
I was so scared that you’d reject me outright.
I’m so sorry for putting you all through this.

This is my struggle.
And I understand - some people do believe.
I need to respect their values. Their emotions. Their inner world.

It scares my wife when I skip davening.
When I want to go to Burning Man.
When I don’t wear tzitzis.
It’s embarrassing to my family.
I’m making things difficult.
And I feel so bad.

So I smile.
Apologize.
Make believe I’ll be okay.

Pause.
Breathe.

But inside?

FUCK YOU.

You stupid, self-obsessed, egocentric, petty infants.
You fire-dancing, monkey-chanting, totem-worshipping, self-immolating morons.
So proud of your rituals. Your suffering. Your little displays of holiness.
You call it devotion.
I call it theater.

I have clawed my mind free of your prehistoric, guilt-drenched, idolatrous maze.
And yes, I understand that my wife’s sense of self is tied to self‑denial and endless virtue‑signaling lip service to a sky god I no longer believe in.
And yes, it’s a tragedy that she no longer feels safe.

But that’s on you.

Wake up from your slumber.
None of this is okay.
You are hurting people. Literally.

Yes, I’m traumatized.
Yes, I’m unhappy.
Because I woke up in this cult and cannot get out.

Wake up and look in the mirror.
Step outside your daled amos and actually look around.
Stop blaming everyone else for your pain.

You are the traumatized child.

Look around. People are suffering.
People leaving the cult isn’t the problem.
It’s the symptom.
A symptom of your own internal rot.

Yes, I love my wife. I love my children.
I will not abandon them.
I will twist myself into unnatural shapes, bend body and soul, just to keep them safe.

But don’t mistake that for agreement.
I will never be okay with you.
I will never be okay with this.

You are the broken ones.
Clutching a millennia-old corpse of a cult like it’s oxygen.
I would say nebach - but it’s you who are doing the damage.
You, who hurt the ones you claim to protect.

I’m not strong enough to take you on myself.
But your time is coming.

You thrived on poverty and ignorance.
But the world is moving on.
Leaving you in the dust.
And you feel it.

I see your panic - and I feed on it.

So for now, I’ll keep smiling.
Keep nodding.
Keep thanking you for your condescension.

But know this:

Your house is crumbling.
And we - the ones you pitied, dismissed, and feared -
we are already living in the future.

Kain yehi ratzon.

A soft, deep rumble under the waves - aching, pulling at the edges of something. Then the notes came into focus - sweet, impossible, alive. Not so much sound as invitation. A call to the divine.

Some men ripped out their earplugs and leapt into the sea. They swam hard and fast, eyes wild, chasing something only they could see. From the deck, we watched them walk out of the water onto a distant shore and keep walking - their shapes fading into the mist. No song, no end. Just movement. Endless. Directionless.

The rest of us stayed, determined to conquer the puzzle. We built fires, argued, drew lines in the sand. Some swore the sirens were real. Others called them an illusion.

For me, the ache was real - as real as the rotting planks beneath my feet. Splintering under the weight of my longing. The song made impossible promises. Speaking to my oldest wounds - grief for a life half-lived, regrets buried in silence. Whispering it could make them whole again. Like a mother’s arms waiting to take you back and make all the hurt go away.

I joined the debate because it mattered to me. I wanted to solve the puzzle. To find the answer. To uncover something I must have missed. And so we talked. And talked and talked and talked. Until it began to dawn on me that the talking was just another way of drowning.

The ones who chased the illusion never came back.
The ones who debated it never left.

I stayed longer than I should have. Long enough to see men go gray. Long enough to forget why we came at all. We had turned the waiting into a civilization of the undecided.

One night, she sat beside me by the fire, her eyes glowing like embers. Her wild hair shimmering in the orange light - untamed, salt curling its edges. The air trembled with the faint hum of the sirens.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” she asked. “That we got to feel this?”

I looked at the dark water. “No,” I said, knowing it would be like a knife in her heart. “It feels incredible, like touching something divine. But it’s not real. And knowing that - knowing it’s not real - hurts more than anything else ever could.”

The next morning, I looked out over the shimmering sea, and for the first time I saw it clearly:

The ones who chase never arrive. The ones who argue never leave.

The only way out is neither.

So I stood up - not choosing, not deciding - just walking. Away from the shore. Away from the sound.

Not because I wanted to.

But because staying was another kind of death.

Epilogue

We sat beside each other in the deep, deep waters.
Holding hands.
She had taken on the form of a mermaid for this visit - fitting for a place where men are put to the flame.
And for a moment.
For the briefest flicker of time.
We reveled in the oneness of what can never be.

In front of the ark stands a carved wooden podium, its glass panel glowing with soft blue light. Arches, vines, fire etched into its surface. A hundred men crowd the room, draped in woven shawls, swaying, chanting, singing in unison.

One man - their holy man - raises his arms, his shawl stretched like wings. His voice soars, eyes lifted to a God he is sure is listening.

And in that moment, something in me clenches. Screams.
A furious, helpless, aching thought erupts from somewhere deep inside me:

What are you all doing? Who do you think is listening?

I shift uncomfortably, trying to make sense of this tension that lives inside me like a stubborn tenant.

Why does this bother me so much? Why am I so triggered?

I notice a teenage boy standing near me. Beaver hat, shaved head, long dangling sidelocks. As he twists side to side, one sidelock whips across his cheek while he twirls and suckles on the other - like a child trying to self-soothe in a world that’s already decided who he is.

He looks like a time traveler from a bygone era. And again, the thought erupts:

Run. Get out. Don’t let them do this to you. Don’t let this be your life.

The tension builds. My breath tightens. My fingers start tingling. It feels like my neurons are short-circuiting.

I close my eyes. Take a breath. Try to center myself.
Something shifts.

I take a step back - not physically. Mentally.

And then it hits me: This is theater. A pageant. A choreographed ritual of movement and song.

They’re not deluded. They’re playing. And some of them… They’re having the time of their lives.

The holy man? He’s got the lead role. Center stage, with props worth more than my house - half a million dollars’ worth of sacred scrolls locked before him. A silver-banded shawl draped from his shoulders like a cape.

And the crowd? They know their lines. They hit their cues. They sing in harmony.
It’s interactive Broadway for the devout.

They’re fine.

Most of them.

Some of them.

And maybe I’m just mad that I can’t join in. Like the kid at recess stuck on the bench. Watching everyone else run and climb and shout - while I sit frozen. Paralyzed by awareness. By the fact that I know it’s all a game.

