Standing Here

Part 1: In the Beginning

The first “Jewish” memory I have is lighting the Chanukah menorah and “performing” the blessings for my friends and neighbors. I say “performing” because I did not actually know what I was saying. Growing up, I did not know much about Judaism and I knew nothing about my own opinions of G-d. Despite this, I always thought it was cool to be Jewish, and I knew that it set me apart from the rest of my friends who went to church every Sunday, and decorated their rooms with Bible quotes.

Although I grew up in a secular household, there were elements of Judaism hidden around me, waiting to be welcomed into my life: the mezuzah hanging from the door that my dad would point at when missionaries came around; the yahrtzeit candle my mom lit every year for her father, who she named me for; the occasional Passover Seder and b’nei mitzvah of family friends.

The summer before my freshman year of college, I spent some time on my university’s website, browsing the list of campus clubs and thinking about which ones I’d want to join. The Challah for Hunger club caught my eye. This group met weekly to bake challah, sell it on the campus mall, and donate the money to the local food bank. It sounded like something I’d want to be a part of. However, in the chaos and excitement of dorm room shopping, enrolling in college classes, and sorority rush week (spoiler alert: I did not join one), I quickly forgot about it.

On my second day of college, my (non-Jewish) roommate asked me to go to Hillel with her to get free tacos at their Taco Tuesday event for Welcome Week. While there, I met the president of Challah for Hunger - talk about Divine Intervention - and immediately remembered my desire to join the club. Over the next several months, I came to Hillel weekly to participate in Challah for Hunger and became fast friends with the club’s president. (She’s still one of my best friends over 10 years later!) Over time, I began to hang around the building more often and went to other student programs there. I attended my first Shabbat service and was intimidated because I did not know what was going on; I did not return for Shabbat for many months. 

During the winter of my sophomore year of college, I traveled to Israel on Birthright. As a Political Science major, my plan for this trip was to take the opportunity to learn about the culture, history and politics of Israel. What I found there was much deeper. When my group visited the Kotel - the lone outer wall that still stands from the Jewish Temple - I felt… something. Standing on the cobblestones of Jerusalem, a spark ignited in me that I had not felt before. I wanted to be a part of the people praying at the wall, but the only Hebrew I knew was the Chanukah blessings, so I said them. I felt a little silly seeing as it was not Chanukah, I was not lighting any candles, and I felt like I was “performing” once again. Yet I knew in my heart that G-d would appreciate the effort (and I think this was the first time I even considered God at all). “Is this what it’s like to feel Jewish?”

Months later, I learned about kavanah - the idea that Jewish ritual requires intention - and that the intention of a mitzvah matters more than the act itself. This mantra was especially helpful as I struggled to understand how to “do” Judaism.

Part 2: Doing Judaism

When I returned from Israel, I wanted to “be” Jewish, which meant I had to “do” Judaism. What better place to start than Shabbat? I began attending Shabbat services and dinner every Friday night. During the first several weeks, I was still very intimidated. I generally don’t like being in situations where I don’t know what I’m doing, but I quickly realized that I needed to overcome any embarrassment. I have always enjoyed learning new topics and asking questions at school, so why should my Jewish education be any different? If I wanted the knowledge to live a Jewish life, there was nothing wrong with seeking it out for myself.

Throughout the rest of college, I built my weekly Shabbat practice with my friends. I looked forward to this special time to connect with them. The revolutionary idea of a mandated break at the end of the week truly changed how I saw the world. With the promise of a break on Friday night, I could push through the challenges of the rest of the week.

My Challah for Hunger friend became my partner in all things Judaism. She is a year older than me, and after she graduated we decided to start a virtual Chevruta (study partnership) through Google Docs. I had never read the Torah before, and I wanted to know what was in our foundational text. We started studying the weekly parshah, and when we finished, we just kept reading. (It took eight years but in October 2025, we finished reading the entire TaNaKh!)

