My Dowry and Hasidic Marriage

Originally published at Medium on July 27 2020

September 1990, I was 17, it was Rosh Hashanah and I was on display.

Our Shul had a U-Shaped balcony, overlooking the Main Sanctuary on the ground floor where the men prayed. The perimeter of the balcony had four foot tall solid wooden panels that reached slightly higher than the bottoms of the lace curtains which hung from the ceiling, ensuring a complete separation between the men and women.

On special occasions, such as the Shabbat before a wedding, when the groom would say special blessings on the Torah, the female relatives would stand close to the gaps between the lace curtains and push the curtain over ever so slightly to be able to see the goings-on downstairs.

The women’s section was usually empty. It was only used on Shabbat and Holidays and even on Shabbat was sparsely attended. Mothers stayed home with their young children; it was only the middle-aged women and several dedicated teenagers who would attend regularly.

On Rosh Hashanah, however, the women’s section was full. Mothers brought their young children dressed in their holiday finest, and each seat in the Shul was taken. Young teenagers would bring their grandmothers, lugging the wheelchairs up the wooden staircase located at the back of the building and specially designated for the women.

My clothing had been carefully selected to be elegant enough to make me stand out, but not too flashy to make me seem ostentatious.

I wore simple black pumps with kitty heels. The heels couldn’t be too high since I was tall and I needed to make sure that I wouldn’t be taller than any prospective husband. My satin skirt scattered with gold medallions hung midway between my knees and ankles, the modest length required by the Rabbis. My sweater matched my skirt perfectly and was loose enough not to show any curves but not too lose to be considered casual and messy. A white-collar hugged my neck tightly ensuring that no part of my chest would show. My hair was perfectly done, cut short to ensure that it would always stay in place, and the small gold studs on my ear completed my demure and modest look.

---

I had arrived back home from Gateshead Seminary, a Jewish Ultra-Orthodox Boarding School in Northern England, which I had attended for one year, several months earlier. My mother told me that I could come back home if I behaved, which I took to mean that I needed to speak respectfully to her and marry the man she chose. I knew that my parents wanted to marry me off as soon as possible. Being that I was the oldest of four daughters, marrying me off would ensure that I was not holding up any of my sisters from finding their match.

The matchmakers must have had my parent’s phone number on speed dial as the beige phone which hung on our kitchen wall would ring several times a week with suggestions of young men for my parents to consider. My mother would pick up the phone determinedly and ask one of us to hold it as she would scurry off to the den to take the call, closing the door behind her.

She never told me who the matchmakers were, or the names of young men who were suggested. She said she would only tell me once they had passed her screening.

“I need to make sure that it is right for you. I know you want a serious learner, someone that will study the Talmud for years to come, and of course, we need to make sure that he comes from a respectable family, a family of Rabbis, as we do.”

I was living with my parents in a large brick house in Monsey, the largest home on the street. The rest of the houses were small flat ranch houses covered in plastic-looking panels. We had moved to Monsey two years earlier and since this was the first home that my parents had built from scratch, my mother designed it to be beautiful, as well as practical for our family of ten.

Though we didn’t speak of it, we four older girls also knew that having a big showy home would help us find our matches. Parents of respectable eligible young men would comb the world, looking for a rich father-in-law for their son and we were the perfect contestants.

The house was flanked by tall and willowy cedar trees. A flagstone path ran from the driveway at the right of house to the double doors which opened to a large foyer. My mother declared that she would not put a marble floor in the foyer as that was too ostentatious, and my father insisted on solid filled doors. That was a sign of a quality house, he said.

The house had three stories. The top story had seven bedrooms and three bathrooms. My sister and I each had our own bedroom, and the rest of my siblings shared bedrooms. Each of the rooms was fitted with its own sink, to ensure that the bathroom wouldn’t too get crowded in the morning rush, my mother proclaimed.

The main floor was carefully designed with a family room with a front-facing bay window, a study with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a large dining room with a table large enough for 12 people; 20 when it was extended, a sunken living room, a large L-shaped kitchen, and small Passover kitchen off the side door, which was fully outfitted with a refrigerator, oven, and cabinets full of specially designated housewares that were used to cook the Passover food once a year.

The eating area in the kitchen extended out from the rest of the house into the backyard and was topped with a removable skylight which also served as a special Sukkah roof for the annual fall Holiday. The large kitchen was lined with soft pink wooden cabinets and had originally been designed with mirrored backsplashes. After we lived in the house for a week, my mother said that the mirrors gave her headaches and insisted that the builder remove them.

The basement floor had a large carpeted playroom area, a walk-in storage closet packed with a miscellaneous supply of household goods, enough to supply us for months, a guest bedroom, and an apartment with its own side door. Though it was built to be an in-law’s apartment, my parents used it to host a family of five who had come to the USA from Israel for medical treatment for their son,

My father had retired from his job at 40, determined to dedicate the rest of his life to the study of the Talmud, and moved us to Monsey to fulfill his dream. He had worked hard for most of his life and had several large investments and businesses to show for it.

---

But it hadn’t always been this way.

My parents were both children of Holocaust survivors, of refugees. Both of their parents had narrowly escaped the holocaust losing their entire families and married shortly thereafter. My mother’s parents moved to Brooklyn, NY, and my father’s parents settled in London, England. Both cities had growing enclaves of Ultra-Orthodox Jews, which my grandparents joined. My mother’s father, who never spoke of the wife and two young boys who were brutally murdered in the holocaust, founded a printing store in Brooklyn, located under their two-story home, which provided wedding invitations, posters, and stamps for the growing Ultra-Orthodox community in Williamsburg. I loved spending time in the store, sitting behind the counter with my grandmother, my feet swinging under the chair, imbibing the smells of the raw wood floor, and the heady smell of the ink.

My mother told me that as a young girl, she had promised herself that she would never take money from her father.

“I decided as a little girl that I would marry a man who would support me. My father worked hard and has been through so much. I want to protect him.” She proclaimed defiantly.

This was breaking family tradition. For generations, women had to have a dowry to marry well.

Her mother, my grandmother was 21 years old when the Holocaust arrived in Hungary in 1944.

“She was still unmarried at that old age because her father was a poor man and had no dowry so no one would marry her.” My mother confided in me.

When my parents got married in 1971, they were poverty-stricken. My mother moved from Brooklyn, as a young married woman to live with my father in London. My father, a very bright and newly licensed computer developer, when computers took up an entire room, could find no work during the economic downturn of the 70s.

Help came in the form of my mother’s wealthy cousins, the Reich’s. They had moved to Canada in the 50s, directly from Tangiers, Morocco where they had found refuge during the Holocaust and had quickly built up a successful Real Estate business. My father was brought into the business and soon became a trusted employee of the company, not only earning a salary but also receiving percentages of new acquisitions. My father also began managing the charitable arm of the company which distributed millions of dollars annually to organizations, individuals, and communities in Jewish Orthodox communities throughout the world.

The Toronto Jewish Ultra-Orthodox Community in the 70s and 80s was divided by a firm line. There were the very wealthy families, mostly my mother’s cousins, who lived in big fancy houses, and then there were the others. I was confused and could never quite figure out where we belonged. We didn’t talk about money.

“You don’t belong to the first-class.” Esther, my neighbor was telling me as we were walking home from school. “Malky never asks you to sit next to her or share her cupcake with you. And you are her cousin.”

Later that week, I was at the park and I overheard a young girl telling my sister. “You just moved into a big fancy house. You are rich; all cousins of the Reich’s are rich.”

In 1986, when I was 13, my father won second place in the national lottery. I went to school the next morning frozen, juxtaposed between fear and excitement. My father had come home the past evening, in a huff. The Rabbi had reprimanded him for speaking of his win.

Was it okay if I spoke of it? I wasn’t sure.

But the news traveled fast, and as I left the auditorium after morning prayers, my path was blocked by a gaggle of girls walking towards me.

“We know that you are rich. We also know that your father won the lottery.”

I wanted to run and hide but smiled bravely instead, barely lifting my eyes and nodded my head.

Yes, I was rich.

My mother bought me a white ruffled Yves St Laurent shirt in Winners, a discount store in the neighborhood.

“You see, you are rich.” Yehudis, an outspoken classmate, confronted me when she saw me wearing my new shirt. “Only rich girls wear designer shirts to school.”