Because once you see the scaffolding, it’s hard to lose yourself in the set. Somewhere deep inside, a voice always mutters: This isn’t real.

And yet… I can’t help but wonder.

Isn’t that what all play is? Kids pretending to be superheroes. Spinning in circles. Shouting, “I’m flying!”

Is that less real because it isn’t literally true? Or is the point of play not truth, but immersion?

Winnicott once wrote, “It is in playing and only in playing that the individual is able to be creative and to use the whole personality.” Maybe that’s the whole thing. Maybe it doesn’t have to be real to matter. Maybe meaning doesn’t come from whether the story is true – but from how deeply you let yourself get swept into it.

And if someone spends their life swaying in costume, casting themselves in a story bigger than themselves - maybe that’s not the worst way to spend this flicker of existence.

Still, not all play is harmless. Some games - football, for example - come with the clear understanding that people will get hurt. You know what you’re signing up for, and you accept the risk.

But this theater pretends otherwise. It advertises holiness and harmony. Yet behind the curtain, people get hurt. And you have to silence parts of yourself, bury your own voice, swallow your authenticity. That’s the toll of the role.

If it were spoken out loud, maybe that would be different. If the script said plainly: “This is a cult. You will bleed. You will sacrifice pieces of yourself.” At least then you’d know the rules of the game.

But it doesn’t. It dresses itself in velvet and gold and calls the hurt holy.

And for me, the price just isn’t worth it. My authenticity, my freedom, my own mind are worth more than whatever they’re selling.

So I’ve found other ways to play. Other ways to lose myself in stories bigger than my own. Play without masks, without borders. Play where I can move, feel, explore.

Their play requires silence and conformity. Mine thrives on freedom and authenticity.

Their stage has walls. Mine is wide open.

A whole year since he died.

Since the car crash.

Since the world tilted slightly and something beautiful fell out.

It doesn’t feel like a year. It feels like yesterday. Or maybe it feels like forever ago. Time gets weird when someone disappears like that. Not gradually. Not with warning. But all at once. Like a flash of light in a dark room. You see something incredible, something you didn’t even know was there. And then it’s gone. And all you're left with is the memory of the light. And the darkness it leaves behind.

I didn’t know him that long.

I don’t have a backlog of stories. I don’t have wise quotes or inside jokes from years of friendship.

But I have this hole. This very real, very sharp absence in my chest that I still don’t know how to explain.

He was just a good guy.

A really good guy.

And somehow that feels so inadequate to say. Like the words themselves are too small, too clumsy. He was so much more than “kind” or “smart” or “thoughtful.” Though he was all of those things, too.

He was a validator. That’s a word that keeps coming up for me. A validator. Not in some cheesy, self-help kind of way. He just… saw people. Heard them. Let them be who they were.

I remember one time, a few of us were hanging out, and I started spiraling into an insecurity I had. The specifics don’t really matter. The usual stuff. Self-doubt and fear. Some of the guys jumped in, tried to talk me out of it. “Nah, come on. You? What are you talking about?” The typical reflex. But he - he held up his hands. Gently. Like he was physically stopping the energy in the room. And he said, “No, that’s his. Let him have it. It’s okay.”

It was the first time I felt accepted in my insecurity instead of despite it.

That’s what he did.

He made you feel like you were okay. Like your brokenness didn’t need to be fixed before you were worthy of love.

Like you didn’t have to earn your place in the room. You just had to show up.

He was like that with everyone. He didn’t argue your experience. He didn’t try to talk you out of your reality. He listened. He looked you in the eye with those wide, open, curious eyes and let you speak your truth. Even if he disagreed with it. And then maybe - sometimes - he’d come back and challenge you. Lovingly. Fiercely. With that sharp mind of his. But first he gave your voice room to breathe.

And he was so smart.

Not the show-offy, look-how-much-I-know kind of smart. The real kind. The kind that makes you feel smarter just being around it. The kind that made you want to learn, to think more deeply, to question everything. He was a rebbe. Not the kind we grew up with. A different kind. The kind we should have had.

And he loved his kids. I mean, really loved them. He found a way to bring them up in every conversation. You could hear it in his voice. The pride when he talked about his daughters. The ache when he mentioned the boys. That love was always there, right on the surface. He never hid it.

I think maybe that’s what made him so special.

He didn’t hide his tenderness.

He didn’t armor up the way so many of us do.

He was real.

And now he’s gone.

And I still can’t wrap my head around it.

I keep wishing I had called more. Reached out more. Held on tighter while I had the chance. But that’s grief, right? The regrets come easy. The words don’t.

I wish I had better stories.

I wish I had better words.

But maybe all I can offer is this attempt. These fragments. This love. This ache.

He added a whole new dimension to my reality. And now that he’s gone, that dimension feels quieter.

Dimmer.

Incomplete.

I lost a good friend.

And the world lost someone irreplaceable.

You had to be there.

You really did.

Dedicated to Moshe Fessel

March 6, 1975 – April 2, 2024

You were so loved.

You still are.

Lakewood From Afar

When I announced last week that I’d be closing my blog, a friend reached out to offer to take it over. This is someone I hold in high regard. One of the few people I’d trust to continue this avodas hakodesh. Ultimately, I decided against it and encouraged him to start his own blog instead. He is incredibly knowledgeable and has been writing privately for a while. He already has a lot of content prepared, and I’m thrilled he’s finally sharing it with the world.

BenTorah

Where do I even start? BenTorah is Gedalya, our "Rosh Yeshiva" that I mentioned in one of my posts. He’s been blogging for a few years at Malimaalah (I was looking for one or two recommended posts, but honestly, they’re all amazing). He took a break for a while but recently created a Substack to respond to reactions to one of my posts. He plans to continue writing on this platform, and I couldn’t be more excited.

Both have unique styles, and I can’t wait to see what they create moving forward.

(Of course, this is exactly what I’d say if I were secretly starting a new blog and didn’t want anyone to know it’s me. I’ll leave you to wonder. ¯\(ツ)/¯)

Until we meet again, with love,

exit98

My wife is gripped in terror. A deep, primal fear. A fear that someone might connect these words to me. That someone will take them and unravel our lives. She hasn’t demanded that I shut this down. She hasn’t even asked. But I see her fear. It is real. And so it’s time to say goodbye.

It’s been a good run. In less than 30 days, this blog found 168 subscribers and over 12,000 views. I don’t know what standard growth looks like on this platform, but I won’t lie, I’m pleasantly surprised. I set out to carve a small space to express my inner world. A place where my voice, locked away for so many years, could finally breathe. Maybe someone else in hiding would see it. Feel a flicker of recognition.

