That desire took me to law school. I studied intensely, driven to effect change from the very top and promote legislation that would reach those scarred people on the debris-filled streets. Through sheer determination, I rose through the academic world, mastering law, and honing expertise in advanced research methods and fundamental rights.

Before long, I had an opportunity to assume the role of lawyer at Colombia’s Constitutional Court — the nation’s highest court, akin to the US Supreme Court. I worked directly with one of the nine senior justices who decide major constitutional cases, helping her analyze cases, advising on complex legal questions, and drafting decisions that would shape the nation. These senior justices had more constitutional power than even the president, and I was actively involved in the process.

The cases that came before us carried enormous weight and involved hundreds of millions of dollars: human rights, immigration, drugs. One unforgettable case was about euthanasia — an elderly man had asked his doctor to help him die, not because of unbearable physical illness but due to his loneliness and depression.

We were wading through legalese, trying to come up with a suitable framework for the case. Our decision would not only determine his fate, it would also set a precedent that could shape every future case like it.

Looking at his file, I reread his name and suddenly it morphed from just a name to a real person.

“Why don’t we find out who he is, where he lives, and go talk to him,” I said to the others on the legal team. He lived a couple of hours outside of the capital, but we made the trip. We explained who we were, and he invited us in.

“Tell us a bit about yourself,” I prompted, and he responded by telling us about his life, his youth, his memories, never once mentioning wanting to die. Sitting in his small home, listening to him, what struck me was his longing for companionship — not a desperation for death.

That encounter fostered a new process: Requests for euthanasia required a personal visit, humanizing the law and allowing each case to be considered on its own terms. What might seem obvious in a more developed country was a first in Colombia.

Another case involved over 250,000 Venezuelan children born in Colombia, who had no basic rights because their parents were illegal immigrants with no documentation. Their unofficial status left them with no access to healthcare or education. Despite political resistance, we leveraged international law to secure basic rights for these children.

For three years I dedicated myself to this work, yet somehow the deep craving for justice that had haunted my childhood remained unsatisfied. For years, I’d wondered. Why? How could such evil exist? What is the path to true justice? And even now, I couldn’t ignore the flaws riddling my own world — greed, the rat-race lifestyle, the lure of fame and fortune. My legal successes, while initially dazzling, were losing their luster.

Yes, there were heartfelt moments, like with that man who’d wanted to be euthanized, but it felt like a drop in the bucket. And worse than that, I felt that good and evil weren’t that clearly defined. Jealousy, underhandedness, and a silent corruption tainted the high society I was part of, in its own way. I felt a hollowness I couldn’t shake.

Around that time, I was enjoined to study social development in other countries and bring my findings back to Bogotá. My studies led me to Israel, of all places. I studied at the Weitz Center for Sustainable Development in Rechovot, where I learned about bringing sustainability to places with fewer economic resources, and also at the Israel Agency for International Development Cooperation in Jerusalem, the Israeli government’s official body for international development and humanitarian assistance.

It was in Jerusalem, out on the streets on Shabbat, that I got to know the people and spirit of Israel. Come nightfall, people strolled outside, dressed in pretty whites and florals, heading to the synagogues and to the Wall. I was invited for Friday night dinner at the home of religious Jews, no questions asked. They knew I was there to study social development and welcomed me in with kindness and warmth. I spent the evening with them, watching their rituals, making Kiddush, washing hands for bread. Seeing how people live inside their homes… that’s the real way to learn, I thought to myself. But it quickly became more than a study. I watched them, Shabbat after Shabbat, and something about their world was quietly drawing me in.

It wasn’t just the rituals or the practices — it was the careful attention these Jews gave to them, the sense that their lives were oriented toward a higher purpose. There was a solidity they had that my own world — brimming with ambition, wealth, and status — just didn’t have. There was faith and trust in something greater than themselves; there was integrity, kindness, and meaning. I felt it speak to the empty places inside me.

I went back to Colombia, raring to bring what I’d learned in Israel to the justice system, but I increasingly found myself remembering those long, joyful meals and the sense of togetherness in Jerusalem. A quiet, persistent thought took hold in me: Ludicrous as it might seem, Judaism felt like a place where this Bogotan lawyer might find her peace.