I cringed but dared not speak up. My father still had the same car and still wore the same slovenly clothing, his crumpled shirt constantly escaping from his pants. My parent’s strict rules hadn’t changed and I still felt the same.

Did anything change?

When my father retired three years later and we moved to Monsey, I knew for certain that we were rich. There was no other way that he could stop working, move to a new town, and build us a big fancy house.

My parents quickly established a stellar reputation for themselves in their new community, as my father began studying daily in a local synagogue and my mother started working as an English Principal at the local Ultra-Orthodox girl’s school. Our new home became a hub of activity as my father hosted male-only evening parlor events for local charities and my mother gathered women together to plan fundraising projects for a local school for children with disabilities.

---

It was several days after Rosh Hashanah and I met my future husband’s parents for the first time at our large dining room table in Monsey. The mother, dressed in a blonde elegant wig with a blue cardigan and gold chain around her neck sat directly across from me, separated by the lace-covered wide oak table, flanking my mother who sat at the foot of the table. My father sat at the head of the table with the father, dressed in a grey single-breasted suit and a “Hamburg” a high topped hat, at his side, two beige plastic-covered upholstered chairs separating him from his wife.

My thighs stuck to each other as my black satin skirt stayed glued to the plastic-covered upholstered chair. I took shallow breaths not daring to relax. I had to be on my best behavior.

I had to please

My parents wanted this and I couldn’t ruin do anything to ruin it

My future in-laws came on separate missions. She came to check me out and see if I was suitable for her son. He, on the other hand, had come to discuss financial arrangements. My future husband came with a price. Serious learning boys, young men who would devote their lives to their Talmudic studies, considered it their right to be generously compensated to continue their studies unhindered and his father came to ensure that he got what he deserved.

All learning boys came with a price attached.

Some commanded the price of monthly rent in a basement apartment for five years. Others expected to be given a house outright, while others expected a monthly stipend. According to the matchmaker, this young man was such a catch that he deserved no less than a fully paid-off house and a generous monthly stipend for many years.

My parents were eager to pay the price. Procuring a learning boy for a son-in-law would catapult them to an elite status in the community, something that they had worked hard to achieve.

His parents would call for him to come home from Israel, where he was studying in an elite Yeshiva and meet with me only after they had gotten a firm commitment from my father.

“There is no point for him to come back earlier, we must have this finalized first.” They told the Matchmaker

The meeting between the men ended with a firm handshake and a smile, as my future mother-in-law looked me up and down, nodding in approval as they both took the two steps down, into the sunken living room, out through the foyer, and past the large double doors onto the flagstone path and left our home.

A week later, right after Yom Kippur, soon after Shabbat had ended at sunset, I met my future husband for the very first time across my aunt’s dining room table. We were meeting at my aunt’s apartment in Brooklyn to meet Moshe, the prospective young man. My mother thought it was best we meet there, away from our prying neighbors and the younger children, as the meeting had to remain a secret until we were officially engaged.

My aunt and uncle’s apartment was located on the second floor of a 1940’s Brownstone in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It had classic wide brown stairs with curved banisters that finished with a curled post that swirled into an ice cream shaped ending. The small paper label with their last name Stern, under the bronze oval-shaped peephole on the brown painted door, had faded over the years. The front door opened to a small hallway which was flanked by the linoleum covered kitchen on one side and the maroon carpeted dining room on the other, a narrow archway separating the two rooms.

I fingered the lace tablecloth which fell to my lap and as per my father’s warnings, lowered my hands under the table hiding my finger with the misshapen nail which had been injured when I was a baby. Conversation and laughter drifted from the kitchen into the room as my aunt and uncle, father, and the young man’s mother sat patiently for the hour designated for our conversation.

Moshe sat across from me, elbows resting on the edge of the table. He was dressed in his Shabbat finest, a large felt board-brimmed black hat on his head and a shiny overcoat on his thin frame. The black overcoat was imprinted with flowers swirling in dizzying concentric circles.

“The weather was rainy here in Brooklyn, how was the weather by you in Monsey?”

He began in Yiddish, and I was determined to answer him in Yiddish.

Though Yiddish was my mother tongue and I understood it perfectly, I had not spoken it conversationally in many years. Six months earlier, I had sat on this very chair and met another young man. My uncle’s mother, an elderly woman who had been in the kitchen, during the meeting questioned me when I got out.

“You didn’t speak to him in Yiddish. That’s not right.”

When the matchmaker called several days later saying that the young man was not interested in seeing me again, I was sure that it was my fault, I hadn’t spoken in Yiddish.

I was going to make it right now. I was going to be perfect.

I glanced up for a moment, my eyes meeting the brim of his hat; his gaze modestly focusing on the table. “The weather was rainy by us too.” I efforted the words in Yiddish.

The sounds of the chattering of the adults in the kitchen were a welcome distraction as I sat stiffly in my chair nodding at the right moments and responding appropriately to the questions posed to me.

And then it was over.

I barely heard my father’s footsteps as he walked into the softly carpeted room and told us that the conversation was over, we were going home.

We had barely arrived home and the phone rang. It was the Matchmaker on the phone.

My mother came out of the den with a beaming smile. “She said they want to meet again. He wants to see you again.”

I felt a rush of relief. Perhaps I had done the right thing now. He did want to meet with me again.

Two more meetings and we were engaged.

The matchmaker had confirmed with my parents that Moshe’s parents agreed to finalize the arrangements. We could now officially announce the engagement.

The large kitchen set up for the Sukkot holidays, its walls decorated with hand-made colorful crafts, and the open skylight window hung with fresh fruits were now the center of festivities. All relatives and close friends of the family were informed of the engagement

Small plastic cups of whiskey were passed along the men’s side as the sounds of l’chaim filled the air. The women nibbled daintily on the delicately decorated cakes set on our finest china on the other side.

“I fully trust him to handle the money I give him.” I overheard my father telling my mother later that evening. “He is so mature and responsible.”

One of the first trips we made as a married couple was to Victor Stern’s office, the local Real Estate Attorney at his office on Route 76.

“I will be transferring the house I own next door to you until we find a house for you to live in permanently. I will gift it to you, instead of selling it so we won’t need to pay taxes, and then it is all yours.” My father was explaining the process to me as I sat in the back seat of the car, with my husband sitting in the front seat next to my father.

The paperwork was swiftly passed around the large oval table in the windowless room from person to person as I signed in my married name for the first time, Beatrice Brown. The house was officially ours. We were homeowners, me at 18, and my husband at the age of 20.

---

We moved to Israel two weeks later, intending to stay for a year but eventually residing there for over a decade. We lived in a large rambling apartment in Jerusalem built in the late 60s, after the Six-day war, in a community built for American Religious Immigrants. My parents had purchased the apartment several years earlier, in the mid-80s from a prominent Rabbi’s daughter. She was moving to Har Nof a newer neighborhood in Jerusalem and though she kept her apartment next door to deliver classes to her students, she sold her father’s apartment, a replica of her own, to my parents.

The apartment had been custom-built for the rabbi and took up the space of two apartments on the first floor of a flat and wide building built on rocky mountain terrain. The apartment topped a wide lobby-like entranceway that opened to the open hills of Jerusalem bringing in strong breezes and sandstorms from the desert below.

The harsh climate had taken its toll on the apartment. The window screens were covered with years of dust and the stone floors covering the four large bedrooms, the dining room, living room, and kitchen had decades of grime stuck in its corners.

Moshe spent his days and evenings in his scholarly pursuits, at a yeshiva studying with his friends, as I stayed at home, busy with my household responsibilities, coping with the first months of pregnancy, and acclimating to a new culture. As was the custom of many young couples at that time, we made weekly trips to the Kosel, the Western Wall.

“I thought we would have enough money to take taxis to the Kosel, I did not expect that we would have to take the bus, I don’t like to sit next to all those women,”

Moshe complained late one Saturday evening when we got home, my pregnant belly slowing down my walk.

I was confused.

Weren’t we only using part of our monthly stipend?

Didn’t we leave part of the money in our bank account in New York, every month?

I didn’t dare ask.

Didn’t my father say that he fully trusted Moshe with money? He must know what he is doing.

“Can we please do something to thank my parents? I want to thank them for all they give us.”

Though my parents never said anything, I felt uncomfortable after months of living in their apartment and receiving generous monthly stipends.

“You know that all money comes from Bashefer, the Creator, there is no need to thank them,” Moshe replied looking away.