As I finished college, I worried that I would lose my Jewish identity after graduating and moving away from the community I had established. However, a friend reminded me that Judaism is about sanctifying time; no matter where I go, no matter who I am with, Shabbat occurs every week. Judaism is about time and I could use my time to continue exploring my Jewish identity. There is no limit to the amount of Jewish learning in the world; I could keep my Jewish identity because there are always new parts of it for me to explore.

Part 3: Unstructured Judaism

For the next two-and-a-half years, I had no local Jewish community at all. I was living with my parents and the closest synagogue – about 20 minutes away by car – catered mainly to families with young children and retirees. I attended classes when I could, and I kept up with my Chevruta, but it wasn’t the same as being integrated into a community. In these circumstances, I struggled with maintaining a relationship with G-d.

However, I still made sure to light Shabbat candles every single week. When I light I feel connected to Jews around the world, and the thousands of Jews from past generations who lit before me. When I close my eyes and make the blessing, I take a brief moment to reflect on my past week and the week I have ahead of me. It’s during these 30 seconds when I feel G-d the most.

Part 4: Standing Before

When I moved to Washington, D.C. in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was determined to put

in the slow but worthwhile work of finding a new community for myself. I eventually joined a synagogue with a substantial young professional population and began attending services weekly. On Saturday mornings, I stared at the words etched above the bimah - דע לפני מי אתה עומד  (dah lifnei mi atah omed) Know before Whom you stand - and I thought to myself, who do I stand before?

The obvious answer is G-d, though I don’t know when that actually became obvious to me. There’s a reason these words are written in a synagogue. I believe in this answer. BUT I also think that G-d’s presence manifests itself on earth in part through the people we love. In the past five years, the friends I’ve made in the Washington Jewish community have supported me through job upheaval and personal loss, welcomed me into holiday and Shabbat celebrations, and offered me a shoulder both to laugh and cry on throughout the years.

Ten years into my Jewish Journey, I’m confident in my knowledge and ability to “do” Judaism. Now, I spend my Sunday mornings teaching religious school to third graders, preparing them to stand before the same G-d that guides me from week to week. Our class covers a range of Jewish values while learning Hebrew and studying parshiot and holidays according to the Jewish calendar year. We spend the most time on the Exodus story - we read the parshiot in January; we cover mezuzot and their link to the final Passover plague in February; and we study Passover in March and April. The climax of this story is when Moses splits the Red Sea. According to the Midrash, the Sea only split because one Israelite, Nachson ben Amindav, was brave enough to walk into the water.

Every year, at least one student asks me if this story is true. I don’t feel like I have the authority to tell eight-year-olds what their religious beliefs should or should not be. Instead, I give them my Truth: It doesn’t actually matter whether these stories are true or not. What matters is that the Jewish people - our people - have been telling these stories for 3,000 years. What lessons can we, as modern Jews in 2026, take from them for our own lives?

I have certainly doubted my Judaism over the years, and when bad things happen, that includes doubting the existence of G-d. As I mentioned at the beginning of this story, I don’t like it when I don’t know what is going on. The existence of G-d is perhaps life’s biggest “unknown.” Yet, I always find myself coming back to Nachshon’s story. When faced with fighting an angry horde of Egyptians (something he knew to be true) or walking into the sea and hoping for Divine Intervention (something completely unknown), Nachshon chose the “unknown” option. Nachshon’s faith guided him and his people to redemption.

What I do know is that Judaism has guided me through some of the happiest and hardest times of my life. I have lived 20 years without emunah and 10 years with it, and the years with faith and trust in an awe-inspiring G-d have been the better ones. I know that I stand before G-d at all times, and I also know that my community, friends, and family (Jews and non-Jews alike) stand with me. This, in itself, is a form of redemption, and I thank G-d for bringing me here every day.

Bridget Ott lives in Washington, D.C., where she works as a project management consultant, specializing in humanitarian immigration and child welfare. She is active in Adas Israel Congregation and teaches third grade at Adas’ religious school. In her free time, Bridget enjoys reading novels, watching live theater and concert performances, spending time outdoors, and, most recently, watercolor painting.