In the Winter edition of the 2025 Solomon Journal, I wrote about my experience as the only Jew at my public school and living far from the country’s most vibrant centers of Jewish life. As I continued my junior year of high school and began to look at colleges, I reflected on my experience living among very few Jews. After much deliberation, I decided to target schools with sizable Jewish communities. In the end, I was accepted to Washington University in St. Louis, or WashU, which is 22-30% Jewish according to various estimates. When I toured the school, there were around 200 people at the campus Chabad’s Shabbat dinner. I was blown away by the Jewish community, and wanted to be a part of it.

While I specifically sought out schools with large and vibrant Jewish communities, I did have some trepidations with this decision. If I attended one of these universities, there would be so many Jews. I have always craved a community with more Jews, but what if this was too much? Growing up, I always took pride in being a big fish in a small pond. Every day, I chose to be Jewish. I chose to take off school to celebrate Rosh Hashanah and to share Shabbat dinner with my friends who are not Jewish. At WashU, I wouldn’t have to choose anything. I would be extraordinarily ordinary. If I told people I was Jewish, they wouldn’t even blink. Instead of being a big fish in a small pond, I would be a small fish in a big pond. 

In a small community, being Jewish can feel like being a spokesperson, whether you want to be or not. From an early age, I was taught that I was special. “I don’t eat pork,” I would tell my Kindergarten teacher on “Green Eggs and Ham” day with my chin raised. My unique religious practices brought attention to me–attention that I admittedly enjoyed. My parents taught me how to verbalize the meaning and nuances of kashrut from the moment I stepped foot outside my house. As early as elementary school, I would explain to my peers why I wouldn’t have a glass of milk with my chicken nuggets or eat a cheeseburger. These actions taught me to be intentional with everything Jewish in my life. Not only did I have to understand Judaism enough to practice it, but I had to understand it enough to explain it to a room of non-Jews who had never met a practicing Jewish person before. 

There’s a strange comfort in being distinct. In a bigger community, I worry I’ll lose that. If I’m not standing out, what does this identity mean to me now? What does it mean to belong to something when belonging is no longer rare? Which parts of identity are truly yours, and which parts existed only because you were standing apart?

In Norfolk, Virginia, you can’t be picky when it comes to synagogues. There is one option for each major denomination—Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox—along with a Chabad. 

Because of this, I have little room for selectivity besides assigning myself a Jewish movement. Rather than confining myself to associating with a small proportion of this already limited number of Jews in the area, I chose to engage with various denominations when useful. On the other hand, when immersed in a larger Jewish community, these options suddenly expand. No longer is there a single Orthodox service; there are multiple options. Do I attend a Modern Orthodox service? If so, what type of mechitza do I want? Should I attend the early minyan or the late one? What kind of dress attire is appropriate for each service, and which do I prefer? These questions are a luxury that I was never granted as a kid.

When I am in a larger Jewish community, I have to ask myself questions I have never asked myself before. This requires me to be comfortable in my own Jewish practices and explore what kind of religious experience I want for myself. 

I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this strain. Every institution has its own conception of Jewish life, and we all move between them at different points in our lives. These may be home, school, camp, or a synagogue, and each one asks something different of us. The question isn’t just where we belong, but how we carry a sense of identity across those spaces without losing it.

Before attending WashU, I have decided to take a gap year in Israel with the Hartman Institute’s Hevruta program. I hope that this year in Israel on a pluralistic program will help me observe many different types of religious practice and allow me to attend college with a more developed picture of how I choose to connect with our ancient faith.

There is a tension within Judaism about inheriting your identity versus choosing it. Rabbi Lord Johnathan Sacks emphasized “l’dor v’dor,” passing down Judaism from generation to generation. Each Jew acts as a letter in the scroll of the Torah, and together we build the Jewish story. But Judaism isn’t just passing down traditions; it has to be actively built.

There’s something both comforting and intimidating about stepping into a space where everyone shares a part of who you are. But identity isn’t something that is supposed to remain stagnant—especially in the early adult years. This is something I am going to have to build for myself. I am never going to have it fully figured out, but I am determined to grow and learn what Judaism looks like to me.