I never saw that money that my parents gave us. Moshe received the money directly from my father, and he would give me small amounts for purchases. I often felt torn between my husband and my parents’ wishes.

---

My sister was getting married and with four children in tow, we traveled from Israel to attend the wedding.

“Come early so that I can get the dressmaker to sew wedding dresses for you and the children. I picked out the velvet and satin fabric and want you to all look pretty for the wedding.” My mother insisted.

After several fittings, the outfits were ready, and the dressmaker came to drop off the clothing, at our guesthouse. She did not leave but stood silently at the side of the room.

I immediately understood that she expected us to pay for it.

“We need to pay for this?’ Moshe was angry. “That doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to. Your mother needs to take care of this.”

There was no way I would ask my parents to pay for this.

“They already paid for enough,” I said, as Moshe reluctantly took out a checkbook and paid the dressmaker.

“I refuse to allow you to dress the baby in his outfit.” Moshe insisted as we were getting ready for the wedding.

“Please let me.” I pleaded with Moshe. “I am so embarrassed.”

“Let your parents see how unfair it was of them to make us pay for this.” He responded. “I don’t let you dress him.”

I left for the wedding mortified. What would everybody think of me, showing up for an elegant wedding with my son dressed in his navy and forest green knit outfit, instead of the black velvet and cream outfit that was sewn for him?

I brushed off my sister’s questions, as my mother looked at me from afar, her blue clear eyes glancing quizzically from me to my son and back.

I did not explain, though everything inside of me wanted to say the truth.
I had been taught to be quiet

I did not want to upset anyone.

---

It was just two weeks to Passover and I was sitting at the sewing machine well past midnight, furiously sewing clothing for the children, my shoulders hunched over the beige machine that was placed on the kitchen table. I was now a mother of five, my oldest daughter was seven and I wanted the children to look pretty for the holiday. I had gone to the fabric store a week earlier choosing black and white cotton pique fabric for the boys and girls outfits, with matching flowered trim to use for the girl’s dresses.

“We don’t have enough money for clothing. They will need to make do with what they wore last year.” Moshe had told me when I asked him for money for holiday clothing.

Determined to make sure my children looked nice, I decided to sew them clothing, for a fraction of the price of buying. Now I was exhausted and ready to give up, but I pushed myself harder.

My days were spent caring for the children and now before Passover, I spent hours each day scrubbing the house, cleaning it spotless for the holiday. The only time I had for sewing was late in the evening. I would begin cooking for the holiday next week and was determined to get the sewing done before then, even if it meant sleepless nights.

I finished sewing the five outfits barely a week before the holiday and was ready to begin cooking. The oven was eight years old and had been showing signs of wear for the past year, and now when I turned it on, it remained cold and nothing I tried could get it to work.

“I will buy a new oven.” Moshe proclaimed when he came home that night. “I will buy the best there is.”

I was confused.

Didn’t he tell me there was no money for clothing? How was there money for the most expensive oven?

I didn’t dare ask.

I was quiet as I had been taught.

---

Seven children were born in quick succession in Israel, and when the oldest was 10 years old, my husband was recruited by a wealthy donor to move to Monsey, NY. The donor was establishing an elite Kollel, an institute for advanced study of the Talmud and tempted us with a generous stipend

My parents were thrilled that we were making the move and promised to build a large home for our growing family.

My father had recently purchased a piece of forested land behind the girl’s school and would use that to build us a brand-new house. It would take three years and the large custom built home was ready. For the past year, Moshe had been going into the house daily on his way to his studies, meeting with the contractor and checking that everything was being built properly, while I went from shop to shop choosing tiles, kitchen, and doors.

My mother-in-law recommended that I buy the tiles from a store in Brooklyn.

“They have a huge selection, I bought the tiles for my house there, you will be able to find everything you need for all the bathrooms and kitchens you are designing.”

As I walked through the store choosing the tiles, many conflicting thoughts began to overwhelm me.

Would my mother approve of this bathroom tile?

Is it too ostentatious or maybe it is too plain.

Will my husband be ok with this design in the master bathroom? I know he wants something specific but he didn’t tell me exactly what he wants.

And will the contractor think that I am making reasonable choices?

And how are the kids at home?

My oldest was 14 and babysitting but I hated leaving her with all the eight kids.

The cacophony of conflicting voices rose to a crescendo as I walked out of the store hours later, heaving a sigh of relief at having completed my task of choosing the tiles.

I never once thought about what I liked.

I knew how to please.

I was trying to be grateful to my parents and to keep my husband happy.

My father would come to Monsey every few months carrying wads of cash to pay for the purchases. “I am building you a two-family home. I want you to rent out the second home, and the basement apartments. I will stop giving you your monthly stipend and you will be able to live off of that.”

My father was speaking to Moshe as we stood in the sawdust-covered frame of the house.

“Don’t tell your siblings how much we are giving you.” My mother insisted later. “It will only cause fights between you. You are getting a lot more than anyone.”

Our new home looked eerily similar to the house my parents had built years back. It had the same large windows at the back of the house and seven large bedrooms on the top floor. The dining room and living room had a similar open layout and the large kitchen had almost identical thermofoil cabinets with granite countertops. The home also came complete with a Passover Kitchen.

The main differences were the rental units. Attached to the right of the house, beyond the double doors, flagstone steps, manicured, and walkway was another smaller and simpler home that we would rent out. The bottom level of the house, which sat level with the ground on one side and several steps down on the other was used for the three smaller rental units.

The house had a doorway on the left that we used to enter the house, ensuring that the front entrance stayed unused and pristine. The entranceway led to a room that we kept for our use. It was a medium-sized ceramic-tiled room, with laminate lockers lining an entire side, and doubled as a mudroom and rec room. The room led to a staircase that opened to the kitchen area on the main floor.

Moshe would collect the rent from the tenants and deposit the money in his bank account. I on the other hand was responsible for the household and the children. It was my job to ensure that the kitchen was well stocked, the food cooked, the house cleaned and the children’s needs taken care of.

Moshe would give me small amounts of money for the purchases I needed to make.

For years, he handled the money and I was responsible for everything else. It was a balance we had found.

But now I was angry.

“I just got a call from the clothing store that the check you gave me to buy a skirt last week bounced. I am mortified.” I confronted Moshe.

I had learned to skimp and barely bought myself clothing but this had never happened before.

Moshe’s face remained expressionless as he handed me a new check to mail to the store.

Though I didn’t know the details of our income or expenses, I knew there had to be a better way. I had enough of just leaving it all to Moshe.

In a fit of fury, I drove to the Chase bank around the corner and instead of going to the teller as I sometimes did, I went straight to the banker and challenged the woman sitting behind the desk.

“How is it possible that this check bounced? Is there not enough money in our account.”

The slim blonde-haired woman, wearing a sky blue sweater looked me up and down and spoke patiently as she turned her computer screen towards me. I leaned forward, my toes squishing into the tops of my shoes, my elbows resting on the desk.

“Here is the amount that you have in the account and there you have the amount you spent. You can see that the numbers don’t match up.”

Despite my frustration, I was thrilled when she told me that I could do this all at home.

---

I had recently purchased a new laptop for my studies at a college designed for women from the Hasidic community. Now I began using the laptop to monitor the money in my bank account and was very concerned by what I saw.

Although we had thousands of dollars coming in every month from our rental apartments, it was a mess. The children’s tuition was not being paid on time and there were many outstanding bills.

I tried to reason with Moshe.“Why aren’t we paying the bills on time? Won’t we get into trouble?”

“If we don’t pay the heating bill then we can get additional government help to pay our bills and they might forgive our tuition payment if we don’t pay for long enough. And why do you care about this anyway? I have managed this alone for all these years.”

Sputtering in disbelief, I responded “This is how you manage the money. That seems so irresponsible to me. Do we not have enough money to pay for what we need? How much money are you bringing in from Kollel, I don’t see that in the bank account?”

“I don’t need to tell you that and I won’t, ‘’ Was his immediate response. “It doesn’t matter.”

Disheartened but not surprised by his response, I refused to give up and resolved to take charge of our finances. I reviewed the rental income and our expenses and saw that the money was tight. We had just enough to get by. The property taxes, private school, and providing for a family of eleven cost us more than we expected.