More and more, I was looking for that peace. It wasn’t just the dark underside of the legal world; my personal life had become tumultuous. I’d married the person I’d been dating for a while, sure we could build a future together, and soon we were expecting a baby. But in short order our differences came between us, and we divorced even before the baby was born.

When my son came along, I gave him a Biblical name, Benjamin. Alone in a restless, uncertain world, little Benji fueled me with love and motivation to keep going.

I began searching online for Jewish talks, lectures, and books, listening and reading voraciously. I was especially fascinated by halachah, Jewish law. Here was a system as rigorous as any court’s, yet untouched by politics or personal ambition. It was grounded in Divine authority, and at the same time, it was deeply human. Even the most abstract halachic disputes are anchored in real-life situations. And the Talmud didn’t just lay down the law; it shared the discussion leading to the law. The disagreements had been preserved for all time, with every dissenting voice honored, because the dispute itself was holy.

What began as fascination became respect, and then went deeper than that, pointing me toward something that felt like a balm. Halachah is woven into the fabric of a life. For someone like me, disillusioned with fragmented justice, this wholeness felt like what I needed to feel grounded and heal.

When I finally confided in some family and friends, some of them asked, “If this is so important to you, why don’t you become Jewish?”

Their words echoed inside me, giving voice to my own questions.

I couldn’t take it on, I told myself. I was still working for the constitutional court and caring for my young son. There’s so much to it. And I have enough going on.

But if you won’t, can you be at peace?

Eventually, I approached the chief rabbi of Bogotá and told him my story.

“You have an amazing life, an important position. Don’t do this, it’s very hard,” was his blunt response.

The second time I came to him, he was even sharper, “Don’t come to me again. It’s not for you. Just stop.”

But the pull was too deep. I returned again. “I don’t have another way,” I told him. “In order to be fully myself, I need to become Jewish.”

He paused. “It’s not only my decision. Let me put it to the other rabbis and we’ll see.”

I finally took the breath I’d been holding in all this time.

Three months later, the rabbi okayed the beginning of my process, and I started studying for conversion. A woman from the Jewish community taught me the laws, and I began implementing them, making practical changes like changing over my kitchen and keeping kosher. Six months in, I was ready to join the community in the synagogue to participate in prayers and Shabbat services. I’d check into a hotel near the synagogue so I could walk there on Shabbat. Much of my salary went toward hotel stays, kosher food, Jewish books and items.

Families from the community welcomed me in, especially the older members, but it was still a lonely journey. While Bogotá’s Jewish community numbered around two thousand, only a fraction were truly observant. So there I was, a young woman without a social circle, living a double life. By day, I held down a high-profile legal job and cared for my young son; by night and on Shabbat, I threw myself into my studies, reshaping my life around a faith that few around me could understand. These circles of my life didn’t touch, and there was no one who could really relate to me.

I’d sit at my table late at night, exhausted, wondering if I could really do this. I’d hear the soft rise and fall of Benji’s breathing in sleep, and it would jolt me — whatever would happen, I had a little companion on this journey. I knew I couldn’t turn back. I knew, from deep within my soul, that this was the right path. I couldn’t unsee, couldn’t unknow, couldn’t be the same person I’d been before. I kept going, by nothing more — and nothing less — than faith.

I gradually began understanding that there’s Divine Providence orchestrating our lives. There were times I was frustrated and overwhelmed with how much I had to learn, how ill-equipped I was, how this wasn’t the right community. But it was Hashem who had put me in this setting. I wasn’t meant to disregard the path I’d come on; the path itself was also the destination. My whole life until now had been leading me here. My proclivities, my legal background, and everything I’d witnessed — that deep knowledge of evil and injustice etched into my soul — all of it was part of the design.

After a year of preparation, it was time. Since there was no Orthodox beis din in Colombia, I traveled to Miami for the conversion. It was the most emotional day of my life — becoming one of Hashem’s children.

