About Us

When I was growing up, I believed that God threw two atoms together to kickstart the Big Bang, watched the world create itself, and then sat back in His recliner and watched us all like a bad reality TV show. That version of God made sense to me, and I didn’t feel the need to dig deeper - until college.

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In college, everything cracked open. I was struggling with severe anxiety and depression, body image issues, and questions about my identity and future. I was overwhelmed by the state of the world and exhausted by the instability in my own life. In the midst of all this, I found comfort and consistency in a Chabad community on campus. I attended regularly, studied with the rebbetzin, helped prep for Shabbat meals, and babysat their children. It became a spiritual and emotional anchor.

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Then, during my junior year, their three-month-old baby died unexpectedly from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). The grief was unimaginable, and it shook the entire community. But what stunned me most was the rebbetzin’s response. Her grief was real, but her faith remained unshaken. She told me she was grateful her son’s soul had chosen her to be his mother, and she believed that God only gives people challenges they are capable of surviving. Her theology gave her strength; it helped her keep living.

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I wanted that kind of faith. I wanted to believe in a God who saw me, who gave me challenges not as punishment, but as opportunities to grow. So I began to believe.

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Framing my mental health struggles as a personal test from God made the chaos feel purposeful. It was comforting to think there was a Divine presence rooting for me, believing I could make it through. That my pain wasn’t arbitrary. That I wasn’t alone.​ But this shift in belief raised new questions, especially as I began to explore more traditional Jewish practice. I was queer, I didn’t grow up observant, and I wanted to be a rabbi. I didn’t know how to hold this evolving theology - which seemed to demand halachic observance - alongside my full self.

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At a Chabad retreat after college, I told my rebbetzin I wanted to try wrapping tefillin. I thought it might help me feel closer to God. Wrapping is a very physical act, a way to literally bring Torah to your body. I was really excited about it! Instead, I was told that wrapping tefillin wasn’t on my “list” - that God gave women different spiritual assignments than men, like lighting Shabbat candles and having Jewish babies. I left that conversation in tears. I couldn’t understand a God who would limit my access to connection. 

This was my first theological crash. I didn’t yet know that belief in God didn’t have to look one specific way. I thought accepting God meant accepting the entire halachic structure as it had been handed to me from Mount Sinai. I felt stuck between my evolving faith and my sense of justice and identity.

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At the same time, the belief in a caring, purposeful God still grounded me. But others pushed back. What about people who don’t survive their “tests”? If God is good and all-knowing, why allow suffering at all? I didn’t have answers - and eventually, I had my second theological crash.

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Years later, while working on my rabbinic thesis (about God, of course) I encountered Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s interpretation of tzimtzum, the concept that God contracts God’s self to make room for human agency. Heschel suggested that God is not the sole actor in the world, but a partner - one who steps back so that we can step forward. That idea shifted everything for me. I no longer needed a God who orchestrated every detail and tested our strength. I needed a God who trusted us enough to give us space, who empowered us to choose, to act, and to try our best - with God beside us, not above us.

 

This is the God I believe in now.

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This is my theological journey. It has been long, painful, and often isolating. I didn’t have a roadmap. My orthodox friends understood one part of me; my liberal friends understood another. I felt caught in the middle, constantly trying to explain myself in both directions. I often felt lost and alone.

 

That's why I created the Jewish Theology Hub - to offer what I wish I'd had. A space for honest exploration, tough questions, and real conversations. A resource for rabbis, educators, parents, and seekers. Theology is deeply personal, but we don’t have to do it alone.

 

My relationship with God has lifted me up in times of deep pain, and held me in moments of pure joy. Sometimes, it is the reason I get out of bed in the morning. I am grateful for the theological journey I've been on, because it has lead me here.

 

And honestly, thank God.