Spiritual Search

“I grew up in Wilton, Connecticut, a WASPy town with a church on every corner. I knew we were Jewish, but it didn’t mean much to me. The girls I met when we’d drive out to our Reform synagogue were into brand names and fashion. I was unimpressed by my Jewish sisters, to say the least.

“Back then, I didn’t know that Saturday was also Shabbos. Every Friday night, my family would light Shabbos candles, and say Kiddush and hamotzi and even shehecheyanu, but without drinking grape juice or eating challah.

“From preschool and on, my mother made me go to Hebrew school, where we learned to read Hebrew. I was taught bland history and Jewish ideas that seemed to have no relevance to me. It was boring, and I’d choose softball practice over Hebrew school any day. There was little or no mention of connection with G-d. The only thing that kept me connected was learning about the Holocaust. Every time I thought of quitting Hebrew school, especially after my bat mitzvah, when most kids opted out, I felt that I couldn’t completely disconnect from my Judaism. It would mean that Hitler won. Looking back, it’s sad to me that guilt was what kept me in.

“My parents were spiritually minded people, and from early on, I yearned for something deeper. I wanted a mentor and I wanted direction. But Judaism didn’t seem to offer that.

“At the beginning of high school, my school ran a career fair which included a sample yoga class. I tried out the class, impromptu, in my jeans. At the end of class, I felt an amazing sense of peace and connectedness I’d never experienced before. I didn’t know that I was allowed to feel this good, that the option existed to feel so at peace.

“I was hooked. I started regular yoga classes. I had this idea that I needed a mentor in life, so I asked my new yoga teacher if she could be my mentor. I’d call her when I had issues with family or friends, and she was wonderful.

“One day, she mentioned in passing, ‘I can’t talk with my husband about yoga — he doesn’t like it.’

“My heart sank. I thought it was awful that she had to hide a big part of her life — essentially who she was — from her husband. I was turned off from her as a mentor. But not from yoga.

“In the summer after my freshman year of college, I decided to train to become a yoga teacher. In a bid for the most authentic experience, I discovered that I could get certification from none other than the masters of yoga, the Hindus themselves, through a residential summer program in an ashram in the Catskills.

“A group of us, people from Germany to Argentina, signed up for the 200-hour teacher training course. It was like a Hindu-style ‘seminary’ with full-time immersive learning and living for a month. The swamis — monks who practiced asceticism and were completely removed from this world — were the spiritual leaders on the course.

“Many people lived in the ashram. Everyone had a job, from cutting vegetables to cleaning toilets. It was basically like a commune, where everyone contributed to earn their keep.

“Our group was there to learn from them all. We’d wake up at five a.m. to sit on the wooden floor and meditate. We had classes on Hindu philosophy, learned teaching methods, and practiced yoga for hours. But by the end of the month, I didn’t feel enlightenment as much as I did pain in my back.

“It had been my first real exposure to spirituality, but I didn’t know what to make of it. I’d gotten to know some of the swamis, and up close, some of them just seemed trapped. One in particular had a deep sadness about himself. Another would play Beatles songs on his guitar with heart and passion, and it didn’t seem right that he’d never have a family of his own.

“I’d learned a lot, but I left with the sense that this wasn’t for me. I didn’t know that my journey to finding myself was only just beginning.”

To Haiti

“I’d signed up to do community service for the second part of the summer, working with Haitian refugees in the Dominican Republic. Haiti, one of the poorest countries, is on the same island as the Dominican Republic. The Haitians come in search of a better life, but they are separated from the brown-skinned locals by their almost-black skin, and are second-class citizens, experiencing unbelievable poverty there.

“I was greeted there by a family of Christian missionaries. Unbeknown to me, I had signed up to work on a Christian Mission. Oops. But I didn’t let it stop me from jumping right in. The Mission did incredible work. They took women off the street and taught them trades like soap-making and basket-weaving so that they could make a living wage for their families.

“These were atypical, hippy Christians who wore beautiful colors and flowing clothing, with shells strung in their hair. They’d bought a tract of land on which volunteers were meant to put up cement-block houses for the Haitians — the homes they lived in otherwise were made out of tin cans connected with zip-ties. There was a church, of course, that all were invited, but not forced, to attend. I did a bit of bricklaying, but found that my other talents were more useful. I wound up teaching English to the Haitian kids and yoga to the other volunteers. It was the first deeply meaningful thing I had done for others, and when the people in my group left to explore the island, I decided to stay.