At the session, the rabbis asked me hard questions:

“Are you ready to never marry again? To raise your son alone?”

My son, now four years old, was right there with me.

“Yes, yes,” I said. Whatever the cost, I knew this was my truth.

It was the end of my life as I knew it, but it was also the beginning.

I chose my name, Chaya. A new life was starting. I was in Hashem’s embrace.

I spent the following Shabbat alone in a kosher hotel. Families were singing zemiros, and I felt the emptiness of my own table. I may have been a high-powered lawyer, but I had nothing. Humbled in front of Hashem, I prayed: Hashem, thank You for bringing me into Your nation. I want more. I want it all — a Jewish family, to belong, what these people here have. And, please G-d, in a way that would work for me, with someone who’s close to my culture, whom I could relate to, who will understand….

Chaim

Iwas a teen at a sports game in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, watching the players while gripping my seat. Would my team make it?

Someone scored and cheers rose from the stands. Then came the jeers. “Boo, boo, boo.”

The crowd was tens of thousands strong, and the jeering grew aggressive, as it often did. Somehow, a barrier in the stands gave way, and people started falling. Others were pushing, trampling, scrambling to get out. Sirens wailed. Those who had fallen first met their deaths right there under the weight and crush. And while emergency personnel airlifted the victims away, down below on the green field, the teams went on playing.

I left that game, my ears ringing, still hearing the stampede, the roar of the helicopter. Is this where it’s at? Sports are more important than life itself?

In a moment of sudden disgust — and clarity — I made a decision. I was Jewish, and had grown up with pride in my heritage, but little in the way of observance aside for the two chagim of Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. I knew there had to be more to Judaism — we had photographs in the house of my great-grandparents who had been chassidim with long beards and old-fashioned garb — and right then I wanted to hold on to it.

I’m not going to eat nonkosher meat from now on, I resolved. It was a practical thing that helped me to ground myself after that wild game. Like any teen, I was into sports and followed it avidly, but today, it had failed me. It was time to align with what I knew deep down was real and sacred and solid.

Not long after, I was hired as a special extra actor for a large Brazilian TV show. A few days into the film shooting, they did something they’d never done before.

“Treats for everyone on the set,” the assistant director said, and out came platters of meat and other delicacies.

I froze. I’d marked a line in the sand with my decision before G-d. This is a test from Him.

I kept my word; I didn’t join that party, and that quiet decision led to others, until at 19, I found my way from Rio to Ohr Somayach in Jerusalem.

My eyes were opened; I learned hungrily, and got in touch with a part of my identity I’d always been proud of. It wasn’t easy. I was far from home, making drastic lifestyle changes, questioning and recalibrating and fighting for each step of the climb toward leading a frum life. For six years, I studied in yeshivos in Jerusalem, learning Torah and discovering myself through its lens.

I knew, on a deep level, that I was choosing this path because it was true, not because I had any expectations about it being easy. I would do this, no strings attached (except for the tefillin, of course). That visceral knowledge would serve me well.

Eventually, I returned to Brazil, and life started to move quickly. I married and had five children, I opened a business, and moved to the States for better opportunities in terms of business, education, and community. But all the while, inside the walls of the marriage, it was difficult. I told myself to endure, for the children, for the image of stability, but slowly, the foundation cracked, and in the end, despite years of holding on, the marriage dissolved.

After the divorce, I was in a difficult place. I stayed local for my children’s sake, trying to be strong for them, to show up at their schools and games, to be their father and hold life together for them.

Well-meaning friends tried to set me up. “Chaim, you should meet someone and start again.”

I waved them off. “No shidduchim. I don’t know if I can ever do this again.”

I meant it. For a long time, I had no energy to even think about another relationship.

Iwas living in Washington, D.C. and part of the Israeli Chabad in Rockville, Maryland. I learned at the kollel there, and got to know the rabbi well.

“Chaim,” he said to me one day, “I think there’s someone you should meet. A woman from Bogotá, Colombia. I know her rabbi, he’s a relative of mine.”

Much as I trusted him, I shook my head. “Rabbi, please. I told you. I’m not interested.”