Determined to make a difference, despite my misgivings in leaving the children, I soon got a part-time job, which eventually turned full time. When I started getting a regular paycheck. I insisted that I would manage my own money, no longer trusting Moshe to take care of it.

“You can take the rental income, pay the property taxes and tuition and I will take care of the rest.” I declared in a fit of desperation, as I went to open a bank account in my name.

It was more than the finances which were driving us apart. As I started working and going to college, I gained more confidence and insisted on being treated more respectfully. Despite ongoing visits with marriage counselors, things did not improve and I was at my wit’s end.

“I know my marriage is ending, but I am terrified to leave or ask for a divorce since I signed over most of the house to my husband’s non-profit.”

I had left work during my lunch break and was seated in the darkly furnished office of the matrimonial attorney, several months before I would leave the house.

“You have a serious problem. We will need to look at the part you do own jointly and see if we can split that.” The attorney proposed. “But whatever you do, don’t leave the house. You will then risk losing all of it.”

---

“You can not leave your husband, I know you are thinking of it, but don’t you dare.” My father was insisting as I heard the sound of his footsteps trudging up the stairway.

“There is no way. You will ruin the shidduchim for your children, they will never get reputable matches. And just so you know, I will no longer be giving you the $700 a month I was giving you for babysitting, that is over.”

When my youngest was born a year earlier, my mother had offered to supplement the babysitting cost. “I want to be sure my grandson gets the best care possible.” She said as she nudged my father to give me a check.

I didn’t know that it would be used to convince me to stay in the marriage.

When I left my marital home with my four younger children to spend the holidays with my brother just a few months later, I couldn’t imagine that it would be the last time I would enter the home as its owner.

I left in the middle of the night, with the help of a friend away from the forbidding eyes of my husband and older children. It was during those days that I would finally decide to leave my marriage, doing whatever I could to keep my children with me.

“Can you please lend me $15,000? I need it to pay the attorney, I need to be in court next week, otherwise, I am sure to lose the children”

Despite my hesitancy in making the call, I was on the phone with my father, hopeful that he would help me.

“I don’t have any money for you. You are sick. You need to go to the hospital now.” I heard him say impatiently

And then the phone was silent. He had hung up on me. Devastated but still determined, I knew I would find another way. I spent hours calling and emailing old and new friends until I finally raised the money I needed for the marital attorney, ensuring that I got custody of the children.

A few short weeks later, I ran out of all the money I had raised

“Your parents told me to tell you that if you go to the Rabbi to work this out, they will pay for everything. You have no choice.” I received a call from a local askan, the Rabbi’s assistant.

Feeling secure since I now had custody of the children, I hesitantly agreed to meet with the three Rabbis assigned to me.

Several months into the deliberations, my husband continued to claim complete ownership of the house.

“There were four occasions since my wife left me that my father-in-law called and told me to stay in the house with the older children. Your assertion that the house belongs to my wife is wrong. My in-laws bought it for us and now they want me to stay there.” Moshe insisted. “And here are the dates her father called me called me.”

“She is welcome to come home. Her parents want her to come home too. And, it all belongs to the non-profit in any case. There is nothing you can do.”

Sitting across from my husband at a large oak table in the Rabbi’s office, books lining the walls across from my husband, brought back memories to the first time we met so many years back.

At 18, I felt so helpless sitting across him at the dark oak table. I was forced to agree to marry whomever my parents choose for me.

A man who demanded a handsome fee.

I had no skills, or education to support myself financially and was forced to depend on my parents and my future husband.

Now at 42, I did have choices. I had a college degree, a job, and most importantly a voice.

I could choose to comply, to go back to my husband, to the big beautiful house, and the financial support of my parents.

Or I could choose myself. I could choose to create a life of freedom and independence, separate from the expectations of my family and my community.

I did choose myself.

The last few years have been tumultuous and full of upheaval as I take a path that no woman in my ancestral lineage has ever taken, leaving my dowry behind.

Choosing myself over the financial support of my parents has one of the most life-affirming choices I have made.

It had allowed me to spread my wings, explore new experiences, and connect with my true inner strength.

Give Yourself a Break: A Survival Guide for Overachievers in Times of Crisis

Originally published at Medium on March 24 2020

Are you bored now?

Do you have nothing to do and are you rewatching old movies?

If so, this is not for you. You can move on and read something else.

I am writing this for those of you who are recovering perfectionists and overachievers.

I am writing this for those of you who struggle with taking a break and giving yourself some time off.

I am writing this for you who have multiple calendars full of responsibilities and tasks to accomplish from early morning to late at night.

Yes, I am talking to you, the super responsible and reliable. The one that everyone turns to in times of crisis.

Yes, you need to hear this.

You can take a break now.

You can relax and breathe.

You can wake up a little later and laze in bed.

You can pull out the neglected art projects sitting in the back of your closet and start playing around with them.

You can just sit on the couch and do nothing.

You have my permission.

If you are anything like me, when you heard that you were going to work at home for the next foreseeable future, you started creating lists of things to do and accomplish. Your adrenaline started rushing through your body as you thought about finishing the book you were writing, spring cleaning your home and learning a new language. All this free time was the perfect time to build your business and finally finish all those online courses you signed up for.

Perhaps you too filled up your calendar and began pushing yourself to complete task after task, nary giving yourself a moment to breathe. You ignored the fact that your children were home, that the pandemic was stressing you out and you forged on determined to be productive and to feel accomplished.

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For years, I would measure my value by how many tasks I was able to complete. If it was a “good” day and I completed everything I checked off on my list, I felt amazing but if I did not, my mood plunged into darkness as I harshly berated myself for not accomplishing enough.

As a mother of 10 children and husband of a Rabbi, there was always something to do. Cooking, cleaning, carpools, praying, sewing clothing and more. I never gave myself a break. Even later on when I started working out of the house and got some help in the house, I still held myself to an incredibly high standard, constantly demanding perfection.

Coming from a family that were high achievers it was no surprise that I equated my value with my achievements. For many years, my parents did not own a sofa. My mother claimed that sofas were for lazy people and one should always be busy. Resting was reserved for after ones death she would declare boldly.

I absorbed that message into my psyche never questioning its truth. When I moved to Israel as an 18 year old newly married woman pregnant with my 20 year old husband baby, I followed that very same pattern.

I cooked lavish meals, shopped all over town looking for the best prices, took care of all the paperwork at foreign government offices on my own and climbed the mountains of Jerusalem as my stomach grew larger and larger. And I still not feeling good enough, I started volunteering. in hospitals staying with sick children, giving their parents some reprieve.

I continued this pattern for many years, always working more. Pushing myself harder and harder. Staying up late and waking up early. Even after I left my marriage six years ago determined to find some inner peace, I still found myself in the same cycle of equating my worthiness with my accomplishments. On the surface, my life looked very different, I now had a full time job and was able to make my own choices, but internally it was all the same. I only felt as worthy as the number of items I had checked on my checklist. I still had no sense of my own worthiness separate from my accomplishments.

Over the last few years, as I delved deeper and deeper into my healing work, into inner child work and spiritual healing, I started to gain a different perspective on my worthiness. Slowly I began to recognize how my value as a human being is in no way connected to what I do or accomplish. They are two completely separate things.

As a Divine human being I was born into the world perfect and whole and fully worthy, regardless of anything that I would accomplish. There is no need to push myself beyond my capabilities and be harsh to myself if I don’t accomplish everything I set out to do. I slowly began to loosen up my schedule and most importantly be gentle with myself when I did not get to do everything I had planned to.

I learned that I am worthy no matter what.

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Predictably, when I feel scared or am under a lot of stress, I forget all that I have learnt and revert back to old habits. My calendars start looking like overloaded wheelbarrows, the tasks almost squeezing out of the sides of my computer. I start making unrealistic demands of myself, expecting perfection and high standards. I once again. don’t give myself a break.

Last week, as news of the Coronavirus started spreading in my city and we were advised to stay home, my fear and stress brought me right back to old habits. I forgot that I was worthy just because I am. I forgot to be gentle with myself during this time and I pushed myself harder and harder.

Thankfully it took me only a few days to realize what I was doing and I finally gave myself permission to rest and permission to take it easy. I don’t need to write my entire memoir in the next few weeks, it’s ok if my house doesn’t get a full spring cleaning. It’s okay if I give myself a break.

And it is okay if you give yourself a break too.

Take time to relax and take it easy.

Do things that nourish you and most of all remember to be gentle with yourself during this challenging time.

