This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
My second career as a self-taught freelance journalist with bylines in many of my dream publications.
In:
The messy middle of yet another professional reinvention.
Entering:
My natural strengths—writing, making people laugh, and cultivating community—and trusting that I’m exactly where I need to be.
In the fall of 2023, I signed up for my first stand-up comedy class. The process was surprisingly efficient: five minutes to fill out the registration form after a mere ten years of thinking, “I should do that someday.”
I thought I was checking off a bucket-list item. I had no idea I was taking the first shaky step toward the next chapter of my life.
I knew how to write profiles, features, and essays, but when it came to comedy, I was clueless. I brought messy drafts of ideas and stories to class and received feedback from the instructor and my classmates. While revising, an hour could easily pass before I’d look up and realize I needed to get back to my actual paying work. After a month, I had seven minutes-worth of jokes that I continued to polish before eventually testing them out at a class showcase.
Then October 7 happened, and overnight, my world turned upside down. Until then, I’d assumed antisemitism was restricted to small towns, conservative circles, and fringe movements. But the reaction from many on the liberal, progressive left, the community where I’d always felt at home, showed me I was wrong. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel as if I belonged in the circles where I had previously felt welcome.
I considered taking down the mezuzah hanging on the frame of our front door. I wondered, more times and in more detail than I’d like to admit, how I’d know if my family’s safety was truly in question, where we would go, and how we would get there if that day came.
Two months after October 7, I performed stand-up comedy for an audience for the first time. Standing onstage, fully present, and listening to strangers laugh at the words I’d written, I experienced a high unlike anything I’d ever felt. The opportunity to use laughter to bring a room together gave my tender, anxious heart the joy and purpose I hadn’t known it needed.
I’d known my career as a freelance health and fitness journalist couldn’t last forever. For years, I’d been addicted to the cycle: land the assignment, meet my deadline, admire my byline, repeat. I loved the reporting process, and found writing gratifying, if sometimes arduous, but I was beginning to realize that writing for my dream outlets — and the accolades that came with it — served my ego more than my soul.
The whispers telling me journalism was only a stepping stone were getting louder. But when I asked them what came next, I was met with stone-cold silence.
I recommitted to my meditation practice. I started waking up early to sit in my cozy green chair with a cup of coffee and my Insight Timer app. Whenever I relaxed into the stillness and asked God or the Universe, or whatever force I communed with on my last mushroom trip, what the hell I was supposed to do with my life, two words kept bubbling up: Something Jewish. What that was, however, remained a total mystery.
Meanwhile, I performed stand-up comedy whenever I had the chance. I took gigs at strip mall bars, local breweries, and retirement communities. I performed in festivals and theaters. I read books on the craft. I wrote alone and with friends. I took more classes. I went to open mics and eventually started my own. I co-produced a comedy show.
While I worked on bringing my full presence to the stage, I was also navigating a new reality where the Jewish part of me wasn’t always welcome. The hate threatened to pull me into despair, but comedy gave me life. It gave me something I desperately needed: healing and a sense of agency. I knew I couldn’t be the only Jewish woman craving a creative space like this.
Then, I received a message from someone I had considered a mentor. The email wasn’t openly hateful or aggressive, but its casual reference to “genocide” told me that if I wanted to be openly Jewish in this community, I would have to compromise my values. So I created my own community. Before I could overthink it, I launched a virtual The Artist’s Way group for Jewish women. We met weekly for three months to discuss Julia Cameron’s book and our experiences. More importantly, we celebrated each other’s creative wins, supported each other through challenges, and formed an intimate community where we felt safe in our Jewishness.
Sometimes I wonder whether writing jokes, running groups, and making people laugh are frivolous in a world that feels so dark. My heart’s response is always a strong, clear no. More than ever, we need joy. We need connection. We need places where we can show up as our full selves.
I know I can’t solve all the world’s problems with art, women’s circles, or laughter. But as it is written in Pirkei Avot, “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.”
The work may never be finished. But I’m grounded in the knowledge that by trading a life that looked successful for one that makes me feel alive, I’m exactly where I need to be.
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