While we hold our secrets close to our hearts, sometimes they slip out. Five stories

Don’t tell anyone you’re a convert. It was a message that was repeated to me many times during the process of, and immediately after, my conversion.

“You look so Jewish,” people said. “There’s no need for anyone to know that you were ever not Jewish.” And, in some cases, they added, “It wouldn’t be good for people to know.”

So that’s what I did for years. I became adept at answering small talk questions in a vague enough way that most people would just (hopefully) assume that I was a baalas teshuvah.

But not only did it feel uncomfortable with misleading people, the pressure to protect my secret came with additional complications. How could I develop real friendships if I was unable to share fundamental parts of my life? And what was I meant to do with my parents when they came to visit?

I didn’t like it, but it was the advice I’d been given, so I followed it.

As I was acclimating to Jewish life, I was also developing my blog. It had initially started as a way to keep in touch with friends and family, but had unexpectedly turned into a platform to write about Jewish topics.

When I’d asked my rav about having a blog, he told me that with my background, I had a unique perspective to be able to share Jewish thoughts with the secular world, and that I had a responsibility to use that opportunity.

One day, I invited my readers to ask me some questions, which I planned to include on my “About Me” page. It was an enjoyable activity, and one I’d done before with pleasant results. Most of the questions were pretty tame: “What’s your middle name?” “Have you always been a writer?” “Are any of your kids musical?”

But then there was this one: “How and when did you convert to Judaism, and why through Orthodox instead of Reform or Conservative?”

I felt sick when I saw that. What was I going to do?