Five women tackle new pages in their stories

New.

It’s a word that can feel like a breath of fresh air…

or like standing on the edge of a cliff.

A town where no one knows your name.

A life built around the hum of learning.

A kitchen missing your mother’s hands.

A faith that deepens with every step.

A tiny bundle who will call you Bubby.

Five women open the door to their “new.” They speak of arrivals and upheavals, of stretching into spaces they’d never imagined, and of finding themselves again — physically, spiritually, and emotionally.

Because being a newcomer isn’t just about where you arrive.

It’s about who you become

Newcomer to Town:

A Story Without End

Y

ou’re moving where?

I stared at the boxes scattered across our living room floor, each one labeled with our destination — a town far off the radar of my dyed-in-the-wool East Coast friend from seminary.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I said. It sounded crazy to me, too.

I’d always been the out-of-towner. Growing up in a smaller Jewish community, I knew I wanted to skip the hustle and grind and crowded developments where so many of my friends found themselves. Fortunately, my husband felt the same way. Not long after our wedding, we relocated to a midsize Jewish community where, for ten glorious years, I knew what it felt like to belong.

It was a comfortable round of Neshei events, the shul Melaveh Malkah, and young families who lived nearby (but not on top of each other). As an eighth-grade mechaneches, standing in front of my students every morning gave me the depth of purpose I craved.

But when my husband’s parnassah wasn’t working out, it was time to pack our life into boxes again, to head somewhere smaller and more isolated.

It was incredibly painful to say goodbye to the place I thought would be my home until Mashiach came. Random moments found me sobbing over rolls of packing tape — but I was too overwhelmed and stressed to feel the depth of my sadness.

Two months later, as the moving truck disappeared from our new street, leaving us drowning in cardboard chaos, I tried to remember what normal life was.

But before I could even find the coffee maker, our doorbell rang.

“Welcome to town!” A woman about my age stood in the doorway, wearing a smile that seemed too bright for my misery. Within an hour, our kitchen counter was covered with food from neighbors. A welcome package with local phone numbers. Invitations for Shabbos. The warmth was overwhelming and genuine, but I felt like I was watching it through a glassy wall of detachment.