New Glasses: New Perspectives on Covid-19

Originally published at Medium on March 21, 2020

I was eight years old when I got my first pair of glasses. I remember looking out the kitchen window and marveling at how the tree outside which had always looked like one big green mush, was suddenly so intricate and detailed. The glasses changed it from a mush of green to a detailed pattern of delicate leaves intertwined with thick winding branches.

Playing a game, I would lift my glasses on to my forehead and then back on my eyes, watching the tree seemingly transform itself from one minute to the next. I. was in control of changing how the tree looked.

I haven’t worn glasses in years; contact lenses and then laser surgery has taken its place. But is that really true? Have I really not worn any glasses?

Don’t we all wear glasses, at least figuratively every time we view something from our own biased perspectives?

There are so many types of lenses that we can have in our glasses, lenses that make things larger, lenses that make things smaller and lenses that elongate shapes.

We also all wear very different figurative glasses through which we view everything that happens around us in our own unique ways.

There are so many different types of lenses. We can wear lenses of positivity and joy; we can wear lenses of gloom and doom. We can wear fundamentalists lenses; we wear can spiritual lenses.

As adults, we can choose which lens to use in each circumstance. Seeing things from different perspectives is always a reality and is so much more significant when dealing with personal and communal crises.

It is so much more important to pay attention to which lenses we are using when dealing with a crisis of the magnitude such as COVID -19. Since the crisis is so overwhelming, it is common to revert to using lenses that we feel most familiar with. However, it is important to know that we have the capacity to switch to any perspective we chose. We are not beholden to any particular viewpoint but rather can switch to whichever one we prefer.

I have reacted to COVID-19 using several different lenses over the last week and a half. It took me a few days until I was able to identify which glasses I had put on and then shift it to be more aligned to my true beliefs and be helpful and nourishing to myself during this time.

First, I felt scared. I was terrified. As a single mom living with two young children, I was so scared as to what would happen next. Would we be locked into the house for months? Would we run out of food? Would I be able to keep my job? Would my family that I am estranged from be ok? Are they being cautious or are they viewing things from a fundamentalist perspective (see later paragraph)? And when I get scared, I get busy. I create to-do lists long enough to rival the CVS receipts. I double-book my calendar and get out of breath just by looking at my list. When I am very scared, it is sometimes hard for me to identify my feelings, but seeing my to-do list reminds me of how afraid I am.

Once I realized how scared I was and how I was reacting, I started letting go and felt myself shift to a perspective of positivity and joy. Everything will be ok. It will pass without much damage and we will all be ok. Having that perspective felt good but was unsustainable. One phone call to a friend who lost her job and a look at my retirement investments quickly made it clear to me that now was not the time to put on my pink and positive glasses. Yes, it felt good to view everything so positively but was it real? Did I really want to ignore the real suffering, the deaths, and the sickness that this disease is causing?

Throughout this time, I kept on hearing a religious perspective on the disease. This perspective came to me through social media and from friends from various religious fundamentalist backgrounds. Many were talking about the Messiah (Moshiach) coming. It was the end of times they said, quoting scripture and bringing proof of His coming. We need to keep on praying, they said, gathering in large groups, putting their elders at risk. This is a punishment from God, they cried loudly, we need to repent and the disease will go away. We are different, we won’t get punished as long as we keep on praying and doing good deeds. These voices started to die out when news reports came of religious leaders who were diagnosed with the disease. Perhaps things were not so simple after all. Perhaps there was a different way of viewing this situation.

After experiencing this array of emotions and reactions, I was finally able to choose the glasses that feel best to me. I deliberately chose the spiritual glasses, the complex and comforting perspective from which I view my day to day life and from which I choose to view this global health crisis. I believe that all that happens is for the best. I may not understand why it is the best, but since I believe in a loving Divine, I know that if it is happening, it is purposeful and ultimately good. At the same time, I recognize the real pain that so many people on the Universe are suffering while expressing gratitude for the goodness I have in my life. I feel joy when I hear about the planet finally healing, fish swimming in Venice and pollution lifting over China. I feel pain when I hear about the mounting deaths in my city and all over the world and pray for all the ill and suffering. I take precautions with my health and the health of others by not going outdoors but make sure to take care of my own wellbeing and that of my family, by eating well exercising and getting adequate rest.

Every now and then, I forget to put on my spiritual glasses and I drift to overwhelming fear or to irrational positivity, but now that I have identified and recognize these lenses, I gently guide myself back to a place of choice and once again choose my spiritual lenses, the perspective that has provided me with tremendous sustenance and grounding during this time.

Which lenses are you using to view the current health crisis? Your personal life? How is it helping you or hurting you? How can you change your lenses to create a better reality for yourself?

Dogs and Empowerment

Originally published at Medium on February 19, 2020

The first emotion I remember having was fear. I knew the language of fear before I learned any spoken words. I can almost see myself hunched over, fearful in my mother’s womb.

As a grandchild of Holocaust survivors and living in a community of survivors who were all Ultra-Orthodox Jews, fear was worn as a Shield. Fear was what we used to ensure that no evil would occur to us again.

I had regular nightmares and dreamt of triple-decker beds with emaciated men sprawled on them.

I was terrified of the Bible stories I was told at school and scared that the armies and killing would come to my home.

I was afraid of our neighbors, the “goyim” and kept far away from them, and if one of their children would approach me in the park, I would run away and pretend that I didn’t see them.

And most of all, I was terrified of dogs.

I don’t know why I was so scared of dogs. It was just the way it was. We were all afraid of dogs. The adults would steer clear of any oncoming dogs by swiftly dodging to the side of the road, while we children would run away wildly screaming in fear.

Was it because dogs had chased my grandparents, great-grandparents and family members too numerous to count during the Holocaust?

Was it because dogs were tomeh — impure animals and looking at them would harm unborn babies and sully our pure upbringing?

Or was it because dogs were just unfamiliar to us. With average family sizes ranging from six to ten children, no one thought of bringing a pet into their home.

My short walk home from school every afternoon was calm and peaceful as I would walk swinging my briefcase, but when I got to the second block, my small body always tensed in fear.

I had to walk past three dogs in order to get home.

Boochie, a small black dog lived on one side of the street. He was a very energetic little dog and would tug at his leash fiercely, and I was terrified that he would escape at any moment he would come running after me.

Sandy, a large Golden Retriever lived on the other side of the street and he would sit placidly on the front lawn. I would rarely see him stand up, but when he would stand, I would clench my school bag tightly, terrified that he would start chasing me.

Two doors away from Sandy lived a big black dog, whose name escapes me, or perhaps I never knew his name. I do remember how relieved I was when I heard that he had died and now I only had to face Sandy and Boochie on my walk home from school.

I got used to walking down the block as quickly as I could quietly murmuring special prayers under my breath that were said to keep dogs away.

I was so frozen in fear that I never thought to walk home in a different way.

I never thought to speak to my parents about it and figure out a solution and I didn’t even tell my teachers or friends. Instead, I stayed frozen in fear, my narrow shoulders perpetually hunched over, ready to run out of harm’s way.

These childhood fears did not abate when I grew older, but rather transmuted into fears that would define decades of my life. My fears would dictate so many of my choices and decisions.

When I was 18 I was scared that no one would marry me, so I married the first person that was suggested to me.

When I got married, I was scared that I would not have children.

When I had children, I was scared they wouldn’t love me and so I rarely disciplined them or demanded respect.

I was terrified my husband would leave me. I was always afraid that I was never good enough and would bend over backward, doing anything to make him stay. I would even squeeze fresh orange juice and bake home-made bread for him. Anything to make sure he was happy.

For many years, if I ever got upset, I would quickly apologize for my reaction and promise to never get angry again. My old childhood terror took over and frozen in fear, I reacted in the only way I knew, using my fears as a shield to protect me

I finally got the courage to leave my marriage after many years, but so many of my fears still stuck with me. Fears that I knew were illogical and unhelpful but could not shake off despite my best efforts.

Several months ago, we adopted a little puppy, Ginger. Having Ginger in our home has been transformational and has done so much to help me finally let go of so many of the fears that I have held onto so tightly.

She has taught me that in order for her to be calm, I need to show her that I am in charge.

She has taught me that I need to speak up and enforce rules with her.

And most of all she has taught me the true meaning of love and trust.