“I wanted to spend more time with the Haitians. They were so impoverished, but they seemed to have a level of emotional health, joy, and resilience that eluded people I knew in America. When the rest of the volunteers left, I moved into the Mission House. I was right in the middle of a dozen Christian missionaries who were doing their best to convert as many Haitians as possible. And I, a sweet, idealistic and deeply clueless Jewish girl, moved right into the hornet’s nest. They hadn’t been overbearingly proselytizing before, but once I stayed longer, they started asking questions.

“ ‘I’m Jewish,’ I said, ‘but at this point, I’m basically Hindu.’

“ ‘Well, what do you believe about the afterlife, for example?’ they asked. In my head, I had Hinduism’s answers, fresh from the ashram. But it was embarrassing that those were the only answers I had, and it made me think. Were they really my answers? What did my religion say? After over a decade of Hebrew school, I had no idea.

“Those hippy Christians literally shamed me into learning about Judaism!”

And Then to Jerusalem

“But I barely knew any Jews. I changed my discipline at university to Jewish Studies. I decided that I’d become a rabbi, because back in the Reform synagogue in Connecticut, it seemed like only the rabbi really had a spiritual life.

“That summer, I got an internship at the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute, a Jewish feminist think tank at Brandeis University with other Jewish girls who knew a lot more about Judaism than I did. One of the Jewish professors on campus invited our group for Shabbos, where I experienced my very first observant Shabbos.

“I was interested, but when I returned to school, I realized that I was the only Jewish student in my Jewish Studies course! I needed to find and connect with other Jews. I joined Chabad’s Shabbos club, trying to keep Shabbos when I could. And after my senior year, to Israel I went.

“I first joined a Birthright trip, touring the country up and down and having my eyes opened, but I got lost in the fun and exoticism. It was time to get to know the country myself.

My mom called the one religious person we knew, who sent me to the Liffs in Jerusalem. Rabbi Liff was the rosh yeshivah of Ner Jake, and the rebbetzin taught at Shearim, a baal teshuvah seminary. Few people called their house just to shoot the breeze; I heard them dealing with huge matters, from marriages to divorces to depression.

“The rebbetzin has a place for everyone in her heart. Hashem is real to her. She was always talking about Him with people who needed chizuk and saw Him in every step of her own life. I watched her pray, alone in her dining room. I’d seen Hindus and Christians pray, but as I watched her heartfelt davening, I knew that that was what I wanted.

“It wasn’t easy or simple. But step by step, I was choosing to take on more.”

Bashert

“I got to know a rabbi from a BT yeshivah (Machon Yaakov), and when I was ready to start dating, I asked him if he had any ideas for me.

“ ‘Matt Needleman,’ he said, ‘but he’s not dating yet.’

“That Shabbos, I was at the rabbi’s house when Matt walked in. The only available seat at the table was near me. Matt sat down awkwardly and turned his chair fully away from me, facing the rabbi.

“When I asked him to pass me things — a water, food platters, chocolate — he did so without looking at me or even turning toward me. I was mortified that this rabbi I trusted thought that this was the guy for me. I left the meal thinking, I don’t know who my husband is, but it’s DEFINITELY not Matt Needleman.

“Famous last words.

“A couple months later, Rebbetzin Liff suddenly became the shadchan for arranging shidduchim between Shearim and Machon Yaakov. She called me one day. ‘I met someone from Machon Yaakov whom I think is so suitable….’

“I was excited — she knew me better than any shadchan could. Until I asked his name: Matt Needleman. ‘Ugh. No.’

“I dated some other people. Nothing panned out. I was burned out and took a break.

My best friend got engaged. I met her and her chassan and after talking to them for a few minutes, out of the blue, her chassan said to me, ‘I’ve never thought of a shidduch for anyone, but there’s this guy in my yeshivah… I think you would be perfect for each other.’

“ ‘Really?’ I asked, pumped.

“ ‘His name is Matt Needleman.’

“ ‘I’ve met him. He’s weird and awkward.’

“ ‘What? Maybe you met him, but you didn’t get to know him. He has an amazing sense of humor.’

“At my doubtful look, he proceeded to tell me a story about how funny he was. It was a story so good, it convinced me to give Matt a chance.

