A Crack in my Bubble

Shabbat Shalom - 6.13.25

I’ve been living in my little bubble of Jewish joy. Sending out boxes. Hosting Jewish authors in our Jewish Joy Book Club. Getting ready for a very big announcement on July 1st. Most of my time these days is spent writing emails and sitting in meetings, because I’m fighting so damn hard for my people, my tribe.

And then, a crack in my pretty pink bubble.

I glance out the window from my home office and see it. A Palestinian flag, hanging from the tree in my neighbor’s front yard, has just appeared. It’s a ballsy choice, considering that just two weeks ago, Jews were murdered in cold blood in Washington DC—set on fire with Molotov cocktails—while the assailant screamed, “Free Palestine.”

It’s a ballsy choice, considering this is Northern Virginia, where you can’t go two feet without bumping into someone with a security clearance.

I try to talk myself down. This is America, after all. I believe in freedom of speech and expression. I believe in having the conversation. So, I tell myself that maybe the flag is innocent. Maybe the person who lives in that house just wants to show support for the innocent people of Gaza.

Still, I would have felt better if it were hung next to an American flag.

I could write an entire book about those cracks. About how language has been twisted. About how justice has been hijacked. About how some of the most unhinged voices on the far left have buried their antisemitism in the vocabulary of progressivism—and taught others to do the same.

I want to scream at the world to be better. To stop using causes they barely understand as props. To stop using my identity as a pawn—for politics, for book sales, for engagement in a comment section. I want to shout like Greta Thunberg at the UN: Shame… on… you.

Ironic, I know.

Right now, missiles are raining down on the sovereign nation of Israel. If I sit and think too long about the people I know there, my heart will collapse. I have friends in Israel. The families of my friends live there. And I fail to act. To move. To breather. Because it feels like October 7th all over again. The list of people to call and check on is just too long. The need to fix it, make things better, say something that helps... when in actuality, you have no control.

So instead, I want to tell you about my bubble.

I want to tell you about the meetings I’ve taken lately—how I sit across from someone, tell them what we’re building, and watch that dos pintele yid, that little spark of Jew, ignite into a burning fire before my eyes.

I want to tell you about the 200+ Jewish Joy Boxes we just sent out, the photos and messages we’ve received, picture of so many smiling faces. How much it means to me, especially now, to spread even a little Jewish joy to so many corners of the world.

I want to tell you about the meeting we had with a security company this week, and how the man—a non-Jew, an ex-FBI agent—looked me in the eye and said, “I love the Jews. I love your people. I’m going to Israel and waving your flag.”

I want to tell you about every message that’s come back. Every email that says, I want to help. Every big organization, every celebrity, and every ordinary person, all looking for a way to stand together. Because we are Jews. The best kind of family. And yes, we hustle for each other.

And, I want to tell you about the one of the few non-Jewish authors who wasn't afraid to post about my books, and my boxes, on her social media feed. Thank you, Helen Hardt, for being a hero. For standing in your values of love and acceptance. I'm so glad you were the author of the first romance novel I ever read.

These are the things that keep me going. In my darkest moments. In my saddest moments, too. Every time I look out the window of my office and wonder why you would hang that flag now.

And still—despite the fear, despite the cracks—I believe in us.

I believe in the stories we tell, the joy we create, the community we’ve built. I believe in that stubborn, sacred spark that lives inside every Jew, waiting to be kindled. And I believe that no matter how loud the world gets, we will continue to choose joy. To choose each other. And to turn every broken piece into something beautiful.

Shabbat Shalom