And then that rabbi came to Washington on a visit and the pieces came together. After speaking with him and my own rabbi, I agreed to at least give this a try.

Her name was Chaya, and we first got in touch by phone.

“I changed it from Fernanda,” she told me.

“And I used to be Fernando before I was observant, and now I’m Chaim,” was my own incredulous response.

We spoke several times and there was more than a spark of connection. Ultimately, I flew out to meet her.

Our relationship was taking off. And as we got to know one another, we kept stumbling onto more similarities, like that fact that our birthdays are the 16th and 17th of August, respectively.

“One day apart, huh, Fernanda,” I said, “Coincidence much?”

“So what?” she countered, like the lawyer she was.

The parallels were wild, but this had to be real, about the relationship itself. Over time we realized it was that, too.

Before I proposed to Chaya, we went to ask her parents for her hand. Chaya also wanted me to meet the president of the Constitutional Court of Colombia — the senior justice whom Chaya had worked with for years — and ask for her agreement to let Chaya leave and also her blessing.

The justice looked at me gravely and said, “How can you take our diamond away?”

“Can we speak law?” I asked her, “Torah law.”

She nodded.

“The Talmud discusses a situation where one man throws a vase from a high window, and another from a lower window gives it a push as it falls, and it smashes to the ground. Who, therefore, is guilty?”

“The first person,” I said, answering my own question, “because the definition of the item was that it was already broken by being initially thrown.”

“Okay,” she said, and I continued.

“What about if it’s not an item but a baby? If a baby gets thrown from a window and a second person pushes him to make him fall faster, then that second person is also guilty, because that baby would’ve had another five seconds to live.”

Her eyes widened.

“That’s the Talmud, that’s the Torah value for life,” I said.

We ended up having a longer discussion about Jewish ethics and justice. This Catholic court president had deep respect for the Torah approach and was moved by our conversation, giving us her blessings. In fact, she remembered this exchange years later when she was dealing with a case that involved termination of life, and asked us to consult Rav David Michaan, a talmid chacham and dayan in Bogotá, taking his counsel on the issue.

With good wishes on all sides, Chaya and I celebrated our wedding.

Marriage wasn’t suffering, I discovered; it could be healing and beautiful and harmonious. When we had our first little argument, I said to her, “Chaya, there are thirty-five places in the Torah where it talks about honoring a ger and not causing them pain. I’m not arguing with you, please let’s do it your way!” To this day I sometimes invoke those d’Oraisas to ask her to allow me to act kindly toward her.

We moved to Brazil for my business, along with Chaya’s son Benjamin, a charming, beautiful Jewish child. We settled in Rio, into an expansive home on Copacabana Beach. It was a dream time. I’d found joy and a new start. We had an open home with a table full of people every Shabbat. I was learning Torah and giving shiurim. It felt like Hashem had given us everything.

And soon enough there was good news; we were going to have a child together.

Chaya

When our baby girl was born, everything changed. She was beautiful, pink-cheeked, ours. She also had Down syndrome.

It was the eve of Rosh Hashanah and we named her Devorah. Like a honeybee, she was sweetness itself, yet having a child with special needs stung hard. We were consumed with her care, amid worry, uncertainty, and helplessness. Could we handle this strain on our brand-new life together?

We’d tied a knot, strong and beautiful as it was, from frayed threads, each of us carrying our pieces from before. Chaim was still bearing the weight of his children from his earlier marriage. I was post-birth and vulnerable, in a new place, far from family and everything I’d known.

What had been a halcyon bubble — the euphoria of finding one another, becoming a Jewish family after both of our long, hard journeys — was threatening to burst.

I was also just coming off the high of my conversion — realizing that as much as Judaism gives solidity, there’s what to work on among our own, too. Chaim already knew this experientially. But with our daughter’s birth, hardship became personal to the tender space between us.

It took time to get to ourselves. And yet, little by little, we were finding our feet as Deborah’s parents. When she smiled her first smile, our hearts melted — and we smiled back, blinking tears. We loved her fiercely. Despite her needs, she brought a lot of joy into our lives; we were learning to celebrate the tiniest wins.

