My partner and I recently attended a retreat organized by Footsteps, the organization that supports (mostly) Orthodox Jews leaving religion, especially in the New York area.

The retreat was wonderful, and I am grateful to the organization for creating such an enjoyable experience, with a lot of generosity, abundance, and acceptance, all traits that I was sorely lacking during my upbringing.

I learned to juggle. I taught acro yoga. I played laser tag for the first time in my life. I hosted the largest ever game of Kiruv vs. Orthodoxy, and shepped loads of nachas as people laughed at the cards.

Below are some additional observations, in no particular order.

How lucky I am

I had a fucked up childhood, and yet other people’s lives are so much worse. People at the wrong end of a custody battle, with little access to their children, and no support from their families. Contrast that with my partner leaving religion like I did, our aligned values around raising our kids together, and the partial acceptance my parents have shown.

The more conservative your upbringing, the more fucked up you’ll be

I was fortunate to be raised with fluent English, with secular education being celebrated, to a degree, even if as a means towards an end. You can see the difference in how messed-up Yeshivish/Lithuanian families are compared to the far-worse Hassidic families are. The latter gives you even less education and marks even the English you speak with a distinct accent that sets you apart.

The predominance of Queer and Neurodivergent People

It’s hard to know if this is the cause or the effect, but it was clear that religion becomes a whole lot less tolerable if your sexual preferences are different, or if your brain works differently than others on an intellectual, emotional, or social level. Footsteps also probably disproportionately attracts these types of individuals, because of the extra support and community they feel they need.

The presence of trauma

Trauma is everywhere, right beneath the surface. It’s in the lack of eye-contact and the nervous mannerisms. It’s in the laughter around dark personal stories that aren’t funny. It’s in the rampant sexual abuse that is implied and almost explicit in some people’s journeys. It’s in the costumes many people put on as they prepare to get on a bus back to their closeted Orthodox lives.

How far I’ve come

I was at the last retreat, pre-covid, four years ago. It was interesting to have a milestone to see my progress since then. How much I’ve healed from my traumatic past. How much I’ve moved on from my identity as an ex-religious person. How much my social skills have improved. I saw some people I recognized from four years ago, and not all of them have fared as well. For my growth too, I am grateful.

Never was it more obvious that the more religion equals more pain than at the Footsteps retreat.

Fuck religion. Thank god for Footsteps. They may not be perfect, but their heart is in the right place.

I don’t think I’ll be going on another retreat, because of how far I’ve come. But I’m grateful for the experience and what I learned in this one.

A recent memory came back to me.

At the age of around 14, I remember bursting into tears in front of both my parents. I didn’t understand, I told them, what the point of all the Torah study I was doing that I engaged in for about 12 hours a day. What was the point of it all? It was so obviously irrelevant from anything to do with reality.

I remember my parents being at a loss, both intellectually and emotionally.

My mother told me father to give me a hug. So he did.

They tried to give reasons, it didn’t go very far.

We went for a walk, and bumped into the neighborhood Rabbi, Avigdor Nebentzal. “Let’s ask him,” my mother suggested.

He gave a beaming smile and explained. Something about Torah changing us, or supporting the world, or something like that.

My parents asked if I understood. I said yes.

They asked if I felt better. I said I did.

—

A few things stand out to me in this story, beside my mother delegating affection to my father and him awkwardly complying.

How plagued I was by existential questions from the youngest of ages. How the importance of knowing why I was doing what I was doing stood out as a crucial requirement. (apparently not everyone works this way? Apparently Simon Sinek needed to write a book about it?)

And also, how my parents had no answers. How they sent me to school every day to do something that they couldn’t articulate. That they were placated by answers delivered by random rabbis on random street corners. Until they met them, or had they arbitrarily not done so, things were still just fine.

To me, the artificial application of meaning on top of something that viscerally felt meaningless is metaphorical for much of my experience of around religion. There was a brute-forcing of my own intuition into the squareness of religious practice.

The will of God is so. This is how it’s done. Now figure out how to be happy around it.