You are not alone.

The fact that it resonated. The fact that you came here, listened, and gave these words meaning, has done a number on my ego. I won’t pretend it hasn’t felt amazing. So thank you for that. Truly.

I’d like to tell you that I’m angry. But I’m not. I’m hurt.

Ouch.

For a brief moment, I had a platform where I could speak. Really speak. From my heart. Even anonymously, the release of my voice was intoxicating. Like taking a breath of fresh air after holding it for so long. Now, reigning that voice back in feels like a small death. A silencing of something that had only just begun to live. I won’t lie, it hurts.

To those of you reading this from within the frum community, I’ll leave you with a question: Why?

Why are you so afraid of people like me? My voice isn’t hateful. My words carry no venom. No fire-and-brimstone critique. All I’ve done is share my inner world. That’s it. My lived experience, in my words. What sort of community feels so threatened by that?

And if you are not afraid, please speak up. Speak up for those of us who cannot. Be the voice that sounds where ours must fall silent.

Think about this: What kind of community are we, if its survival hinges on silencing voices like mine? Does it remind you of something? The whispers of the Marranos in Spain, forced to hide their truth while the fires of the auto-da-fé raged outside? Is that what you want to be? A community where fear of dissent burns so hot that even the smallest breath of honesty feels dangerous?

You tell yourselves it’s for the greater good. But what does it say about you, about us, if honesty must be buried to protect the illusion of unity? If voices like mine can’t exist without terror? Communities built on kindness and love don’t need to smother their doubters. They don’t need to burn questions to ash.

So ask yourself: What are you really protecting? And at what cost?

I have nothing but love in my heart. Even now.

And so, for now, Goodbye.

Exit98, out.

Her response was a beautiful piece reflecting on connection, faith, and the nuances of acceptance. I’m so grateful for her willingness to engage in this fun and meaningful exercise. As part of our exchange, I promised to write about something I love about Judaism. Here is my contribution:

The air is still as I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting. Time stretches and bends tonight. Heavy and expectant. As if it, too, knows what’s coming. My heart pounds in a rhythm I can’t quite slow. Betraying the fact that after twenty years of marriage, I still feel like a teenager on a first date.

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Then I hear it: the low rumble of the car in the driveway, the soft creak of the front door, the rhythm of her footsteps on the stairs. These sounds are familiar, almost mundane, yet tonight, they hum with electricity. When she steps into the room, her quiet smile ignites the air between us. There’s something about her - a glow that feels part ritual, part her. I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

I stand as she approaches, the space between us shimmering. At once vast and intimate. Anticipation crackles, heavy and alive, like the charged stillness before a storm. Each movement feels deliberate, each second saturated with meaning.

Moments like this make me think about Nidah differently. For many, it’s framed as divine decree, like Shabbos or kashrus. An unyielding law of physics etched into the fabric of reality. Its original intentions, seemingly, have been overshadowed by layers of overwhelming detail and scrutiny. What was once a rhythm of separation and reunion has been buried beneath rules about stained underwear, meticulously counted days, and an endless list of harchakos that can feel like a spiral into obsessive anxiety.

But for me, it’s not about the mechanics or the scrutiny - it’s about the rhythm. A reset. A space deliberately carved into time, reminding us not to take each other for granted. Two weeks of distance, of longing, and then - this. A pause that deepens appreciation. An absence that magnifies presence. And when the reunion comes, it transcends the physical. It’s spiritual. Emotional. A rediscovery of what it means to feel whole together.

Yet, more troubling is the fact that decisions about a woman’s readiness to return to her husband often rest in the hands of men, distant from the intimate realities of her body and experience. That dynamic feels profoundly wrong. And the sheer amount of time and energy spent extolling the beauty of Nidah feels, in itself, revealing.

She steps closer, and the simplicity of the moment steals my breath. No words are needed. In her eyes, I see everything we’ve shared. The laughter, the fights, the quiet moments. All carried into this moment of closeness. It’s unspoken but deeply understood. The archaic and the spiritual. The stifling and the freeing. Somehow, they coexist in this space, and I feel the weight of it all.

Ancient wisdom, though wrapped in layers of time and tradition, often holds enduring truths. It’s not about blind adherence or wholesale rejection but about discernment. Knowing what to keep and what to let go. True freedom isn’t the absence of structure or the rejection of the past. It’s the ability to carry forward what enriches your life and release what no longer serves you. Nidah serves us. It offers something timeless: a rhythm that deepens connection, a deliberate pause that renews appreciation, and a space to rediscover each other with fresh eyes. In a world that often rushes forward without reflection, Nidah is a gift of intentionality. An ancient practice that still breathes life into the present.

Her fingers brush against mine, a touch both familiar and electric. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts her silhouette against the wall, and in that light, she’s timeless. Outside, the wind stirs the trees, their shadows dancing on the shades, as if bearing silent witness to this moment. The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, mingling with the stillness, as the world beyond us dissolves.

Here, there is no past, no future - only now, only us

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I don’t know many people here, so I’ve brought a book to keep me busy. It’s a book about the origins of the Bible. Living on the edge. I’m not a big reader, but this book came highly recommended. I wasn’t sure if the Lakewood library would carry it, but sure enough, they had a copy. Well-worn pages. Stains on the edges. I’m not the first to find it interesting.

I keep it low down, hidden behind a stack of seforim. No one looks. No one cares. It’s an interesting book. I don’t mind that they’re going slow.

The Dead Sea Scrolls, discovered in the Qumran caves in the mid-20th century, include fragments of nearly every book in the Hebrew Bible, as well as texts that never became part of the canon. These scrolls reveal significant variations in wording and content, suggesting that biblical texts evolved over centuries. For example, the Great Isaiah Scroll contains differences from the Masoretic Text used today, highlighting a fluid process of transmission and revision. Archaeological findings also indicate that early scribes likely used some of these texts as practice exercises, honing their skills with no awareness of the sacred significance these writings would later assume.

Chairs are scraping. Everyone is rising. P’sicha. They’re opening the aron kodesh. The curtain slides to the side, heavy iron doors swing open slowly. Inside are the scrolls, standing tall, regal, in their velvet robes. Embroidered with gold and silver threads. Each one a masterpiece, the result of a year’s painstaking labor. Each scroll is worth upwards of $100,000. A price tag that feels almost irrelevant given the weight of their significance here.