“Meeting him was a complete flip from that bumbling boy at the Shabbos table. As soon as we met, he thanked me for giving it a chance and apologized for his utter awkwardness with me at his rabbi’s house. We laughed about it, then talked and connected.

We were clearly meant for each other, and we got married in Jerusalem and spent shanah rishonah in Har Nof just a street away from the Liffs. After a year, we moved back to the States for business and family. Our family grew in the States, and when Matt got a job offer in Atlanta, we landed there.

“My parents moved to Atlanta shortly after we did. My father had symptoms of dementia, which we learned later wasn’t actually dementia, but a result of kidney failure, and he needed an assisted living facility. As his decline sped up, I quit my job to help my mom care for him.

“The next months were a whirlwind, yet also painfully slow. My father passed away during my fourth pregnancy. I gave birth to my son shortly thereafter and stayed at home with him. It was then that Covid began and I had my encounter with the girls in the local high school and began working with them.”

Rewrite

“Working with teens led me to their mothers. The girls and I were learning emotional adeptness together, and it became clear that they were acquiring skills their mothers sometimes didn’t have. What if I could help the mothers become the people their daughters needed them to be? The people they needed themselves to be. The moms were more aware of the need for this work and more open to it. Teens don’t always want to do the inner work, but moms know the fallout that comes with not doing it, and they so badly wanted to have the tools to better their lives.

“While as a society, we’re good at ‘adulting,’ it’s often more about adult actions — doing the dishes, getting our cars’ oil changed — than a state of being. In their hearts, at their core, many people don’t see themselves as adults. So many of us grow up and have all these responsibilities, but still feel like we’re playing house, looking over our shoulder for the real adult to show up. This is especially true in our emotional lives, where many of us either resist, react to, or distract ourselves from our emotions, becoming people who are easily triggered and overwhelmed. Relationships suffer. I work a lot with young mothers who are overwhelmed and feel disconnected from their husbands.

“We all tell ourselves a story about our life and we search for every piece of evidence that will prove it to be true. If you’re googling for pictures of Alaska, you won’t get pictures of Hawaii. But that doesn’t mean Google doesn’t have pictures of Hawaii. You’re just not looking for them. Your brain works the same way. Look for good and you will find it. Look for bad and you will find it. It’s not about whether it’s good or bad, it’s about what you choose to look for.

“One of my clients felt that her husband didn’t want her business to do well. We brought it back to how she saw him and the story she told about him. To look at him differently was to tentatively start a new story. She started nitpicking less and becoming less controlling, and in time, he began encouraging her in her business, saying things she’d waited years for him to say.

“Another woman I worked with, desperate to have another child, was undergoing fertility treatments that unfortunately weren’t successful. When we started together, she was drowning in pain whenever she was exposed to triggers, like a shul baby announcement or seeing a baby in a stroller. But by reframing, by questioning the automatic bitterness, by looking back at herself at the full context — the children she does have, the love and fullness of her life — she was able to come to a place where she could accept and feel her feelings when they arose, but not sink into them and suffer.

“I worked with a middle-aged woman dealing with a lot of overwhelming emotions. When I taught her how to process them and question her thoughts, she was overcome. She said, ‘My whole life, I’ve been afraid of my mind and all of the things it tells me. I realize I don’t need to be afraid anymore.’

“I don’t deal with what I call Capital-T trauma. In those cases, I will refer out or work in tandem with a therapist. I work with little-t trauma. That’s the stuff of life that stays with us and messes with our heads. I work a lot with people who feel that life is just too much or that they have all the things they thought they wanted but they’re still unhappy.

“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change. I see this with my own story. Every time I tell it, I get to relive it and recognize the Hashgachah that got me to where I am today, and I feel loved and purposeful in my Yiddishkeit and my mission to help other women.

“But it’s also because I choose to focus on this story. There are other things in my life. My father and father-in-law are no longer with us. My mother has stage 4 ovarian cancer (baruch Hashem, she’s doing okay). I have no siblings or extended-family support networks like most frum people do.

“I could write another story about my life that would be about how hard it is. But I choose to tell this story, where I feel loved by Hashem and grateful for my husband and kids and coaching work and life. And from here I can go on, creating, manifesting, and ‘writing’ more beautiful stories.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 949)