When Deborah was almost one year old, she became very sick with Covid and bronchitis.

In the hospital, she was fitted with an oxygen mask, but for some reason, her body wasn’t taking in the oxygen. She was drooping before our eyes, her skin gray-tinged, her little body heaving. We sat at her side, praying desperately, suddenly potently aware of how much this little girl had changed our lives, how she was ours and we wanted her and we were going to fight for her.

“I’m not sure what we can do if her oxygen saturation doesn’t improve. It’s a red flag for something much more serious,” the doctor said. “But she may not survive long enough to figure out—”

—we couldn’t go there.

We looked at Deborah and resumed our davening. Then, in a desperate plea that came from heart, not reason, Chaim turned to me and said, “Chaya, what if? If….”

“What?”

“Can I promise Hashem that we’ll make aliyah if…?”

I nodded, trembling.

His prayer burst forth: “Hashem, if she lives, we promise You we will move to Eretz Yisrael and live there as strong Jews.”

Aliyah had not even been a specter in our minds before, but his prayer was instinctive, from a place beyond rationale — and it was also answered.

In the next two days, Deborah’s little body began to respond to the lifegiving oxygen. The glorious sounds of her first shallow breaths filled the room; her tiny fingers fluttered with life. She came back to us in front of our eyes. Forty-five hours after that tefillah, Deborah’s vitals were so strong that she was discharged from the hospital.

We came home with our precious bundle, healthy and well, and got busy. There was a promise to be kept. Within three months, we were on a plane to Israel.

Lech lecha means, ‘Go, for you.’ We thought we were going for Hashem and we were, but it was also for you, for ourselves. For our Deborah.

We’d heard from friends about Shalva, the premier organization for children with special needs in Israel, but we could never have imagined its scale or the comprehensiveness of support offered to both child and family. Shalva is based out of a 12-story building in Bayit Vegan, Jerusalem, reminiscent of a luxury hotel, offering every form of therapy a special-needs child could benefit from — music rooms, swimming pools, soft play areas, and classrooms for learning. There were group therapy sessions for families, and even hydrotherapy for mothers and children, to help reawaken natural love and joy in a setting evocative of the womb. This place offered a standard of support we couldn’t have imagined.

Shalva’s founders, Kalman and Malki Samuels, understood the full context — how a child’s needs can impact the family, leaving parents broken and affecting siblings. Their son, Yossi, was just a small child when he became blind, deaf, and unable to speak, and during those difficult and isolating years, his mother promised that if Yossi’s world of darkness and silence would ever be penetrated, she’d dedicate her life to helping other children with disabilities and their families. A remarkable teacher of Yossi’s eventually facilitated a breakthrough that allowed him to communicate, and today he leads a remarkable, fulfilling life.

Shalva became the fulfilment of Malki’s vow. And that’s how we, with our pledge to G-d, were touched by another mother’s promise to Him.

We were firsthand witnesses to Shalva’s incredible work and kindness and were eagerly sharing with family and friends about it when we realized we could spread the word further. My connection to law and politics gave us a bridge to a world that wouldn’t otherwise know this side of Israel.

We began inviting diplomats and politicians from Latin America — the former president of Colombia, Ivan Duque; ambassadors from Brazil, El Salvador, Argentina, and others — to learn about high-quality special-needs care in another country through Shalva, and in the process, see Israel not through heinous headlines but through its humanity and compassionate model of care. We hosted ambassadors, governors, mayors, journalists, showing them the Shalva organization and opening Israel to them in a way that touched their hearts. Some left determined to model similar centers in their own countries — we’re now helping to set up centers like this in Brazil and Sri Lanka. All carried the message further, countering negative press and misinformation.

Misrad Hachutz, the Foreign Ministry, appointed us social ambassadors to Israel, giving us a free pass to invite more influential people and dignitaries. This became our calling, doing our part for hasbarah, Israel’s PR, spreading the good word specifically about special-needs treatment in Israel, which betters Israel’s name in general and shows the world who we truly are.