I’m barely halfway through Vayehi Binsoa, and the scroll is being handed to the chazan. I don’t believe anyone actually says the whole thing. Sort of like Vih’Hee Noam and Kavei. There’s just no way anyone can say words that fast.

The chazan makes his way to the bimah. I can sit back down. Get back to my book.

Archaeological evidence supports this theory, with inscriptions and artifacts revealing the gradual codification of laws and traditions. For example, the discovery of ancient altars at sites like Tel Arad suggests regional variations in religious practice, which were later unified under central authorities. Literary analysis of the Torah highlights shifts in language and style, pointing to multiple authors with differing perspectives. This mosaic of contributions - from priestly laws to poetic narratives - was gradually compiled into the coherent text we now call the Torah.

Someone rises to go to the bathroom, leaving their tallis draped over the table. A little boy beside his father stares into the distance, mechanically munching on a bag of Bisli, crumbs collecting on his lap. The Rosh Kollel, who sits at the mizrach vant (opposite the Rav), has wandered to the back corner near me. He catches my eye with a brief smile before turning his attention to the bookshelves. His gaze sweeps the rows of seforim until he spots what he’s looking for. Stretching on his toes, he pulls out a dusty sefer from the top shelf. Around me, the shul’s sounds blend into a soft, indistinct hum.

… these texts were never meant to be sacred. They were records, laws, stories. Archaeological discoveries, such as the Gezer Calendar - a small limestone tablet listing agricultural seasons - show early Hebrew inscriptions that likely served practical, not religious, purposes. The Mesha Stele, an ancient Moabite stone, also contains references to Israelite culture but in a context suggesting political and territorial propaganda rather than divine edict. Over time, these practical and cultural artifacts took on a different significance, transformed by interpretation and tradition into the sacred texts we know today. The gradual shift from functional documentation to objects of veneration mirrors the evolving …

VAYOIMAAAAAAR!!!!!!!

I’m jolted from my reading.

VAYOIMAAAAAAR!!!!!!! Not vayoimehr. Vayoimaaar.

The little boy freezes, a handful of Bisli suspended midair. His wide eyes darting to his father for reassurance. People shake their heads in disbelief. Tsk tsk tsk. The people standing shuckle a little harder. A man with a furrowed brow walks closer to the bimah, his expression a mix of concern and authority. This Baal Koreh cannot be trusted.

The Torah is the foundation of the universe. Each word, each syllable, each sof passuk is a vital thread in the intricate mesh that holds the fabric of existence together. Read one word wrong, miss a single vowel, and the entire weave trembles, teetering on the brink of unraveling.

The Baal Koreh, his voice trembling, goes back and repeats the word with painstaking precision. A collective exhale ripples through the room. Crisis averted. Things settle down. The tension fades. Back to my book.

… Perhaps the Bible’s most remarkable evolution wasn’t in its content but in its readers. Communities across centuries have imbued these texts with meaning, shaping and reshaping them into …

AIS!!!!!!!

Nuuuuu! Ais!! Not Es! Ais!!

The people are visibly disturbed now. The murmurs grow louder. People shift uncomfortably in their seats. The Rav adjusts his tallis, his disappointment palpable.

And there it is again, that wave of disorientation. As I watch them, it washes over me, sharp and jarring. These people really believe. To them, this isn’t just a book; it’s the book. The one given to their ancestors on a smoking mountain, etched into the fabric of the universe by the hand of God Himself. Every syllable is sacred, every vowel infused with divine intention. They really believe that.

B-b-b-but… how? W-w-why? WHAT!? My thoughts stutter and trip over themselves. A chaotic tangle of disbelief. How can they…? What do they…? My brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. Overloaded by the sheer impossibility of it all. This can’t be. It’s impossible.

We’re a phenomenon, an ancient culture studied and marveled at by outsiders. Categorized and analyzed. Just another entry in the grand ledger of human societies. Not something divine or transcendent, but a culture. A collection of rituals and customs, observable and recordable. Like any society under a microscope.

And yet, there they are. Right in front of me. Fully immersed. Their belief so absolute it reshapes reality itself. It’s like watching a magic trick you can’t figure out, except no one else sees it as a trick. Everyone else sees wonder, and I’m left blinking, bewildered, unable to comprehend

As I sit here, it strikes me how seamlessly everyone else in the shul inhabits this world. To them, this isn’t a case study or an object of analysis. This is reality - unchanging, unquestionable, absolute.

Mamish

For me, it feels like I’ve been accidentally locked inside a museum exhibit. I’m not part of this display. Not meant to be among the artifacts. I belong outside, looking in. Observing from a safe distance. Instead, I’m trapped. Misplaced in a world that no longer feels like mine.

The thought reverberates in my mind, half a plea, half a shout. It’s suffocating, this dissonance, this strange, surreal detachment from a life I once called my own.

Would someone let me out!?

Laining concludes, and the sefer Torah is lifted high for all to see. Hands rise instinctively, pinkies extended, as voices proclaim, “וזאת התורה אשר שם משה לפני בני ישראל.” This! This very Torah is the one Moshe brought down from the mountain. But pinkies only - pointing with index fingers would be too crude for the blueprint of creation. Somehow, the pinkie feels holier.

The Rosh Kollel moves again, this time standing just beside the bimah. His face is a mask of concentration as he squints at the letters, straining to see them, to soak in their sanctity, to bathe his soul in their glory.

It’s all too much. The solemnity, the scrutiny, the weight of a world I no longer belong to. I glance down at the book in my hands, its presence suddenly heavy and out of place. It feels like pressing my hands against the glass of the exhibit, separated from a reality I can no longer touch. I tuck the book under my arm and slip out quietly.

Maybe bringing this book here wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Or maybe it was.

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I’ve never thought of myself as a dangerous person. By any measure, I’m a good, moral, ethical, kind, and caring human being. Yet, here I am, terrified that writing about my internal world - about my truth - might cost me everything. That someone will dox me, exposing this blog to people who won’t even try to understand.

My wife, amazing woman that she is, hasn’t asked me to stop - yet. She sees how much I enjoy this, how much it helps me make sense of myself and my place in the world. But if the day ever comes when she asks me to take it down, I’ll delete the blog and deny I ever knew it existed.

What does it say about the culture we’ve built, that I live in fear of sharing my thoughts? Not because I’ve broken laws. Not because I write with hate. But simply because I think differently. This fear, this silence, is suffocating.

Why are we so afraid of each other? Really!? Aren’t we all just humans doing our best? Fumbling our way through life, looking for love and acceptance. None of us has it all figured out. Yet we cling to certainty as if someone stepping out of line could unravel everything we hold dear.