As she jumps in my lap after a long day, her gentle eyes remind me that I no longer need to use my fear as a shield and be ready to run. I can relax, let go and feel the love of the Universe surround me.

This is mine too

Originally published at Medium on February 13, 2020

I loved going to our local Synagogue as a young girl.

By the time I was eight, I would get dressed in my prettiest clothes and black patent leather shoes every Shabbat morning, and set off for the short walk, two suburban blocks, to Synagogue — Shul — alone, while my mother stayed home and cared for the younger children.

I loved the quiet at shul, something that I didn’t get very often at home as the oldest of eight children.

I loved listening to the tunes of prayers, the ancient melody of the Torah reading and following along in my prayer book.

I felt so adult-like, connected to a community and like a really good girl.

I never questioned why I had to go upstairs and pray in a separate room.

It was just the way it was.

Men went downstairs, women went upstairs.
Men prayed out loud, women prayed silently.
Men read from the Torah Scroll, women listened.
Men said the blessings, women responded Amen.
Men danced during the holidays, women watched.
Men made up the required quorum, women were the observers.

My father left early in the morning for Shul, as was expected of any self-respecting man in the community. I never saw him when I arrived, as he was downstairs in the men’s section, while I walked up the two flights of stairs to the women’s section, unseen.

I was often the first in the women’s section in Shul and would sit quietly in the back, gingerly settling down on the hard gold-rimmed burgundy upholstered chairs, my small legs barely reaching the scratched wooden floor.

Since I was only able to hear the men praying through the hole cut in the wall, I would dutifully follow the lead of the Rebitzen who sat at the front of the room, and I would stand up when she stood up and sat down when she sat.

When I got married at 18 and started having children, getting to Shul became a lot more complicated, and less peaceful. But I still went regularly, proudly beaming when I would hear the voices of my husband and sons praying, their voices wafting up through the small curtain covered windows.

I knew with certainty that it was through their prayers that I would get my reward in the world to come.

My teachers and Rabbis had made it very clear to me that my role as a woman was to support my husband and sons and only by doing that would I be able to connect with the Divine.

It was only after a tumultuous divorce that I began to question those beliefs.

Is this the way it has to be?
Is my role as a woman only to support the men in my life?
Is there really no place for me to connect to the Divine with my own public prayers or reading of the Torah?

It wasn’t until I was 45 that I experienced a prayer service as a full-fledged member of an egalitarian congregation.

The tunes of the prayers were familiar and the ancient melody of the Torah Reading brought me back to my young childhood, but instead of being an invisible observer I was now an active participant.

I wasn’t listening silently. I was praying out loud.

When I stood for the first time in front of the Torah Scroll and recited the proscribed blessing, I felt a virtual tremor go through my body.

No longer was my connection to the Divine based on my relationship with a man.

I was fully present in my own power and strength connecting with the Divine in a way that felt just right.

“This is mine too.”

I heard a voice inside speak loudly and clearly.

I connect and celebrate with the Divine in my full feminine self. My connection with the Divine is too precious to be funneled through another human being.

In considering how to celebrate my grandmother’s yahrtzeit, the anniversary of her death this month, I could think of no more appropriate memorial than fully embracing my connection with the Divine as a woman of the Jewish Faith.

I spent hours studying the ancient melodies of the Torah reading and will stand in front of a quorum of men and women and read from the ancient Torah Scrolls using those bygone melodies, no longer silent and no longer invisible.

I stand and represent not only my eight-year-old self but also my grandmother, great-grandmother and all of my female ancestors who for centuries sat alone, quietly in the women’s section, silently following along as the men prayed.

I am their unspoken voices, proclaiming loudly and clearly our roles as bearers of the tradition, carriers of the Holy Words of the Divine and connectors of the faith.

Holiday Freedom: The Rewards and the Challenges

Originally published at Medium on April 23, 2019

During this holiday season, many of us who have left harmful religions make hard choices. It is a very charged time and we know that it is important to look at all options and possibilities to ensure that we are doing the very best thing for ourselves. We often have both beautiful and difficult memories from years past and deciding what to do may not be easy.

Do we celebrate with our families in a traditional manner as we used to or do we choose to celebrate with friends?

Do we take time off to be on our own and rejuvenate or do we celebrate with friends?

Do we travel and visit new places or do we stay close to home?

Having the ability to make these kinds of choices is amazingly freeing. In the past, many of us could not make any choices, but were forced to live up to others expectations.

While the freedom to choose is exhilarating and thrilling there is another side to this that is important to recognize. Whenever we make a choice, there will always be parts to our decision that will be unpleasant and uncomfortable.

Nothing in life is all good or all bad.

Sometimes the discomforts may be minor, such as going on vacation and ending up in a hotel room that is not as pretty as we expected, while other times, the downsides may be much more challenging. We may have decided to not be with family for the holiday, but then during the holiday experience intense longing for them and wish we could have spent the time with them. We may have chosen to spend the time on our own but then feel lonely and sad.

It is important that we acknowledge those painful feelings that come up and allow ourselves to gently process them, by either talking to a friend, sitting quietly with our feelings or journalling. However, once we have processed our feelings, we need to make a deliberate effort to shift our focus and remind ourselves as to why we made the choices that we did. We need to remind ourselves that we made a conscious decision and that there are incredible benefits from our choices.

Actively and continuously reminding ourselves of the benefits we have gained will allow us to enjoy our freedom and holiday fully and wholeheartedly reaping the benefits of our newfound ability to choose.

Happy Passover and Easter!

Taking Egypt out of the Slave: A Jewish Orthodox Woman’s Journey to Inner freedom

Three steps you can take today to find your own inner freedom

Originally published at Medium on April 15, 2019

It is five years to the day that I made the monumental decision to leave my marital home after twenty-two years of marriage. I didn’t think that I would be leaving for good; I thought it would just be for the upcoming holiday, Passover. But my mind knew, what my heart refused to accept, I was leaving for good.

To outsiders it seemed to be a rash move. Which Jewish Orthodox woman leaves her marriage to a Rabbi?

In reality however, it was a decision that was long in coming. For years, I had been grappling with staying in a marriage where I was slowly losing myself; where I was unable to be a good parent to my children and feeling lonely and trapped.

I was told by Rabbis, family and friends that there was no way that I could leave the marriage. I was being selfish for even thinking of the idea and I would be ruining my children’s lives. Their marriage prospects would be doomed and they would become the pariahs on the Matchmaker’s lists.

But on that fateful night, the eve of Passover, a historical time of freedom for the Jewish People, I too took my first steps to freedom. And just like the Jewish Nation of old, I too left silently in the dark of night.

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Those first few weeks were filled with incredible highs and lows. Family Court, finding a place to live and my first taste of freedom took all my time. For the first time in my life, at the age of 40, I was living on my own and free to make my own choices.

The fresh spring air matched my feelings of exhilaration as I began to feel the first taste of freedom. No longer did I feel confined and trapped. I was now an independent woman and able to make the choices that were good for me and my children.

The squeals of delight in the children’s eyes as they swung on the swings during the time I had newly carved out for them during the long Sabbath meal, symbolized our newfound freedom.

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Over the next several months, things began to shift and different thoughts started coming up for me. I had left a bad marriage, but I still felt trapped. Happiness often eluded me. I rarely allowed myself a moment of rest.

What did freedom mean anyway?

For the first time in my life, I was able to make my own choices. But did I even know what I wanted?

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It soon became clear to me that finding the freedom inside of me was a journey just as difficult and fraught with danger as taking my first steps to freedom. I was reminded of an axiom I had heard long ago.

“You can take the slave out of Egypt, but it is a lot harder to take Egypt out of the slave”

I now knew that if I wanted to truly live from a place of freedom, I would need to identify and heal the parts deep inside of me that still held onto the old limiting beliefs.

Five years and many hundreds of hours of healing later, I have finally found my own voice. I have found a way to live my life from a place of freedom. I sometimes stumble and step back into fear, the years of oppressive imprinting still marking my soul, but I rise again, remembering that I have left Egypt and I have the power to make Egypt leave me.

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Do you still feel trapped even though you may have left a bad situation? Are you frustrated that you are not feeling as good as you have hoped? Have you created a beautiful life for yourself but still feel trapped inside?

