In recent years, I got used to thinking of Judaism as something I “switch on” at certain times: in synagogue, on holidays, at Friday night dinners with friends. And then I came to Israel.

When I landed, I decided to put on a kippah. Not because anyone told me to. Not because “that’s what you do.” I just got up and felt like I wanted to. Like something in me said: if there’s a place in the world where I can simply be myself—it’s here.

I went out onto the street and heard Hebrew coming from every direction. And it was the strangest and most beautiful thing: Hebrew that, in my mind, usually belongs to synagogue—to “Baruch Atah,” to “Shema Yisrael,” to a few prayers I learned by heart and by melody—was suddenly out in the street. In the market. On the bus. In people, in kids yelling at each other.

I remember walking for a few minutes and just smiling without noticing. Not because something happened—exactly because nothing happened. No one stopped me, no one looked at me strangely, no one made me feel like I had to explain myself. The kippah didn’t feel like a statement. It felt like comfort.