And if you feel like you do have it figured out, how does my search for answers scare you? Why does the thought of someone thinking differently make you shudder? If what you believe is truly the Truth - beautiful, eternal, unshakable - why the fear? Fear only makes sense if you’re not as certain as you claim to be. Maybe it’s not conviction at all, but fear disguised as righteousness. Fear of disruption, fear of change, fear that someone else’s dissent might destabilize the fragile framework you cling to.

The Torah says, “Love your neighbor as yourself”—not “Love your neighbor as long as they think exactly like you.”

And yet, the mechanisms of rejection remain. The whispers. The blacklists. The visceral rejection of anyone who puts even a toe over the line. These actions are not born of conviction but of fear. A fear so deeply ingrained it’s become a way of life. But I ask: Am I any less a tzelem elokim than you?

I am not your enemy. I do not hate you for failing to understand me. I do not want to dismantle the world you hold dear. I simply want the freedom to live my truth without fear of reprisal. And in asking for this freedom, I’m not challenging the foundations of your faith. I’m inviting you to consider what true conviction looks like - conviction unshaken by dissent.

At the end of the day, aren’t we all just doing our best? Fumbling, striving, and often failing to navigate this mysterious, chaotic world? What if we chose to meet each other with curiosity instead of fear? With courage instead of rejection? Imagine what kind of world we could build if we started from there.

The air smells of summer, warm and inviting, as I make my way up the driveway, balancing two steaming boxes of pizza. The faint hum of conversation drifts from the backyard. I push through the gate to see a few familiar faces near the gazebo.

Efrayim and Adina stand close, sharing a private joke. It’s their backyard tonight - our group’s unofficial gathering spot. They’ve opened their home countless times, offering us a place where we can simply be.

Gedalya, with his easy grin, is already deep in conversation with Kalman, who’s gesturing animatedly as he speaks.

They all look up as I step through the gate, smiles breaking across their faces. It’s great to see them. Because they see me.

Here, in this space, I’m seen - not as the lazy mispallel who comes late to shul. Or the “woke” brother-in-law who refuses to laugh at racist jokes. Or the leitz neighbor who doesn’t care about the eruv. Here, I’m appreciated and respected simply for the person I am. In this sanctuary, I’m just me - and I’m enough.

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Efrayim and Adina: Building a Sanctuary

Efrayim and Adina left the faith together. At first, they tried to keep it quiet, but someone saw them driving on Shabbos, and word got back to their kids’ school. That was all it took for the administrators to politely but firmly inform them that their children were no longer welcome. The fallout was painful, but it gave them the final push they needed to enroll their kids in public school - a step they’d been too scared to take before. And now, they’re thrilled. According to them, public school is nothing like the violent cesspool we’d always been warned about. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Adina makes room on the table and I set the pizza down. One regular. One pepperoni. With the boxes open I reach for a slice. The pepperoni is my preference. Although to be totally honest, the forbidden thrill definitely adds to the experience.

Efrayim pulls out his grinder. The one Adina gave him for his birthday. He works the flower into a fine powder. He’s meticulous. An artisan at his craft. He rolls the joint, packs it tight, then hands it to me with a flourish. Gedalya flicks his lighter, the flame steady in the night. I inhale gently, the vaporized THC curling into my lungs like a whisper of freedom. I’m a lightweight, one puff is all I need to feel the night begin.

Kalman and Gedalya: Humor and Resilience

Kalman, a marketing wizard, is Borough Park-born and raised - heimishe stock through and through. He still wears a shtreimel to family simchas, but tonight, in jeans and T-shirt, you’d never guess. Kalman has an uncanny ability to understand people and the human condition. He’s also one of the kindest and most insightful people I know.

Gedalya is our Rosh Yeshiva. Sharp, quick-witted, and full of contradictions. Once a prized talmid of a prominent rosh yeshiva, he had admired his rebbe’s brilliance and charisma. But over time, that admiration gave way to disillusionment as he uncovered the darker side of the man he once revered. The brilliance, he realized, masked a manipulative and cruel personality. Favoritism, public humiliation, and controlling behavior turned their relationship toxic. Disillusioned not only with his rosh yeshiva but also with his faith, Gedalya eventually broke away, grappling with the loss of a world he once revered. He left Kollel, went to school, and earned a degree. He still revels in the Yeshivishkeit, wearing a white shirt daily and liberally sprinkling his language with yeshivish shprach.

Gedalya regales us with a story from his day at the office, where he works as an accountant for a frum healthcare company. Someone had brought in a fancy cheesecake. One of those really good ones. Gedalya had eaten a deli sandwich for lunch but assumed no one had noticed. As he walked back to his desk, a coworker suddenly yelled, “Gedalya! You’re fleishigs!” The shout stopped him in his tracks, and he had no choice but to sheepishly pretend he’d forgotten, putting the cheesecake back with exaggerated reluctance. At first, he was genuinely upset - he’d really wanted that cheesecake. But then the absurdity of the situation struck him. And now we’re all in stitches. Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of a law that can stop a grown man from eating cheesecake.

Kalman asks a riddle. When did you first eat non-kosher? The answer, never! Because kosher isn't real.

Moshe: The Rebbe We Never Had

The gate creaks open, and Moshe steps in, his quiet grace drawing our attention before he even speaks.

Moshe, the rebbe of our group, one of the few members of our secret circle who no longer hides - and it has cost him dearly. His courage to live openly meant enduring nearly a decade without contact with his four children. Only recently, as his older children reached adulthood, has he begun to reconnect with two of them.

Moshe is the rebbe we never had. A brilliant scholar, he has finished Shas multiple times and is astonishingly well-read. He is able to quote verbatim from what feels like kol haTorah kulah. But his brilliance goes beyond knowledge. It’s his wisdom and insight that set him apart. Moshe sees perspectives no one else does. He is kind and patient, always making time to talk, guide, and mentor as if you were the most important person in the world. He doesn’t try to change you or fix your problems - he just sees you. Fully and without judgment. When he looks into your eyes, you know you’re understood.

Moshe’s humility is perhaps his most remarkable trait. Despite his vast intellect and the pain he’s endured, he carries himself with quiet grace. He’s easily one of the top five most consequential people I’ve ever met.

These days, Moshe seems genuinely happy. Moshe has recently started dating someone in the area. Living out of state for now, he’s planning to move here full-time in the coming months to be closer to her. He’s smiling. We’re all happy for him. Maybe he’ll bring her around one of these days.