Here are three top actions that you can take today to find your freedom and release the trapped feelings inside of you:

1. Start noticing how you speak about yourself and gently start to switch your negative comments to positive ones. Become your own best friend.
2. Think back to your childhood and remind yourself of activities that you enjoyed and start incorporating them into your life. This will help you reconnect with who you truly are.
3. Trust your intuition and your body sensations. If something doesn’t feel right to you, trust yourself that you are making the right choice.

By taking these small and doable actions, you will start to find the freedom within. Finding that freedom will give you the life of joy, happiness and passion which you have been seeking.

God Doesn’t Hate You: An Open Letter To Orthodox Jewish Women

Originally published at Medium on April 8, 2019

“Blessed are you, Lord, our God, ruler of the universe who has not created me a woman”

I must have seen this prayer in my Siddur, prayer book thousands of times. I saw it first when I started saying the required Jewish prayers in my girls-only kindergarten. My teacher simply told us to skip out that prayer since it was reserved for the boys and men.

For many years, I did not question this practice. I simply accepted it, just as I accepted the requirement to sit behind the wall with the women in our small synagoge and wear a long skirt at the tender age of three. It was just the way we all did things.

Later as a high school student, we grappled with the question as to how this prayer was appropriate nowadays and were given several explanations. Our teacher told us that men are grateful for not having to deal with the pain of childbirth or menstruation. In addition, men were expressing their gratitude since they have more mitzvot, commandments, and more ways to connect to God.

I did not question any further, praying daily for many years according to how I was taught. Over the years and especially since my divorce five years ago, my daily prayer practice had fallen to the wayside.

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Recently, I was praying and as I started saying the morning blessings and as my eyes fell on the blessing “who has not created me a woman”, I burst into tears. All those years of pent up angst came pouring forth. Long forgotten memories rose up as a torrent that would not be stilled.

I thought back to the little girl reciting the prayers in a sing-song voice who never thought she was good enough and would tug at her skirt, making sure her knees were covered.

I remembered that teenage young girl who wanted to be seen and loved for the powerful strong girl she was becoming, but was told to be quiet and that her role was to be subservient to a man.

I thought of the young married woman, almost a child herself, who gave up her dreams and desires to follow her husband and bear children for him, ignoring the burgeoning womanhood that bubbled within her.

What impact did seeing this prayer daily in the prayer book have on the choices that I made?

What choices did I make as a result of hearing my brothers, father and husband say this prayer every day?

What limits to men put on woman in the community as a result of saying this prayer every morning?

I recently discovered that this prayer was introduced less than a thousand years ago to the prayers with many scholars, including the Rambam, Maimonides expressing opposition, claiming that it was against Jewish belief.

Is it possible that God does not want to hear this prayer said daily after all?

Could it be that this prayer was a product of the times where women were actually subservient to men and is no longer relevant today?

Today, as a woman, I proudly say a prayer each morning expressing gratitude for being created as a woman.

“Blessed are you, Lord, our God, ruler of the universe who has created me a woman”

Do you want to know more? Were you raised in a harmful religion and want to start experiencing your greatness? Click here to schedule a 15 minutes call.

Harmful Religions: Three Defining Characteristics

Originally published at Medium on April 1, 2019

Over the last few weeks, I have been discussing the impact of harmful religions publicly, on my facebook page, my blog, and one on one with others. In this essay, I will clearly delineate what I mean by harmful religions.

To be clear, I will not be discussing the validity of religions or the truth behind them (or not). I will solely be focusing on the characteristics of a religion which causes emotional, psychological, financial and personal harm to its adherents. These issues cross all religions and borders. Though you may find them to be more prevalent in some religions than others, wherever they are found, they have similar effects on its adherents.

The three main characteristics of harmful religions are a fearful or scary God, encouragement to forsake your own will for that of God and commandments or requirements which are enforced by shame or social punishment.

As a young child, I knew exactly what God looked like. I don’t remember anyone telling me about this, but I was so sure that I didn’t ask anyone for confirmation. He was a stout older man with a long greying beard. In my mind, he sat atop each lamppost in my town and peered into every corner and would punish me if I did anything wrong. When I forgot to pay back my friend when I borrowed her pencil, I knew that He knew and I would pay for my crime one day.

This belief was further reinforced when I was in grade school and we were taught that before Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, God would take a scale and put our good deeds on one side and our bad deeds on the other. If the bad deeds outweighed the good deeds, we would suffer and have a bad year.

In my childish mind, I clearly saw the old angry man taking the tarnished heavy scale out each year and slowly comparing my good deeds to my bad ones. I would shiver in fright praying that I would not be punished and would survive the year intact.

Over time, though the vision of the old angry man left me, the fear did not. Because of what I had been told when I was so young, I was sure that I would be punished if I was not perfect. When I got married at 18 and was treated badly by my young husband, I did not reach out for help, but instead assumed that I was being punished for my misdeeds. Until today residue of that deep fear remains, as I take steps to heal from that deep fear which was inculcated into me at such a young age.

Many people from harmful religions will recognize this fear. The type of punishment which is threatened varies based on the religion, but the fear of God is universal. In some religions it may be the fear of Hell; in others the fear of getting punished today.

In reality, the world is a beautiful and loving place, with many wonderful things to offer. Raising children and people to see the world through the lens of fear is wrong. I believe that it is at the root of so much dysfunction in the world and it stops people from becoming their best selves and instead encourages people to stay small and afraid

The second characteristic of harmful religions is the mandate to forsake one’s own beliefs and thoughts and replace them with those of the leaders, God or your parents.

As a very young child, I had a hard time believing that I deserve special treatment from God because of the nation that I was born in to, despite what I was taught. My natural belief was that all people were equal and deserved the same goodness and blessings of this world. However, I was told many times that my teachers, parents and Rabbis were always right and that my beliefs were not important nor true.

I never expressed those thoughts because I knew that I would be reprimanded if I did and eventually even stopped having my own unique thoughts. The ongoing pressure to think and believe what everyone else was believing, wore me down. I no longer knew what I believed or even what I liked. I became a follower whose only goal was to please those around me and do what was required of me.

As humans we are all born with our own thoughts, feelings and beliefs. In any environment, we will be influenced by others, however to live in a religion which actively encourages you to squelch your beliefs, thoughts and personality is very harmful. Healing from this is possible but can require extensive effort. First one needs to come to the realization that one has unique thoughts and beliefs and once that breakthrough occurs, begin to identify one’s beliefs and thoughts.

The third characteristic of harmful religions is that its required practices are enforced by shame or social ostracization. Expectations are to be expected as part of any functioning society. However in harmful religions, the practices are often enforced using shame or social ostracization. In some religions, adherents are expected to spend hours a day proselytizing and teaching others about their religion. In other religions, adherents are expected to wear only specific clothing at all times. These expectations can be challenging but what is harmful is when they are enforced through the use of shame.

Using shame or social ostracization to enforce behaviors can set up a person to a lifetime of agony. Social acceptance is one of the most basic human needs and creating a system whereby approval and social acceptance is only gained by practicing certain behaviors is very problematic. In addition, shame is one of the earliest emotions and is the underlying cause of the feelings of worthlessness that some many people have. By playing on these emotions, religions can cause untold damage.They are equating a person’s value to what they do or don’t do for the religion.

Fear of God, encouragement to quiet ones inner voice and shame combined with the threat of social ostracization are the three defining characteristics of harmful religion. By recognizing these issues and tackling them head on, you can truly heal and create an amazing life for yourself.

Were you raised in a harmful religion and are experiencing some of these issues? Are you ready to create an amazing life for yourself. Click here to schedule a 15 minutes call and subscribe to my blog at beatriceweber.com.

Three Ways to Quiet your Inner Critical Voice for Good

Originally published at Medium on March 25, 2019

“You are so stupid and careless”.

I heard the voice shouting at me as I reached for the wrong spice, taking the paprika from the spice shelf instead of the black pepper.

I turned around in shock and recoiled in horror, looking around me to find my attacker but there was no one there. I was all alone. It took only a split second to recognize that the harsh voice came from within.

I clenched my chest, as I gasped in horror, sitting down to catch my breath for a few moments before quickly got up and continued cooking dinner, ensuring that the perfect meal was on the table before my husband came home.

I would attack myself relentlessly for most of my adult and childhood. Though I had grown up in home where perfectionism reigned supreme and married a husband who made many demands on me, no one was as critical and harsh with myself as I was.