On recent visits we’ve hosted, we also showed a different narrative of October 7, providing an inside view by taking guests to the Nova Festival site and to state-of-the-art Israeli hospitals, where Arabs and Israelis receive care side by side. Since they see Chaim and me as culturally similar to them, speaking their language in more ways than one, they’re able to connect and trust us — and it’s a powerful opportunity for them to experience Israel from our perspective.

These days, Misrad Hachutz is sending us visitors from beyond Latin America: political figures, journalists, clergy people, from the world over, helping reach a huge audience. We were involved with the state visit this past June of Argentinean President Javier Milei, who met Bibi at the Kotel, prayed there, and received an ancient seal as a gift.

I suppose my face has become somewhat familiar in Israel — I host the only Spanish-language religious program on Israeli TV, interviewing people about their religious journeys for Hidabroot. Recently, Nefesh B’Nefesh asked me to appear in their ads as one of the “faces of the Aliyah” movement. My own aliyah story — going from a position of high authority in Colombia to building a new life in Israel, which also opened doors for our daughter Deborah — seemed to capture public interest. And now, to my (mild) consternation, there I am, smiling in the ads at the airport and the Azrieli malls!

I also give talks around Israel about my journey as a giyores. At some point when we first arrived in Israel, a certain rebbetzin said to me, “You look so Jewish, like you’ve always been a part. You know, you don’t necessarily have to tell people that you’re a giyores.”

That stopped me in my tracks — and I made the decision that I wouldn’t let my background ever be a source of shame. My status bespeaks years of inner struggle and strength, undergoing the giyur process, first in Miami and then later at Rav Nissim Karelitz’s beis din in Bnei Brak. I know my journey could give chizuk to others and resolved that not only wouldn’t I keep quiet; I’d talk from the podium about it.

I also speak as the mom of a daughter with special needs, sometimes joined by Chaim, to audiences of parents and family members of children with special needs or disabilities.

After Deborah was born, we sought guidance from Rav David Chai Abuchatzeira of Nahariyah, who said to Chaim gently, “I have a sister like that. It’s a tikkun for the whole family.” He acknowledged the difficulty and the work of having a child with special needs without glossing it over, and that sincere validation gave us strength. That’s what we give to people. It’s not about telling them how special they are, or how they’re chosen by Hashem because they’re a tzaddik/tzadeikes. That just elicits a bitter response. So, do you want to be so special? Do you want to be a tzaddik like that?

Instead, we acknowledge that it’s normal to feel grief or even like rejecting the child at first. Because the only way to begin to accept the challenge is by acknowledging the loss of dreams, the pain and the difficulty.

I tell my own story about Deborah, real and unvarnished, and only then talk about how I’ve been able to keep moving forward on the track where Hashem put us.

After a recent talk in Bnei Brak, a couple approached Chaim and me.

“We have newborn twins, a few weeks old, born with multiple needs. We thought we couldn’t do it… we were planning to give them away.”

Long pause. “But now, hearing you, how hard it was but also how you got through to the other side, maybe we will keep our children in the family.”

We stood there, both couples in tears.

It’s stories like that that make Chaim and I stop and reflect on what we’ve been privileged to be able to do since we came to Israel. It’s really all because of Deborah. She brought so much blessing into our lives, with her antics and giggles, and also by giving us an entryway to make a difference for Israel’s image, starting by showing the work for special needs children here.

Chaim says to me, “Chaya, you’re used to rubbing shoulders with influential people, working for the state, but for me, it’s all new. And you know, that sort of kavod could go to my head, but what grounds me in all this comes back to Deborah.”

And he’s right. Having a daughter with special needs in our lives just puts us in my place. It reminds us how little control we have, calls us to find patience and empathy again and again. It humbles us before G-d.

In many ways it feels like my life has come full circle. As a child in a volatile place, I craved justice and pursued it in courts and legislation. Now, in a different land and context, I’m still involved in justice, by helping to lift families’ suffering and showing Israel’s true colors to the world. Advocacy work, Shalva, helping others — it all has the same essence: justice. And this is the mission that carries us forward.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1092)