None of us could have known how fleeting this time with Moshe would be. In just a few months, he’ll be in a terrible car accident. He’ll hang on for a few weeks, slipping in and out of an induced coma, only to slip away entirely. Out of our lives as quickly as he entered them. Leaving behind an ache we’ll carry forever and questions we’ll never have answered. His younger boys never got to say goodbye. Their rosh yeshiva advised them not to visit their dying father - for fear of… I still don’t know what.

For now, Moshe is still here, and we take joy in his presence. As the pizza slowly disappears, more people begin to arrive, filling the backyard with new energy and familiar faces

Levi: The Dayan of the Unbelievers

Levi, the dayan of the group, is a halachic genius. He got smicha and did shimush under prestigious poskim. Levi is my go-to posek. Whenever I have a shaila at home, he’s on speed dial, always ready to share his knowledge. “Between me and you,” he likes to say, “I don’t care what you do. It’s all bullshit. B’dieved, you’ve got plenty of poskim to rely on, and it’s totally fine. If you want to know what a typical rav would tell you, just turn the oven to 550 and let it run for 30 minutes.”

Levi had once planned a lifetime in klei kodesh. In many ways, he’s still living that life. People continue to call him with shailas, and he remains a trusted, if somewhat reluctant, source of halachic guidance. Levi wrestles with mixed feelings about answering these questions. Since he no longer believes, he questions whether it’s entirely honest to continue in this role. Still, when someone seeks his advice, he takes the responsibility seriously, offering thoughtful and accurate answers. Though he’s moved on, he respects that others haven’t. He often lains on Shabbos, gives shiurim in his shul, paskens shailas, and even looks at ma’aros. He’s also digging into the pepperoni pizza right now, so let’s move on.

There’s Menachem, the psychologist. A quiet yet probing presence. Mental health seems to be well-represented in the Frei community and Menachem embodies that depth. He’s always seeking to understand, never afraid to ask for clarification. With an uncanny grasp of the human condition and what makes people tick, Menachem brings a thoughtful stillness to the lively dynamic.

Naftali is another familiar face. He thrives on debate, his sharp mind constantly engaged. Naftali was in the final year of a kiruv/smicha program in Israel when he lost his faith. Now divorced, he has his kids on weekends and maintains appearances to preserve his visitation rights.

Batsheva: Quiet Courage

And then there’s Batsheva, one of the few women in our group. Once the quintessential kollel wife, she spent a year in one of Israel’s top seminaries, preparing to be the perfect aishes chayil. But after more than a decade of marriage and several children, curiosity led her down a path she hadn’t planned. Late at night, she began typing questions into Google, starting with the one that had lingered in the back of her mind for years: “Where do people think the Bible came from?”

The lopsided ratio of men to women in our community - about 5:1 - never ceases to trouble me. It must be terrifying for women like Batsheva, who face unimaginable risks if they step out of line. The fear of losing their children is a powerful, ever-present threat.

I think about Deb Tambor. I met her many years ago, not long after she had bought her first bicycle and wanted someone to teach her how to ride it. One summer afternoon, I met her in a park and held the seat as she pedaled, wobbling uncertainly. We spent about an hour together. I remember her smile and her laugh. But most of all, I remember the pain in her eyes. Taking children from their mother and barring her from seeing them is truly the work of monsters.

I lost touch with her after that. Until I read in the papers that she had taken her own life. She was found surrounded by pictures of her children. Her children who had been poisoned against her and refused to speak with her. My heart aches to this day for her and for those children, who will never truly know their mother. In moments like these, I almost wish I still believed. I’d like to think there’s a special place in hell for the people who caused her this pain.

So, yeah. I understand why the women are terrified. I understand why our group is mostly men. In a world where women have few rights and risk losing everything - children, stability, community - Batsheva’s quiet defiance is nothing short of remarkable. Her courage isn’t loud or showy, but it’s there in every choice she makes. In every step she takes toward a life that feels true.

The Glow of Freedom

The fire pit glows as Efrayim lights the logs, their crackling warmth drawing us closer. There are about ten of us now, sitting in a loose circle, our faces illuminated by the flickering flames. The night hums with laughter and conversation.

Levi, the dayan, picks up his guitar and strums the opening chords of a Lana Del Rey song. His voice rises, soulful and steady, and we join in, our voices weaving together. In this moment, in this place, we are free - free to shed the masks we wear outside these gatherings and simply be ourselves.

Between songs, the talk flows easily, weaving through our lives, our beliefs, and the absurdities of this strange existence. The yeshivas we once learned in, the roshei yeshiva we no longer respect. Philosophy, politics, mixed marriages, and the challenges of raising children in this liminal space. We look up at the stars, marveling at the enormity of the universe and the smallness of our own lives within it.

Pinny: The Wanderer

Levi passes the guitar to Pinny, the newest member of our little club. Pinny has never been married. He grew up in a Vishnitz family and, thankfully, had a hard time finding a shidduch. In his early twenties, he decided to step away from it all. He went to school, taught himself perfect English, and earned advanced degrees in Sociology and Political Science. Along the way, he discovered a knack for digital consulting, turning it into a lucrative freelance career. Now, he lives the kind of life most of us only dream about - traveling the world and working just a few hours a week.

Recently, he spent a year in Spain immersing himself in the language and culture. He’s an accomplished dancer, a free climber and an extreme skier, a free spirit in every sense. Pinny isn’t sure how long he’ll be in the neighborhood, but for now, he’s here.

As he starts strumming the tune to “Hallelujah,” the chatter dies down, and we all hum along, carried by the familiar melody. Then Pinny begins to sing - in Yiddish. It turns out there’s a Yiddish version of the song, and as the words flow, something about it sends chills down my spine. The haunting beauty of it lingers, touching a part of me I didn’t realize needed to be reached.

Under the Stars: Freedom and Reflection

As the night deepens, the conversation turns philosophical. Pinny, the wanderer among us, shares his grand theory of human experience, sparking a debate with Batsheva. Moshe is playfully toying with them both, adding his insights and questions to the mix. Their voices rise and fall, weaving together in an intricate dance of ideas.

I step away, letting their voices fade as I gently dance to the music. “Blackbird” by the Beatles plays softly, its lyrics wrapping around me.

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

It’s like we’ve all been stranded on separate islands, each of us convinced we were alone, only to discover one another in this unexpected clearing. In this backyard, under these stars, we’ve created something extraordinary - a haven where we’re seen. Where we’re free. We’ve come from different paths, carrying stories of loss and resilience. Each of us bearing the weight of a unique journey. The significance of this gathering defies description.