Being harsh and critical with myself, almost seemed to be the way I protected myself from the demands of those around me. If I could be more critical with myself than them, I would be one step ahead, ensuring that their criticisms would hurt less.

For many years, I would never let myself off the hook. If I made a genuine mistake, I would rehash it over in my mind and provide myself with endless reasons of how I could have known better if only I would have tried hard enough.

If I couldn’t manage to finish all my chores when taking care of my ten children, I would blame myself for not working hard enough. Perhaps I should be waking up earlier. Maybe I should not have sat down in the afternoon to rest.

I was my own worst enemy.

Even after years of therapy and healing and logically understanding that this harsh judgement that I had of myself was not helpful, I could not let fully go of this behaviour. I would sometimes even wake up in the middle of the night and hear that critical voice shouting at me again. “What is wrong with you?”

Do you have a harsh critical voice that haunts you?

Do you never give yourself a break?

Are you demanding and harsh with yourself?

Are you your own worst enemy?

What do your harsh and critical voices say? Do any of these sound familiar?

• Why did you gain so much weight, can’t you control yourself?
• Why aren’t you earning more money, can’t you get a better job?
• Don’t be so lazy, just get off your butt and do what you said you would?

After years of battling these voices, I finally decided to make peace. I decided to stop fighting this voice. To stop judging myself when I would hear that harsh tone and began to implement daily practices which have helped to release that inner critic.

Try these practices and see how the critical voice will slowly soften and lessen until it no longer has an impact on your life.

Daily Practices:

• Twenty-minute meditation every morning. This meditation helps to quiet the mind and fill it with feelings of love and comfort that last throughout the day.
• Writing or saying at least ten positive affirmations every morning. When you remind yourself of your positive qualities every morning, you set yourself up to be in a positive place, making it harder for the critical voice to show up.
• Embrace what comes up. If the critical voices do show up, don’t try to fight them. Instead, hold yourself gently as they arise. Listen to voices as if it were coming from outside of you and hold yourself with compassion and gentleness until they pass.

Would you like support as you learn to release your inner critical voice and start to live a fulfilled and happy life? Do you want to learn how to release all those critical voices? Click here to schedule a 15 minutes call and subscribe to my blog at beatriceweber.com

My Quiet Inner Voice

Originally published at Medium on March 19, 2019

As a child growing up in an Ultra-Orthodox Jewish home, my life was predictable.

I knew which food I was allowed to eat and which clothing I was permitted to wear.

From the time I was three, my skirts needed to cover my knees and my sleeves had to cover my elbows. When I was nine years old, my stockings had to cover my knees so nary a sliver of skin would show.

I knew that that the Shabbat Queen would arrive every Friday night promptly at sunset.

It meant that there would be a hustle and bustle of preparation for hours, but that once the sun would set and the Shabbat candles lit, peace would reign in my childhood home, at least for a few hours.

I knew that my parents knew best and that they would find a marriage partner for me.

When I was 17 years old they started the search for the appropriate man and by the time I was 18, I was married to a Torah Scholar living in Israel, the beginning of new life growing in my belly.

The predictability was always there and knowing what to expect provided me with a sense of safety and security. I never had to wonder, to dream or to worry. I knew just what would happen, when it would happen, how it would happen and even why it would happen.

But throughout my childhood, I had moments where there was another feeling growing inside of me. I had fleeting moments when something inside of me felt differently. When that little voice said that there may be a different way of doing things.

My little six year old voice questioned what my life would be if I had been born in a different family, in a different religion. Would I still be told that I was so special and that it why there were so many rules? What would that feel like?

When I was eight I secretly bought a yellow popsicle that my mother did not allow us to buy because it was not kosher enough for us, as our family only ate the orange flavored ones. I remember those few fleeting moments of joy before I was caught and punished. The freedom of following my desires felt so sweet, even sweeter than the yellow juice dribbling down my chin.

I considered going to college when I was 17. Imagining myself educated and getting a “real job” felt so freeing and rebellious, both at the same time. That idea was quickly nixed when my parents found an eligible young man for me and supporting him in his studies became the all important goal for me.

As I became older that inner knowing voice, that intuition deep inside of me could no longer be shut down. It begged to be listened to. No longer could I sit back and rely on the fact that my parents choose my marriage partner, so it must be best or that being a stay at home mom was the best choice for me or my children.

And I began to make different choices. I finally enrolled in college. I got a job outside the home and I let that little voice grow and grow. Despite the misgivings of my family and community, I finally left my marriage several years later, deeply knowing that I was doing the right thing for me and my children.

Now that I have more freedom and the ability to make my own choices, I am learning to listen to my intuition more and more every day. Sometimes my old habits of squelching my inner voice rear their ugly head and I allow myself to guided by others thoughts and beliefs but more often than not, I am now beginning to act from a place of true knowing, becoming more and more in tune with who I really am. I am listening to my inner voice, my intuition and my knowingness that resides in me.

Are you living your life following your inner voice? Do you want to learn how to connect with your intuition?

Click here to schedule a 15 minutes call and subscribe to my blog at beatriceweber.com

My Grandmothers

Originally published at Medium on March 11, 2019

For the last several days my social media feeds and email inbox has been full of inspiring memes and articles about inspirational women in tribute to International Women’s Day, which in case you don’t know, was on Friday, March 8th, 2019.

In truth, my feeds are always filled with inspiration and motivation about strong women. I have purposely curated my feeds and online exposure to include only news, and information that inspires me to reach to greater heights, professionally, socially, emotionally and spiritually. This is the first year however, that I noticed all the hype on International Women’s Day and it inspired me to look at my grandmothers and the role that they have played in me becoming the woman that I am today.

My grandmothers were both holocaust survivors. They arrive to foreign lands, the United States and England from Europe after losing almost their entire families, their former lives torn asunder. As a young child, I took for granted the fact that they got married, had children and set up homes anew. Now as a grandparent myself, I look upon them with amazement. Despite all they had suffered and experienced, they still found the stamina to start over, to hope for a better future and to trust that life will be good to them again.

Not only did they get married and have children, but they were both enterprising women and used their resourcefulness to bring regular income into the home. My grandmother, Oma, from London began baking fancy cakes in the 1970s that were highly sought after by her community. I visited my grandparents in London when I was 10 and I vividly remember excitedly running around at a party pointing out all the cakes that my grandmother had baked.

My other Grandmother, Babi, worked alongside my grandfather in his printing shop, greeting the customers and making the sales. She was the pleasant face of the store, providing the softness and warmth to my Grandfathers gruffness and exactness. At her recent funeral, people commented that they would come to the store especially to be greeted by her smiling face and warm words.

When I got married at 18, I knew that I would follow in their footsteps and have a large family. Though I was two generations removed from the Holocaust, the aftershocks of the Holocaust were still felt in the Ultra-orthodox community that I come from, and having large families was expected. It was a way of both taking revenge and ensuring the continuation of the Jewish nation.

I did not however expect to work nor to be an independent woman supporting my family. I had gone to Ultra-orthodox schools and took the studies very seriously. I had been taught that the ideal was for me to marry a Torah Scholar, have a large family and support him and the children. Being that my father had become wealthy over the years, I easily found a Torah Scholar to marry, since my father promised to support us for many years to come.

This worked well for over a decade. I had children quickly and easily and I stayed home and cared for them while my husband the Torah Scholar spent his days and evenings in studies. By the time I was 33, I had nine children and unexpectedly began to feel a deep emptiness and sadness. I was doing all I had been taught to do, supporting my husband and caring for my children but it was not enough.

I could no longer ignore the burning need inside of me to expand my knowledge and contribute to the family finances. I eventually enrolled in a college program designed for women from the Ultra-Orthodox community and found a part time job at a non-profit organization shortly thereafter.

As I began to become more independent, things began to shift in the relationship with my husband. No longer was I willing to tolerate being put down or made fun of. No longer would I run to do his bidding the moment he demanded it. I began to recognize that I am a person of worth and deserve to have a voice of my own. That my role at home was more than being a helper to my husband and children and I also deserved respect. We eventually divorced as I continued my journey of financial, emotional and spiritual independence.

As I experience the pain of my family, community and some of my children not understanding my journey, I look back at my grandmothers and the strength that they had to overcome and build their lives anew and I know that they are behind me, supporting me and holding my hands as I embark on my own journey of building my life anew.

Who has inspired you to step into your power and find your independence?

Comment below and let’s start a conversation.

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