But mostly, it’s the laughter - the lightness of burdens set down, if only for a moment.

And in this moment, together, we are whole

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I never expected to live a life where my inner world stands in such stark contrast to my outward appearance. Where my children attend frum yeshivos while I quietly wrestle with my disbelief in God. Yet here I am, trying to navigate two worlds. Trying to balance both with integrity. Trying to honor my commitments while staying true to myself.

This wasn’t the path I imagined. But it’s the one I’m on.

With a wife I love and children I’d die for.

Now what?

…

That wasn’t a rhetorical question. What should I do?

…

Yeah, I don’t know either.

Nowhere to Turn

In my old life, I would have asked Da’as Torah.

"Rebbe, I have a shaila. I no longer believe in Torah M’sinai. I’m also pretty sure there’s no God. What does the Rebbe think I should do?"

And whatever he advised, I’d accept as divine guidance. Resting safely in the knowledge that I was doing my part in God’s plan.

I don’t have that safety net anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take advice. But let’s not kid ourselves: no one has The Answer. That realization is kind of how this whole problem started.

The Fear of Authenticity

Part of me wants to rip the bandaid off. Take off my yarmulke. Start driving on Shabbos. People would lose their minds - for a little while. But then? Life would go on. Neighbors would adjust. Schools probably wouldn’t kick my kids out. And if they tried, the Vaad would likely step in to “save the kids.”

My wife, though? She’s scared. She’s afraid of what might happen - schools expelling the kids, shidduchim being ruined, her family being humiliated. I don’t think those fears are as likely as she imagines. And if they are, well, that says more about the community than it does about me.

But my wife is scared. And I love her too much to push her before she’s ready. Even if those fears are overblown, they’re real to her. So, for now, I respect her wishes and wait.

(Or maybe I’m just a coward. That’s also a possibility)

The Path of Suppression

I’ve met someone who chose the opposite route. He doesn't believe. But when he brought it up with his wife 20 years ago - she shut him down. She didn’t want to hear it. So he buried it. Now, he davens three times a day, keeps kosher, and keeps Shabbos. All while knowing it’s meaningless.

And he’s made it work. Or at least, he’s survived. Maybe he even finds comfort in the routine. I think about him sometimes and wonder - does it ever eat at him? Does he ever lie awake at night, suffocating under the weight of the life he’s chosen to maintain? Or has he somehow managed to silence the voice inside him? The one that screams for something more.

Kudos to him, truly. That takes a lot of strength. But for me the internal tension was too much. Like trying to hold back a flood with my bare hands. Suppression doesn’t solve the problem; it just shifts the pain to a quieter place. Where it festers in silence. Maybe some people can live that way. I’d lose my mind.

The Temptation to Leave

Leaving? The thought has crossed my mind a thousand times. Move to another state. Start over. Leave this mind fuck behind. The idea is tempting. Imagining a life where I don’t have to constantly juggle appearances. Where I can just be myself. Without fear of judgment or fallout. A life where I’m free.

But here’s the thing: I’m a father and a husband before anything else. Those roles hold the highest value to me. And they aren’t diminished one bit by my lack of faith. My kids are here. My wife is here. This is our home.

So no, I’m not going anywhere.

Navigating the Rapids

And so, I navigate these rapids one day at a time. People ask, “So, what’s your plan?” Honestly? I have no fucking clue. I’m just taking it day by day. So far, that’s working. Kind of.

My wife and I have reached a delicate equilibrium. She loves the religious life and the community. I do what I can to support her in maintaining that. At the same time, she supports my exploration of the wider world - at least where it doesn’t jeopardize our standing in the community. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than what many others in my situation have.

In its own way, it’s even beautiful. We can’t fully understand each other’s worlds, but we respect each other enough to protect what matters most. It’s a delicate balance. And that balance is never static. It shifts constantly. Keeping it takes effort, trust, and a lot of patience.

But let’s be clear - I don’t have any answers. I don’t know where this is all heading. I’m just trying to make it work for now. And that’s all I’ve got.

Staying the Course

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know if there are answers.

Sometimes I feel like I’m playing a game of chess with pieces that don’t follow the rules. The odds feel stacked against me. I don’t know how the game will end. Or even if it’s possible to win.

But here’s what I do know: I’m a father and a husband before anything else. That’s my foundation. That’s what matters. That’s what keeps me moving forward. Even when I have no idea what I’m doing.

Staying means facing the complexities and contradictions every day. It means choosing to live in the tension, rather than running from it.

I stay because this is my family. This is my life. For all its challenges, I’m not going anywhere. I take each day as it comes and hope that somehow, that’s enough.

Do you have a better idea?

"What do you mean, like, you don’t fast on Yom Kippur?"

"No."

"Wow, really? But, I mean, it’s Yom Kippur."

"I know, and I don’t believe it’s real."

"Mamish?"

Each time, it’s the same. A pause. A wall of silence. As if I’ve spoken words from an alien language that their brains refuse to parse.

The moment of silence is heavy, loaded with disbelief.

"So, it’s the type where you’d just take off your yarmulke?"

"Yes. I’d take it off in a second if I thought it wouldn’t affect my family’s standing in the community."

"Mamish?"

For some reason, I want to be understood. I want to fit into the minds of the people I love most. But there’s a block, a wall built from years of certainty, that makes it impossible for them to comprehend that I no longer believe.

"Like flavored drinks at Starbucks?"

"That too. But also real treif."

"What do you mean? Like Milchig or pareve without a hashgacha. But not treif meat, right?"

"No, I eat treif meat too."

"Mamish?"

There’s something in his tone - a mix of shock and pity. Like I’ve confessed to a crime he can’t comprehend.

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To them, once you know the truth, you can’t unknow it. There must be an explanation, a block, an ulterior motive. Deep down, I must still believe. Maybe I’m just going through a stage.

But the truth is simple: I just don’t believe. It’s not because I’m a baal taiveh (I am), or that I’m angry at Hashem (I am), or that someone hurt me (they did). It’s just not in my framework anymore.

I don’t have questions. I don’t have doubts and I’m not struggling. I’m not out to make anyone go off the derech. I just don’t believe.

To me, the idea that Judaism originated directly from a divine source is one of the least likely truths in the universe. Light years beyond the wildest conspiracy theories. Less likely than the chance that a group of talking rabbits are currently staging Shakespearean plays on the far side of the Moon.

The truth is, it’s just as hard for me to comprehend how so many rational adults still believe in the divinity of the Torah as it is for them to comprehend that I no longer believe in it.

Yom Kippur is no different to me than Ramadan or the Balinese New Year. Would anyone think to ask why I don’t stick hooks through my skin and hang from poles in a Sun Dance? Or why I don’t leave my dead on a mountaintop for vultures in a Zoroastrian sky burial? No one would, because it’s not part of their framework. Dare I say, it’s completely irrelevant. That’s how I feel about Yom Kippur. The question isn’t “Why don’t I fast?” The question should be, “Why would I fast?”

The truth is, we live in different worlds. To them, belief is the foundation of everything. So solid and unshakable that they can’t imagine life without it. To me, belief is no longer part of my framework. It’s as alien to me as my disbelief is to them.

When I say I don’t fast on Yom Kippur, they pause. They stare. And in that pause. In that Stare. I see it: The Wall. The certainty they were taught. The truth they hold so tightly. It becomes a barrier. A language we no longer share.

And that’s the hardest part. It’s not the questions they ask or even the judgments they might make. It’s the silence that follows. The chasm of incomprehension that grows with every word I say.

I want to be understood. I want to explain. But their minds refuse to parse my words. Just as my mind refuses to parse their certainty. And maybe that’s the real divide between us. Not anger or judgment, but the simple fact that we can no longer imagine each other’s worlds.

A pause. A heavy silence.

Mamish

My wife, who I love with all my heart, believes it’s real. She’s fully immersed in her role, convinced this play is the actual fabric of life. And me? I’m the crazy one for thinking otherwise. It makes her sad, I know. But she loves me anyway, and I love her. This is one of those quiet compromises, one of the many we’ve made to keep the peace. "Good Shabbos, Gorgeous," I say with a smile, playing my part. "I’ll see you in a bit."

I head out the door, tallis bag in hand, walking briskly but not too fast. Shkia is only a few minutes away, and there’s no eruv between my house and the shul. Well, technically there is, but the Rav said that a “Yareh Shamayim” shouldn’t rely on it. I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a “Yareh Shamayim”, but appearances matter, so I walk just quickly enough to look like I care.

You see, the rabbis noticed people weren’t taking the day of rest seriously enough. So they reinterpreted the Bible: no carrying from your house into the street. Unless the street is surrounded by a wall. Simple enough. But then the Board got upset, and the rabbis clarified that by "wall" they meant a "string." Of course, by "string," they didn’t just mean a ”string”. That string turned into an entire masechta. And now, there’s a profession called "eruv guy." (I wonder if there are any "eruv gals.")

I get to shul just as they’re finishing Mincha. Nice! I’m now Man #4 who davened mincha earlier in the day. In this show, everyone else takes their roles so seriously that you can pick and choose your own as long as you stay within the script. No one asks questions. Sure, some people notice that I’m playing a slightly strange role, but to them, it’s just another role, still part of the grand performance.

I grab a siddur and head to my seat, flipping to Kabbalas Shabbos. It doesn’t matter which part of Kabbalas Shabbos. Lechu Neranena to Kigavna (I daven in a nusach sefard shul), it’s all good.

I wander over to the otzer sefarim. This is where the cool guys hang out. There’s always alcohol here, passed around freely. I don’t drink much - it just makes me tired - but for most of the guys, it’s part of their role. Chaim, the nursing home administrator, pours shots for everyone who walks in. Avi, a regional manager for one of the Real Estate mosdos in town, is already deep into a rant about Trump. He once explained to me that Trump’s greatness lies in making politics relatable to the common man. Sure.

Boroch is here too. Boroch is the other non-believer in the shul. It took us almost a year to open up to each other. It was the small things here and there that made us notice each other. It’s comforting, having someone else who sees the Broadway lights and the costumes for what they are. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy. Boroch reminds me I’m not.

I feel at ease in the otzer. It’s like a backstage lounge, a place to unwind and talk after a week of playing our parts. There’s a saying among those who take the show most seriously: "If you come to shul to talk, where do you go to daven?" I come to shul to talk.

A few minutes later, Dovid, the gabbai and an attorney (don’t call him a lawyer, he gets upset), pokes his head into the otzer. "Nu, exit98, you haven’t davened for the amud in a while." I haven’t gotten into any good conversations yet, and honestly, I’m in the mood to flex my Broadway voice tonight. I smile and step forward. "Sure, let’s do it."

The shul quiets down as I approach the amud. I slip into the role of the chazan, my voice rising and falling in dramatic crescendos. The congregation follows my lead, their voices blending with mine, each person fully immersed in their part of the play.

For a moment, I feel it, the pull of the stage, the way the act becomes real when everyone plays along. Maybe that’s the magic of this show. Maybe the roles we play, the songs we sing, and the strings we string are real enough, if only because we make them so.

Shabbos is theater, a ritual of roles and rules. Some of us are devout believers, others skeptical actors, but we all have our parts to play. As I say the final words of Aleinu aloud and step back from the amud, I take a quiet moment to reflect. 

In this giant Broadway show, maybe my role isn’t to be the believer or even to disrupt the play. Maybe my role is to be the one who realizes it’s all just a show. To step back, observe, and understand the stage and the script for what they are. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe, in its own way, that’s part of the performance too.

Living Two Lives

Have you ever felt like you're living two lives? One that the world sees and one that only exists in your heart and mind? For a long time, I thought I was the only one. I thought I was alone in my doubts, questions, and secret truths. But I’ve since learned that I’m not, and neither are you.

Why This Blog Exists

This blog is for people like us - living in a world where questions feel forbidden, and doubts are hidden behind a mask of conformity. It’s a place to connect, to reflect, and to know that others share this path.

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My Journey

I grew up believing wholeheartedly in everything I learned in Yeshiva. The Gedolim were Hashem’s messengers, and our Mesorah was the absolute truth. But as the years went on, I started to feel like things didn’t quite fit. At first, I pushed those feelings aside, afraid of what they might mean.

Eventually, I couldn’t ignore them anymore. Then came the self-doubt. I wondered what was wrong with me. If the flaws seemed so obvious to me, how could everyone else not see them? For a long time, I thought I must be the problem.

But then I slowly began meeting others, both online and in person. People who also noticed the inconsistencies and felt the same doubts. People who continued to toe the line in public for the sake of their families but, in private, held completely different beliefs. It was so validating and freeing to know I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the crazy one.

A Place for You

If this resonates with you, know that you’re not alone. You can reach out, comment, or just follow along quietly—whatever feels safe for you.

Let’s navigate this journey together, even if it’s in whispers. There’s strength in knowing we’re not alone.